Something snapped inside Maryse. He is not a Herondale. He is a Lightwood. Jace Lightwood. He’s my son.
How she still thought of Max every day and it was like someone had emptied her lungs of air, and she would catch at her heart, afraid she was dying.
Magnus sighed. Alexander, I've been alive for hundreds of years. I've been with men, been with women - with faeries and warlocks and vampires, and even a djinn or two. He looked sideways at Maryse, wh...
Luke moved as silently as fog, while Maryse's heels sounded like gunshots on the marble floor. Clary wondered if Isabelle's propensity for unsuitable footwear was genetic.
