Photos:
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Clockwork Prince Book Trailer
Today lovely Vania (who shoots the TMI and ID book-trailers) has start shooting the CP Book trailer. We have a very interesting choice for our Will. And he's a face that pretty much any of us know. I'm talking about Carson Nicely who has already portrait another beloved character, Alec Lightwood in the City of Fallen Angels book trailer.
If you want to follow Carson on Twitter, his account is in the Links tab.
Here are some pictures of Will, Jem and Tessa.
If you want to follow Carson on Twitter, his account is in the Links tab.
Here are some pictures of Will, Jem and Tessa.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Romantic Scene Alec and Magnus CoLS
This will be the last teaser (and reward) because of Jace's victory in the YA Crush Tourney.
***
So here's the bonus part of the reward teasers: A scene from CoLS about Magnus and Alec. I get asked constantly if they will be in it and I hope this is somewhat reassuring that yes, indeed, they will be, with their very own plotline and all that. It's a short scene because it's smack in the middle of a giant spoiler. In fact I had to take out everything that even indicated where they were. Somewhere dark . . .but light can come from the strangest of sources.
Alec dropped his witchlight. The light winked out, and he fell to his knees, scrabbling on the ground among the trash and the dirt, grit under his fingernails. At last something lit up before his eyes, and he rose to see Magnus standing before him, the witchlight in his hand. It shone and flickered with a strangely-colored light.
“It shouldn’t illuminate like that,” Alec said, automatically. “For anyone but a Shadowhunter.”
Magnus held it out. The heart of the witchlight was glowing a dark red, like the coal of a fire.
“Is it because of your father?” Alec asked.
Magnus didn’t reply, only tipped the runestone into Alec’s palm. As their hands touched, his face changed. “You’re freezing cold.”
“I am?”
“Alexander . . .” Magnus pulled him to his feet, and the witchlight flickered between them, its color changing rapidly. Alec had never seen a witchlight runestone do that before. He put his head against Magnus’ shoulder and let Magnus hold him. Magnus’ heart didn’t beat like human hearts did: it was slower, but steady. Sometimes Alec thought it was the steadiest thing in his life.
“Kiss me,” Alec said, tipping his head up; Magnus eyes were sad and shadowed, and unreadable.
Magnus put his hand to the side of Alec’s face and gently, almost absently, ran his thumb along Alec’s cheekbone. When he bent to kiss him he smelled like sandalwood. Alec clutched the sleeve of Magnus’ jacket, and the witchlight, held between their bodies, flared up in colors of rose and blue and green as their lips touched.
* * *
Alec dropped his witchlight. The light winked out, and he fell to his knees, scrabbling on the ground among the trash and the dirt, grit under his fingernails. At last something lit up before his eyes, and he rose to see Magnus standing before him, the witchlight in his hand. It shone and flickered with a strangely-colored light.
“It shouldn’t illuminate like that,” Alec said, automatically. “For anyone but a Shadowhunter.”
Magnus held it out. The heart of the witchlight was glowing a dark red, like the coal of a fire.
“Is it because of your father?” Alec asked.
Magnus didn’t reply, only tipped the runestone into Alec’s palm. As their hands touched, his face changed. “You’re freezing cold.”
“I am?”
“Alexander . . .” Magnus pulled him to his feet, and the witchlight flickered between them, its color changing rapidly. Alec had never seen a witchlight runestone do that before. He put his head against Magnus’ shoulder and let Magnus hold him. Magnus’ heart didn’t beat like human hearts did: it was slower, but steady. Sometimes Alec thought it was the steadiest thing in his life.
“Kiss me,” Alec said, tipping his head up; Magnus eyes were sad and shadowed, and unreadable.
Magnus put his hand to the side of Alec’s face and gently, almost absently, ran his thumb along Alec’s cheekbone. When he bent to kiss him he smelled like sandalwood. Alec clutched the sleeve of Magnus’ jacket, and the witchlight, held between their bodies, flared up in colors of rose and blue and green as their lips touched.
* * *
Friday, August 12, 2011
Love Scene from Clockwork Prince
So here's the second part of the reward teasers: A love scene from Clockwork Prince. It is VERY SPOILERY. It is interesting, I think, because it shows us a different side of a character we know. Whereas yesterday's teaser was, ah, very physical, this one is more ..psychological and romantic. If you don't like being spoiled, really, don't read it! It's only 3 months till the books comes out anyway. ;)
Tomorrow: Magnus and Alec.
