Cassandra Clare shares ‘City of Lost Souls’ outtake

Cassandra Clare shared an additional reward–with the previously released “Spicy Manor House” scene–for Jace advancing to the finals of the YA Crush Tournament, an outtake from City of Lost Souls.

This outtake centers around Simon and Isabelle (which I am LOVING), as well as Maia and Jordan making their way to Magnus’ place after, what we can only assume, had something to do with Clary and Jace.

Without further ado, here it is:

Maia was waiting for them in MacCarren Park, on one of the narrow paths dusted with the skeletons of fallen leaves. She wore a gray leather jacket and a soft pink hat, pulled down over her ears, from which her wildly curling hair escaped in a golden-brown halo. She waved tentatively as they neared her; the first words out of her mouth were:

“Did you hear about Luke?”

They all nodded — Simon had told Isabelle and Jordan what he knew on the L-train ride over — and she fell into step beside Jordan as they went through the park, a moving foursome. Jordan had his hands in his pockets and was talking quietly to Maia, werewolf to werewolf. Simon glanced at Isabelle,walking silently beside him.

Weak November sunlight had come out from behind the clouds and picked out reddish highlights in her hair. She smelled like his own apple shampoo and Shadowhunter. “So,” he said. “Do you want me to ask why you were passed out in my bed last night when I came home, or not?”

“I didn’t pass out in your bed,” she said, as they swung left on Manhattan Avenue. The G train stop was there, and a guy was leaning against the railing, picking out a tuneless song on a guitar. Across the street was a Thrifty store where you could still get ice cream cones for 50 cents. “I passed out in your living room and Jordan put me in your bedroom.”

“He did?”

“Well, if it wasn’t Jordan, someone broke into your house and put me in your bed. Personally I prefer the Jordan theory. Less creepy.”

“It’s not that, it — what were you doing, drunk, with Jordan? He doesn’t drink much.”

“I’d imagine not. He has awful taste in tequila.”

“Iz.” Simon put his hand on her wrist. “I only want to know why you came over.”

She turned her head away from him, her shining black hair slipping across her back. There was a small Mark on the lower left side of her throat, just above her collarbone. It looked vulnerable, somehow. Simon wanted to brush it with his fingertips, but kept his hands in his pockets. “Everything sucks,” she said. “I saw Helen and Aline last night. We had dinner. They’re just so happy, and I keep thinking —” She bit her lip. “My parents are getting divorced, I think,” she said.

“Alec is happy but I never see him. Jace is [redacted-sorry guys!]. Max is dead. Clary —”

“I get it,” he said, gently. “You needed someone to talk to and you couldn’t think of anyone else.”

“No!” Isabelle said, frustration clear in her voice. “I wanted to talk to you. I always — I mean, I like to talk to you. Even if things weren’t like this, I would…” She looked at him, sidelong. “I mean, we did date.”

“But it wasn’t — it was never serious,” Simon said awkwardly. “I didn’t think you wanted . . .”

“Did you? Want it to be serious?” Isabelle asked. There was a certain stiffness in her voice — pride, Simon guessed. Isabelle wasn’t the sort of girl who made the first move with guys. She wasn’t the sort of girl who had to.

“Did you?”

Isabelle made an exasperated noise. “Look, I didn’t come by last night because you’re number six on some list and everyone else is unavailable. I came because — I like you. You make me feel better. Maybe it’s something about your face.”

“My face makes you feel better?” So she was saying he was reassuring, sweet, dependable, all of those things; things he knew Clary thought he was; things that hadn’t helped her look at him instead of Jace, not for five minutes. And Isabelle liked her guys dangerous, not . . . reassuring. Reassuring was for stuffed animals. How could you be a vampire and not be sexually threatening? He wasn’t sure, but somehow, he’d managed it.

He was saved more torturous conversation by their arrival at Magnus’ apartment, the lobby of which, as usual, smelled like a combination of cat pee and old pizza. Simon made his way up the stairs after Isabelle — remembering the first time he’d been here, crushed out on Izzy and secretly hoping to make Clary jealous, not that that had worked. Magnus’ apartment had been full of rainbow smoke and Downworlders; now, as they filed in, it was quiet and full of late morning sunlight.

