Author: Cassandra Clare City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments). Read more City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments Book 4). Read more. PDF Drive is your search engine for PDF files. As of today we have 78,, eBooks for Cassandra Clare - The Mortal Instruments 3 - City of Glass - Tumblr. For my mother. “I only count the hours that shine.” Acknowledgments When you look back on writing (Cassandra Clare -.
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Book One of the Mortal Instruments. Cassandra Clare. For my grandfather. Acknowledgments. I would like to thank my writing group, the Massachusetts. Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer . “That's because Valentine's been concentrating on the two Mortal Instruments that were. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data. Clare, Cassandra. City of fallen angels / Cassandra Clare.—1st ed. p. cm.—(The mortal instruments; bk. 4).
Out of the spaces between the worlds, I summon thee. The man slid a hand into his pocket. So- mething hard and cold and metallic met the touch of his fingers. He smiled. Elias had stopped walking.
He was standing in front of the pentagram now, his voice rising and falling in a steady chant, blue fire crackling around him like lightning. Two eyes hung in the shad- ow like jewels caught in a spider's web.
He was standing still in front of the pentagram—still except for his wings, which beat the air slowly.
The air stank of corrosion and burning. I am the one who has summoned you. Then the demon laughed, if smoke can be said to laugh.
The laugh itself was caustic as acid. A tendril took the shape of a human hand and stroked the edge of the burning pentagram that contained it. Then, with a surge, the smoke seethed past the edge of the star, poured over the border like a wave breaching a levee. The flames guttered and died as Elias, screaming, stumbled backward. He was chanting now, in rapid Chthonian, spells of containment and banishment.
Nothing happened; the black smoke-mass came on inexorably, and now it was starting to have something of a shape—a malformed, enormous, hideous shape, its glowing eyes altering, rounding to the size of saucers, spilling a dreadful light. He never reached the door.
Agramon surged for- ward, his dark mass crashing down over the warlock like a surge of boiling black tar. Elias struggled feebly for a moment under the on- slaught—and then was still. The black shape withdrew, leaving the war- lock lying contorted on the marble floor. I need his blood, you see. They took in the man in the expensive suit, his narrow, unconcerned face, the black Marks covering his skin, and the glowing object in his hand.
And you did not tell him what I could do?
Agramon spoke with grudging admiration. And I'm also your master now. I hold the Mortal Cup. You must obey me, or face the consequences. Then it slid to the ground in a mockery of obeisance—the closest a creature with no real body could come to kneeling. The man smiled. Every part of him hurt from the thumping he'd taken that afternoon when he'd dropped three floors through rotted wood onto a pile of scrap metal.
Even his fin- gers were bruised. Alec, who'd only recently put away the crutches he'd had to use after his fight with Abbadon, didn't look much better than Jace felt. His clothes were covered in mud and his hair hung down in lank, sweaty strips. There was a long cut down the side of his cheek. He prefers his monsters really, really extinct.
It repels the dirt. He wiggled his mud-caked fingers at her. His nails were black crescents. Jace followed her out into the entryway, already looking forward to shucking his armor and weapons and stepping into a hot shower.
He'd con- vinced his stepsiblings to come hunting with him despite the fact that neither of them was entirely comfortable going out on their own now that Hodge wasn't there to give them in- structions. But Jace had wanted the oblivion of fighting, the harsh diversion of killing, and the distraction of injuries. And knowing he wanted it, they'd gone along with it, crawling through filthy deserted subway tunnels until they'd found the Dragonidae demon and killed it. The three of them working together in perfect unison, the way they always had.
Like family. He unzipped his jacket and slung it over one of the pegs hanging on the wall. Alec was sit- ting on the low wooden bench next to him, kicking off his muck-covered boots. Isabelle was pulling the pins out of her long dark hair, allowing it to shower down around her. She wore a stiff black traveling suit and her hair, black as Isabelle's, was drawn back into a thick rope that hung halfway down her back. Her eyes, a glacial blue, swept over the three of them like a tracking searchlight.
Jace stood where he was. There had been something in Maryse's eyes as her gaze had passed over him that froze him in place. Surely what he had said wasn't that bad? They joked about her obsession with the an- tique rugs all the time— "Where's Dad? Then Maryse said, "Max is in his room. And your father, unfortunately, is still in Alicante. There was some business there that required his attention.
Isabelle picked up for him, smoothly: But it was nothing. She looked to Jace, who wished she hadn't. Maryse hadn't greeted him yet, hadn't said so much as hello, and she was still looking at him with eyes like blue daggers.
There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that was be- ginning to spread. You're all back. Max was small for his age—he looked about sev- en—but he had a self-contained gravity that, combined with his oversize glasses, gave him the air of someone older. Alec reached over and ruffled his brother's hair, but Max was still looking at Jace, his eyes shining.
Max had always hero- worshiped him in a way that he didn't wor- ship his own older brother, probably because Jace was far more tolerant of Max's pres- ence.
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