He flinched away from her, and Tessa dropped her hand, hurt. “Jem, what it is it? You don’t want me to touch you?”
“Not like that,” he flared, and then flushed even darker than before.
“Like what?” She was honestly bewildered; this was behavior she might have expected from Will, but not from Jem: this mysteriousness, this anger.
“As if you were a nurse and I were your patient. You think because I am ill I am not like —” He drew a ragged breath. “Do you think I do not know,” he went on more quietly, “that when you take my hand, it is only so that you can feel my pulse? Do you think I do not know that when you look into my eyes it is only to see examine my pupils, to see how much of the drug I have taken? If I were another man, a normal man, I might have hopes, presumptions even; I might -—” His words seemed to catch; either because he realized he had said too much or because he had run out of breath.
She shook her head, feeling her plaits tickle her neck. “This is the fever speaking, not you.”
His eyes darkened, and he began to turn away from her. “You can’t even believe I could want you,” he said in a half-whisper. “That I am alive enough, healthy enough —”
“No.” Without thinking, she caught at his arm. He stiffened. “James, that's not at all what I meant —”
He curled his fingers around her hand, where it lay on his arm. His own scorched her skin, hot as fire. And then he turned her, and drew her toward him.
They stood face to face, chest to chest. His breath stirred her hair. She felt the fever rising off him like mist off the Thames; sensed the pounding of the blood through his skin, saw with a strange clarity the pulse at his neck, the light on the pale curls of his hair where it lay against his paler throat. Prickles of heat ran up and down her skin, bewildering her. This was Jem — her friend, steady and reliable as a heartbeat. Jem did not set her skin on fire or make the blood rush fast inside her veins until she was dizzy.
Did he?
“Tessa,” he said. She looked up at him. There was nothing steady or reliable about his expression. His silver eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed. As she raised her face, he brought his down, his mouth slanting across hers, and even as she froze in surprise they were kissing.
Tomorrow: Magnus and Alec.
He flinched away from her, and Tessa dropped her hand, hurt. “Jem, what it is it? You don’t want me to touch you?”
“Not like that,” he flared, and then flushed even darker than before.
“Like what?” She was honestly bewildered; this was behavior she might have expected from Will, but not from Jem: this mysteriousness, this anger.
“As if you were a nurse and I were your patient. You think because I am ill I am not like —” He drew a ragged breath. “Do you think I do not know,” he went on more quietly, “that when you take my hand, it is only so that you can feel my pulse? Do you think I do not know that when you look into my eyes it is only to see examine my pupils, to see how much of the drug I have taken? If I were another man, a normal man, I might have hopes, presumptions even; I might -—” His words seemed to catch; either because he realized he had said too much or because he had run out of breath.
She shook her head, feeling her plaits tickle her neck. “This is the fever speaking, not you.”
His eyes darkened, and he began to turn away from her. “You can’t even believe I could want you,” he said in a half-whisper. “That I am alive enough, healthy enough —”
“No.” Without thinking, she caught at his arm. He stiffened. “James, that's not at all what I meant —”
He curled his fingers around her hand, where it lay on his arm. His own scorched her skin, hot as fire. And then he turned her, and drew her toward him.
They stood face to face, chest to chest. His breath stirred her hair. She felt the fever rising off him like mist off the Thames; sensed the pounding of the blood through his skin, saw with a strange clarity the pulse at his neck, the light on the pale curls of his hair where it lay against his paler throat. Prickles of heat ran up and down her skin, bewildering her. This was Jem — her friend, steady and reliable as a heartbeat. Jem did not set her skin on fire or make the blood rush fast inside her veins until she was dizzy.
Did he?
“Tessa,” he said. She looked up at him. There was nothing steady or reliable about his expression. His silver eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed. As she raised her face, he brought his down, his mouth slanting across hers, and even as she froze in surprise they were kissing.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Dirty Sexy Club Scene Here!
Finally to recap what we won (because Jace won the Tourney) here's what Cassie will post for the next three days.
1) The unedited version of DSCS (Dirty Sexy Club Scene)
2) A spicy teaser of a scene from CP (Tessa and .. someone)
3) And one of Magnus and Alec's romantic scenes from CoLS
plus, she will donate $500 dollars to Reading is Fundamental the same charity that The Mortal Instruments jewerly store supports.