Magnus, Jocelyn and Alec were seated around a long rectangular table. Magnus was clutching a cup of coffee, wearing a dark green jumpsuit with yellow racing stripes, his dark hair an unruly mass of bed-head. Alec looked like . . . Alec. He raised his eyebrows at his sister as she came into the room, but didn’t seem inclined to kill either her, or Simon.

But Jocelyn looked at Simon with eyes as piercing as nails.“Where’s Clary?” she said, tightly.

Read Jace’s POV on the Manor Scene in City of Glass

Over the years, many people have asked for this — Jace’s point of view of the “hot and heavy” scene in THIS GUILTY BLOOD, Chapter Nine of City of Glass. (Page 206-211 in the American hardback CoG.) I’ve taken a few liberties here — the scene goes on a few moments past what happens in the printed version of CoG — but then so did the original draft!

The bits below in italics are the bits from the original book, to help you mentally locate the placement of the scene.

Clary heard a sharp pattering noise all around her. For a bewildered moment she thought it had started to rain—then she realized it was rubble and dirt and broken glass: the detritus of the shattered manor being flung down around them like deadly hail.
Jace pressed her harder into the ground, his body flat against hers, his heartbeat nearly as loud in her ears as the sound of the manor’s subsiding ruins.

* * *

Later, Jace would remember little about the destruction of the Manor itself, the shattering apart of the only home he’d known until he was ten years old. He remembered only the fall from the library window, scrambling and rolling down over the grass, and catching hold of Clary, spinning her down and under him, covering her with his body while pieces of the Manor rained down around them like hail.

He could feel her breathing, feel the racing of her heart. He was reminded of his falcon, the way it had curled, blind and trusting, in his hand, the rapidity of its heartbeat. Clary was holding him by the front of the shirt, though he doubt she realized it, her face against his shoulder; he was desperately afraid that there wasn’t enough of him, that he couldn’t cover her completely, protect her entirely. He imagined boulders as big as elephants tumbling across the rocky ground, ready to crush them both, to crush her. The ground shuddered under them and he pressed harder against her, as if that might help somehow. It was magical thinking, he knew, like closing your eyes so you didn’t see the knife coming at you.

The roar had faded. He realized to his surprise that he could hear again: small things, the sound of birds, the air in the trees. Clary’s voice, breathless. “Jace — I think you dropped your stele somewhere.”

He drew back and stared down at her. She met his gaze steadily In the moonlight her green eyes could have been black. Her red hair was full of dust, her face streaked with soot. He could see the pulse in her throat. He said the first thing that he could think of, dazed, “I don’t care. As long as you’re not hurt.”

“I’m fine.” She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair; his body, super-sensitized by adrenalin, felt it like sparks against his skin. “There’s grass — in your hair,” she said.
There was worry in her eyes. Worry for him. He remembered the first time he’d kissed her, in the greenhouse, how he’d finally gotten it, finally understood the way someone’s mouth against yours could undo you, leave you spinning and breathless. That all the expertise in the world, any techniques you knew or had learned, went out the window when it was the right person you were kissing.
Or the wrong one.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” he said.

Her hand froze where it was, her palm against his cheek. “Why not?”

“You know why. You saw what I saw, didn’t you? The past, the angel. Our parents.”

Her eyes darkened. “I saw.”

“You know what happened.”

“A lot of things happened, Jace —”

“Not for me.” The words breathed out on an anguished whisper. “I have demon blood, Clary. Demon blood. You understood that much, didn’t you?”

She set her chin. He knew how much she disliked the suggestion that she hadn’t understood something, or didn’t know it, or didn’t need to know it. He loved that about her and it drove him out of his mind. “It doesn’t mean anything. Valentine was insane. He was just ranting —”

“And Jocelyn? Was she insane? I know what Valentine was trying to do. He was trying to create hybrids — angel/human, and demon/human. You’re the former, Clary, and I’m the latter. I’m part monster. Part everything I’ve tried so hard to burn out, to destroy.”

“It’s not true. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense—”

“But it does.” How could she not understand? It seemed so obvious to him, so basic. “It explains everything.”

“You mean it explains why you’re such an amazing Shadowhunter? Why you’re loyal and fearless and honest and everything demons aren’t —”

“It explains,” he said, evenly, “why I feel the way I do about you.”

Breath hissed between her teeth. “W do you mean?”

“You’re my sister,” he said, “My sister, my blood, my family. I should want to protect you —” he choked on the words— “to protect you from the sort of boys who want to do to you exactly what I want to do to you.”

