Your Plans Are Suicidal. At Best.

Atque In Pepetuum, Frater, Ave Atque Vale,” He Whispered. The Words Of The Poem Had Never Seemed So Fitting: Forever And Ever, My Brother, Hail And Farewell.

He Held Her Close Enough To Kiss, Close Enough To Whisper The Most Important Secrets In The World, And He Spoke To Her As He Would Have Wanted Some Good Angel To Speak To His Family, To His Own Shivering Young Soul, Long Ago And In A Land Far Away.

A Pair Of Werewolves Occupied Another Booth. They Were Eating Raw Shanks Of Lamb And Arguing About Who Would Win In A Fight: Dumbledore From Harry Potter Books Or Magnus Bane. "dumbledore Would Totally Win," Said The First One. "he Has The Badass Killing Curse." The Second Lycanthrope Made A Trenchant Point. "but Dumbledore Isn't Real." "i Don't Think Magnus Bane Is Real Either," Scoffed The First. "have You Ever Met Him?" "this Is So Weird," Said Clary, Slinking Down In Her Seat. "are You Listening To Them?" "no. It's Rude To Eavesdrop," Said Jace.

She Shook Her Head. She Was So Pale Under The Diffuse Lamp-light That She Looked Almost Transparent, As If Simon Could Have Looked Right Through Her. The Way, He Supposed, He Always Had.

That's The Van? It Looks Like A Rotting Banana." This Was Undeniable - Eric Had Painted The Van A Neon Shade Of Yellow, And It Was Blotched With Dings And Rust Like Splotches Of Decay.