And now, what we've been waiting for, what we fought for, here it is DSCS!!
Now keep in mind a version of this does still exist in the books, but it is much less . . . well. You'll see. I wrote this in Mexico, probably having had too much mezcal, and I was trying to capture a mood of really dark, tipping over the edge sensuality, doing things that are probably a bad idea, you get the picture. I also recall reading bits of this aloud to Holly Black, Paolo Bacigalupi, Ellen Kushner, Sarah Rees Brennan, and Delia Sherman, who never dropped her knitting. So it can't be that naughty...can it?
I think for those who really hate spoilers you might want to avoid this because the things about it that may be the most shocking are not the sexy bits but the beginning....
* * *
"What's going on?" It was Jace, having fought his way free of the pack of dancers. More of the shimmering stuff had gotten on him, silver drops clinging to the gold of his hair. "Clary?"
"Sorry," she said, getting to her feet. "I got lost in the crowd."
"I noticed," he said. "One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone." He took Clary's hand, lightly ringing her wrist with his fingers. "Do you want to go home? Or dance some more?"
"Dance some more," she said, breathlessly. "Is that all right?"
"Go ahead." Sebastian leaned back, his hands braced behind him on the fountain's edge, his smile like the edge of a straight razor. "I don't mind watching."
Something flashed across Clary's vision: the memory of a bloody handprint. It was gone as soon as it had come and she frowned. The night was too beautiful to think of ugly things. She looked back at her brother only for a moment before she let Jace lead her back through the crowd to its edge, near the shadows, where the press of bodies was lighter. Another ball of colored light burst above their heads as they went, scattering silver, and she tipped her head up, catching the salt-sweet drops on her tongue.
Jace stopped and swung her toward him. She could feel the silver liquid trickling down her face like tears. He pulled her against him and kissed them, as if he were kissing tears away, and his lips were warm on her face and made her shiver. She reached for the zip on his army jacket, ripped it down, slid her hands inside and over the cotton of his shirt, then under the hem, her nails scratching lightly over his ribs. He stopped and cupped the back of her neck with his hand, leaning to whisper in her ear. Neither of them could be said to be dancing any more: the hypnotic music went on around them, but Clary barely noticed it. A couple dancing past laughed and made a derisive comment in Czech: she couldn't understand it, but suspected the gist was get a room.
Jace made an impatient noise and then he was pulling her after him again, through the last of the crowd and into one of the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls.
This alcove was conical, with a low stone pedestal in the center on which an angel statue, about three feet tall, stood. It was made of black basalt, but its eyes were glass, like doll eyes, and its wings were silver. The floor was slippery and damp. They skidded across it to fetch up against a wall, Jace with his back to it, and then he was kissing her, bruising hard and hungry kisses. He tasted salt-sweet, too, and moaned as she licked the taste off his lips. Her hands threaded through his hair. It was dark in the alcove, so dark Jace was just an outline of shadows and gold. She gripped the edges of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders; it fell to the ground and he kicked it away. Her hands came up under his shirt, clawing at his back, fingers digging into the skin there, softness layered over hard muscle.
He kissed her harder and she clutched his shoulders as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down on it, sending a shock of pleasure mixed with pain through her body. She squirmed to get closer to him and felt his breath quicken; she could taste blood in her mouth, salt and hot. It was as if they wanted to cut each other apart, she thought, to climb inside each other and breathe each other's breath and share each other's heartbeats, even if it killed them both. There was blood under her nails where she had clawed his back.
Jace pressed her forward, spinning them both around so she was pinned between his body and the wall. As they turned, he caught the edge of the angel statue, toppling it to the ground and shattering apart in a cloud of marble dust. He laughed and dropped to the ground in front of her on his knees among the remnants of broken statuary. She stared down at him in a daze as he ran his hands up her boots, to her bare legs, to the lace that edged the bottom of her slip dress. She sucked in her breath, as his hands slipped like water up and over the silk, to her waist, to grip her hips, leaving streaks of silver on the silk.
"What are you doing?" she whispered. "Jace?"
He looked up at her. The peculiar light in the club turned his eyes an array of fractured colors. His smile was wicked. "You can tell me to stop whenever you want," he said. "But you won't."