He heard her breath catch. She was still staring up at him, and though he had expected to see horror in her eyes, some sort of revulsion — for he didn’t think he’d ever stated so clearly or so tactlessly exactly how he felt — he saw nothing of the sort. He saw only searching curiosity, as if she were examining the map of some unknown country.

Almost absently, she let her fingers trail down his cheek to his lips, outlining the shape of his mouth with the tip of her index finger, as if she were charting a course. There was wonder in her eyes. He felt his heart turn over and his body, ever traitorous, respond to her touch.
“What is it, exactly, that you want to do to me?” she whispered.

He could not stop himself. He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear: “I could show you.”

He felt her tremble, but despite the shiver in her body, her eyes challenged him. The adrenaline in his blood, mixed with desire and the recklessness of despair, made his blood sing. I’ll show her, he thought. Half of him was convinced she would push him away. The other half was too full of Clary: her nearness, the feel of her against him — to think straight. “If you want me to stop, tell me now,” he whispered, and when she said nothing, he brushed his lips against her hollow of her temple. “Or now.” His mouth found her cheek, the line of her jaw: he tasted her skin, sweet-salty, dust and desire. “Or now.” His mouth traced the line of her jaw and she arched up into him, making his fingers dig into the ground. Her small, panting breaths were driving him crazy, and he put his mouth over hers to quiet her, whispering, telling, not asking: “Now.”

And he kissed her. Gently at first, testing, but suddenly her hands were fists in the back of his shirt, and her softness was pressed against his chest and he felt the solid earth give way under him as he fell. He was kissing her the way he’d always wanted to, with a wild and total abandon, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth to duel with hers, and she was just as bold as he was, tasting him, exploring his mouth. He reached for the buttons of her coat just as she bit lightly at his lower lip and his whole body jerked.

She put her hands over his, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to tell him to stop, that this was insane, they’d both hate themselves tomorrow. But: “Let me,” she said, and he went still as she calmly undid the buttons and the coat fell open. The shirt she was wearing underneath was nearly sheer, and he could see the shape of her body underneath: the curves of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips. He felt dizzy. He’d seen this much of other girls before, of course he had, but it had never mattered.

And now nothing else mattered.

She lifted her arms up, her head thrown back, pleading in her eyes. “Come back,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

He made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before and fell back against her, into her, kissing her eyelids, lips, throat, the pulse there — his hands slid under her flimsy shirt and onto the heat of her skin. He was pretty sure all the blood had left his brain as he fumbled at the clasp of her bra — which was ridiculous, what was the point of being a Shadowhunter and expert at everything if you couldn’t figure out the clasp on a bra? — and heard his own soft exhalation as it came free and his hands were on her bare back, the fragile shape of her shoulder blades under his palms. Somehow the little noise she made was more erotic than seeing anyone else naked had ever been.

Her hands, small and determined, were at the hem of his shirt, tugging it off. He pushed hers up, around her ribs, wanting more of their skin to be touching. So this was the difference, he thought. This was what being in love meant. He’d always prided himself on his technique, on having control, on the response he could elicit. But that required evaluation, and evaluation required distance, and there was no distance now. He wanted nothing between himself and Clary.

His hands found the waistband of her jeans, the shape of her hipbones. He felt her fingers on his bare back, her the tips finding his scars and tracing them lightly. He wasn’t sure she knew she was doing it, but she was rolling her hips against his, making him shaky, making him want to go too fast. He reached down and fitted her more firmly against him, aligning her hips with his, and felt her gasp into his mouth. He thought she might pull away, but she slung her leg over his hip instead, pulling him even closer. For a second, he thought he might pass out.

“Jace,” she whispered. She kissed his neck, his collarbone. His hands were on her waist, moving up over her ribcage. Her skin was amazingly soft. She raised herself up as he slipped his hands under her bra, and kissed the star-shaped mark on his shoulder. He was about to ask her if what he was doing was all right when she drew back from him sharply, with an exclamation of surprise. . .

