Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

by Cassandra Clare

Not hiding, she was finding, was a painful thing.

Kissing him was like traveling, exciting and unfamiliar, and at the same time it was coming home. It was everything.

“I feel as if there’s a gnome inside my head, banging away at my skull with an axe. I ought to give him a name. Something nice and gnomish. Snorgoth the Skullcrusher.”

Those moments felt like ghosts now, as if the past were reaching forward to leave a mournful fingerprint on the present.