"Jace..." His hands bunched in the silk of her dress, dragging the hem up, and he bent to kiss her legs, the bare skin where her boots ended, her knees (who knew knees could be so sensitive?) and farther up, where no one had ever kissed her before. The kisses were light, and even as her body tensed that she wanted to tell him she needed more, but didn't know what, didn't know what she needed exactly, but it didn't matter because he seemed to know it. She let her head fall back against the wall, half-closing her eyes, hearing only her heartbeat like a drum in her ears, louder and louder still.
I think for those who really hate spoilers you might want to avoid this because the things about it that may be the most shocking are not the sexy bits but the beginning....
* * *
"What's going on?" It was Jace, having fought his way free of the pack of dancers. More of the shimmering stuff had gotten on him, silver drops clinging to the gold of his hair. "Clary?"
"Sorry," she said, getting to her feet. "I got lost in the crowd."
"I noticed," he said. "One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone." He took Clary's hand, lightly ringing her wrist with his fingers. "Do you want to go home? Or dance some more?"
"Dance some more," she said, breathlessly. "Is that all right?"
"Go ahead." Sebastian leaned back, his hands braced behind him on the fountain's edge, his smile like the edge of a straight razor. "I don't mind watching."
Something flashed across Clary's vision: the memory of a bloody handprint. It was gone as soon as it had come and she frowned. The night was too beautiful to think of ugly things. She looked back at her brother only for a moment before she let Jace lead her back through the crowd to its edge, near the shadows, where the press of bodies was lighter. Another ball of colored light burst above their heads as they went, scattering silver, and she tipped her head up, catching the salt-sweet drops on her tongue.
Jace stopped and swung her toward him. She could feel the silver liquid trickling down her face like tears. He pulled her against him and kissed them, as if he were kissing tears away, and his lips were warm on her face and made her shiver. She reached for the zip on his army jacket, ripped it down, slid her hands inside and over the cotton of his shirt, then under the hem, her nails scratching lightly over his ribs. He stopped and cupped the back of her neck with his hand, leaning to whisper in her ear. Neither of them could be said to be dancing any more: the hypnotic music went on around them, but Clary barely noticed it. A couple dancing past laughed and made a derisive comment in Czech: she couldn't understand it, but suspected the gist was get a room.
Jace made an impatient noise and then he was pulling her after him again, through the last of the crowd and into one of the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls.
This alcove was conical, with a low stone pedestal in the center on which an angel statue, about three feet tall, stood. It was made of black basalt, but its eyes were glass, like doll eyes, and its wings were silver. The floor was slippery and damp. They skidded across it to fetch up against a wall, Jace with his back to it, and then he was kissing her, bruising hard and hungry kisses. He tasted salt-sweet, too, and moaned as she licked the taste off his lips. Her hands threaded through his hair. It was dark in the alcove, so dark Jace was just an outline of shadows and gold. She gripped the edges of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders; it fell to the ground and he kicked it away. Her hands came up under his shirt, clawing at his back, fingers digging into the skin there, softness layered over hard muscle.
He kissed her harder and she clutched his shoulders as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down on it, sending a shock of pleasure mixed with pain through her body. She squirmed to get closer to him and felt his breath quicken; she could taste blood in her mouth, salt and hot. It was as if they wanted to cut each other apart, she thought, to climb inside each other and breathe each other's breath and share each other's heartbeats, even if it killed them both. There was blood under her nails where she had clawed his back.
Jace pressed her forward, spinning them both around so she was pinned between his body and the wall. As they turned, he caught the edge of the angel statue, toppling it to the ground and shattering apart in a cloud of marble dust. He laughed and dropped to the ground in front of her on his knees among the remnants of broken statuary. She stared down at him in a daze as he ran his hands up her boots, to her bare legs, to the lace that edged the bottom of her slip dress. She sucked in her breath, as his hands slipped like water up and over the silk, to her waist, to grip her hips, leaving streaks of silver on the silk.
"What are you doing?" she whispered. "Jace?"
He looked up at her. The peculiar light in the club turned his eyes an array of fractured colors. His smile was wicked. "You can tell me to stop whenever you want," he said. "But you won't."
"Jace..." His hands bunched in the silk of her dress, dragging the hem up, and he bent to kiss her legs, the bare skin where her boots ended, her knees (who knew knees could be so sensitive?) and farther up, where no one had ever kissed her before. The kisses were light, and even as her body tensed that she wanted to tell him she needed more, but didn't know what, didn't know what she needed exactly, but it didn't matter because he seemed to know it. She let her head fall back against the wall, half-closing her eyes, hearing only her heartbeat like a drum in her ears, louder and louder still.
