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A demon lunged for Alastair: Cordelia brought Cortana down in a great curving arc, severing its head. Alastair looked peevish. “Really,” he said. “I could have done that on my own.” Cordelia considered killing Alastair, but there was no time—someone was screaming.
“It seems somehow blasphemous to use Marks to rid oneself of the effects of alcohol,” Matthew added, as Thomas put his stele away. The Mark in question gleamed, new-made, on Matthew’s wrist. He looked already more clear-eyed, and less as if he were about to fall asleep or be sick. “I’ve seen you use your stele to part your hair,” said James dryly, as he began to examine the window locks. “The Angel gave me this hair,” replied Matthew. “It’s one of the Shadowhunters’ gifts. Like the Mortal Sword.”
“I really do like tea!” James shouted from the bottom of the steps. “In fact, I love it! I LOVE TEA!” “Good for you, mate!” yelled the driver of a passing hansom cab.
