You Asked Me Who I Belong To.

Who Am I?” He Whispered. “for Years I Pretended I Was Other Than I Was, And Then I Gloried That I Might Return To The Truth Of Myself, Only To Find There Is No Truth To Return To. I Was An Ordinary Child, And Then I Was A Not Very Good Man, And Now I Do Not Know How To Be Either Of Those Things Any Longer. I Do Not Know What I Am, And When Jem Is Gone, There Will Be No One To Show Me.

She'd Been Impressed By His Looks At First--those Sharply Planed Cheekbones And Those Black, Fathomless Eyes--but His Affable, Sympathetic Personality Grated On Her Now. She Didn't Like Boys Who Looked As If They Never Got Mad About Anything. In Isabelle's World, Rage Equaled Passion Equaled A Good Time.

We're Called Shadowhunters. At Least, That's What We Call Ourselves. The Downworlders Have Less Complimentary Names For Us.

She Realized That This Scarred, Sarcastic Boy, Was Gentle With The Things He Loved.

You're Not Going,"he Said As Soon As She'd Finished. "if I Have To Tie You Up And Sit On You Until This Insane Whim Of Yurs Passes, You Are Not Going To Idris." Clary Felt As If He'd Slapped Her. She Had Thought He'd Be Pleased. She'd Run All The Way From The Hospital To The Institute To Tell Him, And Here He Was Standing In The Entryway Glaring At Her With A Look Of Grim Death. "but You're Going.