Listed below are "unidentified" teasers written and released by Cassandra Clare which may appear in any of her upcoming novels/series:
- Ghosts of the Shadow Market: An Anthology of Tales
- Queen of Air and Darkness
- The Last Hours
- The Wicked Powers
- The Eldest Curses
Marry me today.
He kissed each finger, and with each one of them spoken a word. Five kisses, five words. His last.
"Oh, God, the lovebirds," Magnus said, pulling the pillow off his face. "I hate happy couples."
Belatedly, she realized something else. "Do you... have anything?"
He didn't seem to have recovered from her last comment. "But do you mean - wait, do I have what?"
She slitted her eyes at him. "Something important."
"Like what? The phone number for the White House?" A moment later, under her withering glare, realization dawned. "Oh." His was the expression of someone who has run out of gas in the middle of the desert, miles from help. "I..."
"What if I just love you? What if I love you but I never touch you or talk about it, what would happen then?"
"Well, it's a bit ironic, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"All that effort to convince you I wasn't in love with you, and here I am, dying in your arms."
His face crumpled. "He hates me," he said. "All I do is love him, but he hates me, he just hates me, I don’t know why."
There was nothing less sexy than an angry-looking cat on your bed.
"Actually, it's short for Maximum Lightwood," said Magnus. "As in the most amount of Lightwood you can have."
"No one who loved you would want you to sacrifice your own happiness."
Alec was beginning to understand how the slings and arrows of fortune and history had shaped Magnus and made him what he was. It was a delightful sort of discovery, as getting to know Magnus always had been. Magnus was probably the one person in the world who'd never bored him.
"I was thinking about monogrammed towels," said Isabelle.
"My name is going to be Simon Lewis Lovelace Lightwood," said Simon. "No monogrammed towels."
Jace rose to his feet. "I nominate Alexander Lightwood for the position of Consul."
“Disgraceful,” said Mrs Bridgestock. “I know your face. You are that Persian boy. Are you not ashamed to be running around corrupting nice young people? I suppose you are only following your father’s example, but considering what happened to him, you should really know better.”
Cordelia wished to rush to her brother’s defense, but she did not dare move.
Alastair bared his teeth at Mrs Bridgestock. “I should, shouldn’t I?”
A coat settled on Lucie’s shoulders, bottle green superfine and warm from the heat of Matthew’s body, smelling of expensive cologne. Lucie glanced up to see Matthew’s face above hers, limned by sunlight and the gold of his hair, serious for once as he carefully buttoned the coat closed. His hands were usually swift and bright with rings, flying through the air when he talked or to the curving hilt of his rapier when he fought, but now they were moving with great deliberation over such a small task. She heard him draw in a slow breath.
The whole way to the Fairchilds’ James had felt as if he were choking, and now he could breathe, the pressure on his chest easing. He couldn’t find words now, couldn’t do anything but clutch on to the front of Matthew’s shirt and put his head down on his shoulder.