It's not gray," Clary felt compelled to point out. "It's green." "If there was such a thing as terminal literalism, you'd have died in childhood," said Jace.

It's nearly full dark. We should go." "We? I thought you were going to leave me alone." "I lied," Jace said without a shred of embarrassment.

He was Will, in all his perfect imperfection; Will, whose heart was as easy to break as it was carefully guarded; Will, who loved not wisely but entirely and with everything he had.

Not everything is about you," Clary said furiously. "Possibly," Jace said, "but you do have to admit that the majority of things are.

You know how the bonds of family are, my lady... They cling as tightly as vines. And sometimes, like vines, they cling tightly enough to kill.

How awfully convenient for you, regardless. And for him. He won't have to worry about you spilling his secrets." "Yeah," Jace said. "He's terrified I'll tell everyone that he's always wanted to be a ballerina.

Without conflict there is no plot, without hope there is no story