* * *

“What is it?” Jace froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. It was this.” She touched the silver chain around his neck. On its end hung a small silver circle of metal. It had bumped against her when she’d leaned forward. She stared at it now.
That ring—the weather-beaten metal with its pattern of stars—she knew that ring.
The Morgenstern ring. It was the same ring that had gleamed on Valentine’s hand in the dream the angel had showed them. It had been his, and he had given it to Jace, as it had always been passed along, father to son.
“I’m sorry,” Jace said. He traced the line of her cheek with his fingertip, a dreamlike intensity in his gaze. “I forgot I was wearing the damn thing.”
Sudden cold flooded Clary’s veins. “Jace,” she said, in a low voice. “Jace, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t wear the ring?” “No, don’t—don’t touch me. Stop for a second.” 

Cassandra Clare’s Clockwork Angel – Will Herondale’s perspective of Holy Water scene

 

Loss: Will’s perspective on the events of Clockwork Angel, page 285-292

 

Will Herondale was burning.

 

This was not the first time he had consumed vampire blood, and he knew the pattern of the sickness. First there was a feeling of giddiness and euphoria, as if one had drunk too much gin — the brief period of pleasant drunkenness before the morbs set in.

 

Then pain, starting at the toes and fingertips, working its way up as if lines of gunpowder had been laid across his body and were burning their way toward his heart.

 

He had heard the pain was not so great for humans: that their blood, thinner and weaker than Shadowhunter blood, did not fight the demon disease as Nephilim blood did. He was vaguely aware when Sophie came in with the holy water, splashing him with the cool stuff as she set the buckets down and went out again. He could feel the hatred coming off Sophie whenever she got near him; the strength of it lifted him up onto his elbows now. He pulled a bucket close to him and upended it over his head, opening his mouth to swallow what he could.

 

For a moment, it doused the fire burning through his veins entirely. The pain receded, except for the throbbing in his head. He lay back down, gingerly, throwing an arm over his face to block the dim light coming from the low windows. His fingers seemed to trail light as they moved. He heard’s Jem’s voice in his head, scolding him for risking himself. But the face he saw against his eyelids wasn’t Jem. She was looking at him. The very darkest voice of his conscience, the reminder that he could protect no one, not even himself.

 

“Cecily,” he whispered. “Cecily, for the love of God, let me be.”

 

“Will.” She reached her hand out, and he would have reached for her, too, had not the clang and clatter of metal brought him out of his reverie. He cleared his throat.

 

“Back, are you, Sophie?” Will said. “I told you if you brought me another one of those infernal pails, I’d—”

 

“It’s not Sophie,” a voice said said. “It’s me. Tessa.”

 

The hammering of his own pulse filled his ears. Cecily’s image faded and vanished against his eyelids. Tessa.

 

Why had they sent her? Did Charlotte hate him as much as all that? Was this meant to be a sort of object lesson to her in the indignities and dangers of Downworld? When he opened his eyes he saw her standing in front of him, still in her velvet dress and gloves. Her dark curls were startling against her pale skin and her cheekbone was freckled, lightly, with blood.

 

Your brother, he knew he should say. How is he? It must have been a shock to see him. There is nothing worse than seeing someone you love in danger.

 

But it had been years, and he had learned to swallow the words, transform them. Somehow they were talking about vampires, about the virus and how it was transmitted. She gave him the pail with a grimace — good, she should be disgusted by him — and he used it again to quench the fire, to still the burning in his veins and throat and chest.

 

“Does that help?” she asked, watching him with her clear gray eyes. “Pouring it over your head like that?”

 

Will heard himself make a strangled noise, almost a laugh. “The questions you ask . . .” Someone else might have perhaps apologized for asking but Tessa only stood still, watching him. He did not think he had ever seen someone with that precise eye color before: it was the color of gray mist blowing in from the sea in Wales. You could not lie to someone with eyes like that. “The blood makes me feverish, makes my skin burn,” he admitted. “I can’t get cool. But, yes, the water helps.”

 

“Will,” Tessa said. He looked at her. She seemed to be haloed by light like an angel, though he knew it was the vampire blood blurring his vision. He heard her voice again, soft, and then she was moving toward him, gathering her skirts out of the way to sit by him on the floor. He wondered why she was doing that, and realized to his own horror that he had asked her to. He imagined the vampire disease in his body, breaking down his blood, weakening his will. He knew, intellectually, that he had drunk enough holy water to kill the disease before it was born, and that he could not put his lack of control down to the sickness.

 

And yet — she was so close to him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body.

 

“You never laugh,” she was saying. “You behave as if everything is funny to you, but you never laugh. Sometimes you smile when you think no one is paying attention.”

