Listed below are "unidentified" teasers written and released by Cassandra Clare which may appear in any of her upcoming novels/series:
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."
"I remember when I met Jace," Alec said. He'd found two boxes and was dumping bandages into one. "He walked out of a Portal from Idris. He was skinny, he had bruises and he had these big eyes. He was arrogant, too. He and Isabelle used to fight." He smiled at the memory. "But to me everything about him said: 'love me, because nobody ever has'. It was all over him, like fingerprints."
"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."
Will Herondale sat in the window of his new bedroom and looked out at a London frozen under a chilly winter sky. Snow dusted the tops of houses reaching away toward the pale ribbon of the Thames, giving the view the feeling of a fairy-tale.
Though at the moment, Will was not feeling very friendly toward fairytales.
He ought to be happy, he knew that much — after all, it was his wedding day.
He bent down and tore a strip of material from the shirt he’d worn at the Council meeting. It was stiff and dark with his sister’s dried blood.
He tied it around his wrist. It would stay there, he told himself, until he had vengeance. Until there was justice. Until everyone he loved was safe.