Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

by Cassandra Clare

It didn’t matter that she had no weapons, was clad in a pale yellow shirt and jeans, and had no visible runes. It was clear, simply from her posture and the control she exerted over herself, transforming rage into dignity, that Helen Blackthorn was a Shadowhunter. A warrior.

Or, rather, the curdled faerie version of love. A claustrophobic worship.

Helen smiled. “It’s hard to believe how much light you can find in the darkness, when you have someone who loves you.”

She was lit up with a beautiful glow of righteous rage, and Simon wanted suddenly, desperately, to sweep her in his arms and kiss her until the end of the world.

Simon Lewis kissing the girl he loved more than anything in the world. It was like falling into the sun, falling together, hearts blazing with pale fire, and Simon knew he would never stop falling, knew that now that he’d grabbed hold of her again, he would never let go.

“Not that she’s going to do anything about it,” said George. “Nobody who likes you is going to do anything about it. On account of, nobody would enjoy having Isabelle Lightwood cut their head off.”

He had mismatched eyes, one amber as the beads found in the dark heart of trees, and one the vivid blue-green of sea shallows when sunlight strikes through. The jarring contrast of his eyes and the light of Faerie, filtered green through wickedly whispering leaves and touched with false gold, made his thin, dirt-streaked face wear a sinister aspect.

“She was very unhappy in love,” Mark continued. “Beauty can be like that. Beauty cannot be trusted. Beauty can slip through your fingers like water and burn on your tongue like poison. Beauty can be the shining wall that keeps you from all you love.”

Livvy would walk over hot coals and hissing serpents for Ty, but she is as young as he is. She cannot do and be everything to him.

Hold him up to the light and he would shine a dozen different colors.

Helen and Aline were both dressed in golden gowns, golden thread glittering like starlight in Aline’s black hair. They were both so happy, their faces outshone their gowns. They stood at the center of the ceremony, twin suns, and for a moment all the world seemed to spin and turn on them.

The angel stared down at him, sword blazing and face censorious, as if he disapproved of Magnus’s dress sense and was going to ask him to change.

Maia Roberts, the leader of the New York werewolf pack, was cat-sitting for them. Magnus hoped she would think Chairman Meow was a mighty hunter.

Alec’s mouth was soft and sure, the kiss slow, his strong hands holding Magnus close, pressed along the warm line of his body. Behind Magnus’s closed eyelids, the morning turned from gray to gold.

in one of those quietly terrible moments remembering the dead and knowing you would never see them again.

Magnus was always pleased to see Clary. “Hello, biscuit,” he said. Clary sidled over to the doorway and grinned up at him, a thousand gallons of trouble in a pint-size body. “Hi.”

Until the Lightwood who was unforgettable; until the Lightwood who had not only touched but taken his heart.

It was a lesson, Magnus thought, to love while you could, love what was fragile and beautiful and imperiled. Nobody was guaranteed forever.