 

He wanted to close his eyes. Her words went through him like the clean slice of a seraph blade, lighting his nerves on fire. He’d had no idea she had observed him so closely, or so accurately.

 

“You,” he said. “You make me laugh. From the moment you hit me with that bottle. Not to mention the way that you always correct me. With that funny look on your face when you do it. And the way you shouted at Gabriel Lightwood. And even the way you talked back to de Quincey. You make me . . .”

 

His voice trailed off. He could feel the cold water trickling down his back, over his chest, against his heated skin.

 

Tessa sat only inches from him, smelling of powder and perfume and perspiration. Her damp curls curled against her cheeks, and her eyes were wide on him, her pale pink lips slightly parted. She reached up to push back a lock of her hair, and, feeling like he was drowning, he reached out for her.

 

“There’s still blood,” he said, inarticulately. “On your gloves.”

 

She began to draw away, but Will would not let her go; he was drowning, still, drowning, and he could not release her. He turned her small right hand over in his. It curled into the shape of his much larger palm. He had the strongest desire to reach for her entirely, to pull her against him and fold her in his arms, to encompass her slim, strong body with his. He bent his head, glad she could not see his face as the blood rushed up into his cheeks. Her gloves were ragged, torn where she had clawed at her brother’s manacles.

 

With a flick of his fingers, he opened the pearl buttons that kept her glove closed, baring her wrist.

 

He could hear himself breathing. Heat spread through his body — not the unnatural heat of vampire sickness, but the more natural flush of desire. The skin of her wrist was translucently pale, the blue veins visible beneath. He could see the flutter of her pulse, feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek. He stroked the softness of her wrist with the tips of his fingers and half-closed his eyes, imagining his hands on her body, the smooth skin of her upper arms, the silkiness of the legs hidden beneath her voluminous skirts. His breath had begun to catch and come ragged.

 

“I—I want to understand you,” she whispered.

 

No, you don’t. He told her as much, barely aware of what he was saying. He watched the shape of her lips as she replied to him, arguing with him, even now when they were both breathless and leaning into each other.

 

I want to know your reasons, she was telling him. Jem wants to know them. Will, in a delirium of wanting, only shook his head and slipped the glove off her hand. Her bare, small hand, which curled like a dove inside his. He lifted it to his mouth, his cheek, kissing her skin: brushing his lips across her knuckles, down to her wrist. He heard her cry out in a low voice, and lifted his head to see her sitting perfectly still, her hand held out, her eyes closed and her lips half-open.

 

He had kissed girls, other girls, when basic physical desire overcame common sense, in dark corners at parties or under the mistletoe. Quick, hurried kisses, most of them, although some surprisingly expert — where had Elizabeth Mayburn learned how to do what she did with her teeth, and why had no one ever told her it wasn’t a good idea? — but this was different.

 

Before there had been controlled tension, a deliberate decision to give into what his body asked for, divorced from any other feeling. Cut free of emotion at all. But this — this was heat snaking through his chest, shortening his breath, sending a tide of goosebumps over his skin. This was a feeling of pain when he let her hand go, a sickness of loss cured only when he pulled her toward him across the splintery wooden floor, hearing the material of her gown tear and not caring, his hands cupping the back of her neck as his lips descended on hers with equal parts tenderness and fierceness.

 

Her mouth opened under his, hesitant, and some corner of his mind cried out to him to slow down, that by any reasonable guess this was her first kiss. He forced his hands to slow down, to gently unclasp the fastenings in her hair and smooth the curls down over her shoulders and back, his fingertips tracing gentle patterns on her soft cheekbones, on the back of her neck.
Her hair felt like warm silk running through his fingers and her body, pressed against his, was all softness.
Her hands were light as feathers on the back of his neck, in his hair; she made a low sound against his mouth that nearly drove every last thought from his head. He began to bend her back toward the floor, moving his body over hers —

 

And froze. Dear God, what was he doing? Panic rushed through his blood in a boiling flood as he saw the whole fragile structure he had built up around himself shatter, all because of this, this girl, who broke his control like nothing else ever had. He tore his mouth from her, pushing her away, the force of his terror nearly knocking her over. She stared at him through the tangled curtain of her hair, her face white with shock.

 

“God in Heaven,” he whispered. “What was that?”
Her bewilderment was plain on her face. His heart contracted, pumping self-loathing through his veins. The one time, he thought. The one time —

 

“Tessa,” he said. “I think you had better go.”

 

“Go?” Her lips parted; they were swollen from his kisses. It was like looking at a wound he had inflicted, and at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. “I should not have been so forward. I’m sorry —’

 

“God.” The word surprised him; he had stopped believing in God a long time ago, and now he had invoked him twice. The pain on her face was almost more than he could bear, and not least because he had not intended to hurt her. So often, he intended to hurt and to wound, and this time he had not — not in the least — and he had caused more hurt than he could imagine. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her in his arms, not even to satisfy his desire but to impart tenderness. But doing so would only worsen the situation beyond imagining.

 

“ Just leave me alone now,” he heard himself say. “Tessa. I’m begging you. Do you understand? I’m begging you. Please, please leave.”

 

“Very well,” she said. He chanced a look at her out of the corner of his eye: she was proud, she would not cry. She did not bother to gather up the hair clips he had scattered; she only rose to her feet, and turned her back on him. He deserved no better, he knew. He he had thrown himself at her with no regard for her reputation or the indecorousness of his passion. Jem would have thought of it. Jem would have been more careful of her feelings.

 

And once upon a time, he thought, as her footsteps receded, so would he. But he no longer knew how to be that person. He had covered up that Will for so long with pretense that it was the pretense he reached for first, and not the reality. He dug his nails into the floorboards, welcoming the pain, for it was little compared to the pain of knowing that he had lost more than Tessa’s good opinion this evening. He had lost Will Herondale. And he did not know if he could ever get him back.

 

 


Vampire Academy

 

Have you ever had a book/books that you just kept coming across and kept thinking: “M’eh…I’ll pass for now.”? This has been the case with the Vampire Academy books for me. After having read Evernight by Claudia Gray I sort of figured that this would be just about the same deal and because I was disappointed with the last two books in that series, I kept avoiding these. Thank goodness for friends who harass me to read good books. I’ve seriously been missing out. I picked up the first book four days ago and I’m already up to book 5. Iwon’t do a review for each book, but I must say that I’m hooked.

The description of the first book:

 

St. Vladimir’s Academy isn’t just any boarding school–it’s a hidden place where vampires are educated in the ways of magic and half-human teens train to protect them. Rose Hathaway is a Dhampir, a bodyguard for her best friend Lissa, a Moroi Vampire Princess. They’ve been on the run, but now they’re being dragged back to St. Vladimir’s–the very place where they’re most in danger. Rose and Lissa become enmeshed in forbidden romance, the Academy’s ruthless social scene, and unspeakable nighttime rituals. But they must be careful lest the Strigoi–the world’s fiercest and most dangerous vampires–make Lissa one of them forever.

 

I know it sounds sort of blah, but believe me. It’s got a great storyline and I honestly cannot say that it’s similar to any of the other YA series I’ve read. Rose Hathaway, the heroine, is a bit bratty and annoying at times. I do lose my patience with her, but the story is good enough for me to ignore her occasional brattiness.

 

So, if you haven’t read these yet, I highly recommend them. And the good thing? The series is already finished, so you won’t have to torture yourself by waiting for any sequels.

Book Review for Jana Oliver’s “Forbidden – The Demon Trappers (#2)”

It was about 3,5 stars for me.

So, the story picks up the day after Forsaken ends. There are lots of casualties, Riley is trying to deal both with the shock of seeing her father and a lot of members of the Guild not exactly trusting her. The entire book mostly focuses on Riley trying to figure out who has raised her father’s corpse, the prime suspect always being the creepy Ozymandias. Changes in Peter’s life result in his being more involved in Riley’s life.

Now let’s get to the 3 dudes in Riley’s life. Simon is behaving like an lunatic-ass throughout the book. It sort of goes to show that when your faith is questioned, there’s really no telling how much you’ll be able to handle it. Simon apparently is not handling it very well. And if this continues, he is useless on top of the ground; he aught to be under it, inspiring the cabbages.

Beck got even more on my nerves in this book. He may have promised Riley’s father that he’d take care of her, but the fact of the matter is that he’s never had a good relationship with Riley and I don’t understand why he thinks that she’s going to do as he says. Also, knocking boots with the model-like-reporter goes to show you how much of a pig and a hypocrite a guy can be. He goes crazy when he thinks about her dating Simon or Ori, but it’s ok for him to be hitting the sack with some lady that he’s spent about…less than a half an hour with. *rolls eyes*

Now, it’s Ori’s turn. Hot mysterious guy, who is always nice and always comes to the rescue without expecting anything? Yeah, right. Perhaps it’s all the YA novels that I’ve read, but I know for a fact that the innocent ones are usually the assholes, not the nice guys. Halfway through the book I knew there was something going on there with this bastard.

The cliffhanger is reminiscent of the first book. Riley finally meeting up with her father and me going: “Oh…man. You’ve gotta be sh…kidding me. I have to wait another year for the rest?”

Overall, the story took a few pages for me to able to get into again. It did flow well, even though, I’m starting to get tired of the girl who has one, two, three guys who are into her. I’m starting to get tired of the boyfriend either being MIA in the second book or just being an ass. In this case, the ass being Simon….well, Beck could fit that part, as well for that matter.

I was happy about the way Master Harper treated Riley even when Simon tried to turn him against her and when the Geo Fiend came after her. Can I get a shot out for that old bastard?

So, I was overall, happy with it. Looking forward to the next and final installment.

City of Lost Souls up-to-date teasers

So those of us who have are fans of Cassandra Clare’s Mortal Instruments series are going quite crazy anticipating her next installment (Book#5), which is precisely why we have these teasers to…enhance the craziness:

‘City of Lost Souls’ teasers

Here are teasers from “City of Lost Souls” posted by Cassandra Clare:

Teaser #1:

“Magnus made a soft, pleased sound, and he gripped the back of Alec’s shirt.”

Teaser #2:

“He is a Shadowhunter,” said Jocelyn. “His loyalty will be to Clave and Covenant.”

“He’s my friend,” said Magnus coldly. “His loyalty is to me.”

Teaser #3:

“You stole a boat,” she snapped. “What am I doing with you, you boat-stealing lunatic?”

Teaser #4:

“Sebastian never does anything just for fun.” Jace took Clary’s hand and pulled her toward him. “But I do.”

Teaser #5:

“Is he happy like this? Really happy? And if he is, what are you saving him from?”

Teaser #6:

“Well, hello there, Mother,” Sebastian said in a voice like silk. “Surprised to see me?”

Teaser #7:

“You think I’m gone, but I’m not. I’m still watching you. All of you. Especially you … Simon.”

Teaser #8:

“I need Jace,” said Sebastian. “But in his heart, he’s not like me. But *you * are.”

Teaser #9:

“You’re a Lightwood,” she said. “Your family never gives up. I knew you wouldn’t let what I said to you that night well enough alone.”

Teaser #10:

“You have a dark heart in you, Valentine’s daughter,” he said. “You just won’t admit it. And if you want Jace, you had better accept it. Because he belongs to me now.”

Teaser #11:

“I don’t do false reassurances,” Izzy said, and pushed the tequila bottle away from her. Her eyes, on Jordan, were lively and dark. “Come here, werewolf boy.”

Teaser #12:

“I never cared,” he said. “I wanted you anyway. I always wanted you.” – Jace

Teaser #13:

“He reached her and held his hands out; she took them, and let him pull her to her feet. His pale gold eyes searched her face. “I want you with me,” he said. “But I want it to be your choice. Once we go, there’s no coming back.”

Teaser #14:

“I know about parabatai,” said Magnus, an angry, dark undercurrent to his voice. “I’ve known parabatai so close they were almost the same person; do you know what happens, when one of them dies, to the one that’s left —?”

Teaser #15:

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you smell like Magnus.”

 

In honor of all of the Young Adult heroines that kick serious butt, Cassandra Clare has shared a special City of Lost Souls teaser in which Clary, well, kicks some butt.

“Since I just read a creepy misogynistic online discussion about female characters in YA,” Clare wrote, “I’m dedicating this particular teaser to  strong girl characters. Long may they kick butt.”

Clary vaulted up onto the counter, and flung herself from the top of it as her weapon exploded into brightness. She landed on the demon, knocking it to the ground. One of its eel-like arms snapped at her, and she sliced it off with a whipsawing motion of her blade. Black blood sprayed, burning her bare skin below her wrist cuffs.

The demon looked at her with red, frightened eyes.

“Stop,” it wheezed. “I could give you whatever you want —”

“I have everything I want,” she said, and drove her seraph blade down.

City of Lost Souls will be released on May 8, 2012.