Highlights and Questions to Jace
Highlights after Jace won the YA Crush Tourney ! We stood up for him shadowhunters and I know it was a difficult battle, Zach fans stood up pretty good too but at the end the best wins and our beloved Jace had to. :)
- “to Jace: What does it feel to be so elected by so many girls?” Jace: Again we see that there is nothing you can possess which I cannot take away.
- Sorry, I was watching Raiders of the Lost Arc.Jace wouldn't say that."How does it feel 2 b so elected by so many girls?" Jace: Unsurprising.
- “no wonder Clary is liking evil Jace, he’s hot!” Really, he was a lot of fun to write. He’s pretty much up for doing anything… anywhere.
- “PossessedJace is still Jace only more determined” *coughp up tea giggling* Determined to do what exactly? No, I know, this isn’t how normal!Jace would act, really, he’d be more inclined to let Clary go at her own space and uh, not like so much not caring about all the people around. But even normal Jace has an edge of wickedness and that’s why this Jace is fun to write, because now it’s a lot more than an edge.
- " When do we find out who wins the CP arc?" There's 1600 entries or so — it's gonna be a few days! Monday.
- ..bad Jace is bad. There is naughty and there is bad. He still loves her, tho, so not rapey.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Highlights and Questions for Characters
Ok guys I should say before you go on that this post contain MAJOR SPOILERS of City of Fallen Angels, we don't want to spoin anything for you but you are warned now.
****
- You can have twin warlocks
- Alec’s middle name is Gideon
- What flavour of jello did Magnus and Alec wrestle in? :3" Mango.
- Jace doesn’t have a middle name
- Why is Magnus banned from Peru?" We only know it has something to do with llamas.
- Clary has a middle name, and we’ll find out in City of Lost Souls
- Warlocks can’t have children
- who would win in an arm wrestling contest: Will or Jem?" Will. But hey, there is inner strength.
- City of Lost Souls take place two weeks after City of Fallen Angels
- Who would win in a fight Alec or Will?" Tough call.
- Faeries can have children but Faeries just tend to have them very rarely and often they're sickly which is why they steal human children. And they can have children with humans
- will jace change his last name?" AGAIN? poor schizoid boy.
- Jace will remain as Jace Lightwood
- CoLS is mostly by Clary’s POV
- In CP are we going to find out what's wrong with Will?" Yes.
- Simon will narrate on CoLS just like he narrated on CoFA?" No. Mostly Clary tells CoLS. But it's mixed.
- You already have planned the end of 'TMI'?" Yes, I do.
- “When is Jace’s birthday? Will it ever be mencioned in one of the books?” I know there is this extreme fascination with Jace’s birthday. I promise if Jace’s birthday was in any way important it would have been mentioned. Jace himself spend most of his life not knowing his birthday because it’s the day he was cut out of Celine Herondale, which he didn’t know. You can back figure his birthday to being in the winter before the Uprising. He’s older than Clary by like 5, 6 months.
- will there be any steamy jace-clary moments in CoLS?" Yes, that there will be.
- Don't forget about Mia and Jordan...what's next?" I would never forget them! They have a complicated relationship in CoLS.
- Jace, boxers, briefs, or comando? XD" I believe boxer briefs were previously established.
- Will: what would you do if you found put that Jem is in love with Tessa?" Will: What a ridiclous idea!
- “Clary, do you find yourself more physically attracted to evil Jace?” I think Clary would be too embarrassed to answer that. But I think the truth is a little bit yes.
- Jace: if you were allowed a pet (Church doesn't count), what would you pick and why?" Every boy wants a pet wolf.
- “Jem, do you compose your own music?” No. My father was the better violinist and since there aren’t as many pieces for solo violin as he would have liked, he adapted a great deal of Chopin from piano to violin. I play that a lot.
- Isabelle isn’t a virgin.
- Jace:What's the greatest lesson you've learned the hard way?" I'm really not so bad. Or at least I didn't used to be.
- Jem Do you have a nickname??" Jem is a nickname. :) For James.
- Is Jace a virgin?" Guys, I am never going to answer that. It gets answered in the books. I promise. :)
- “will Jace and Clary have sex?” Okay, gather ‘round, and avert your eyes if you do not like spoilers. Yes. They will have sex. I am not going to say if they have sex in the books, or on the page, or after the books are over (in which case hey, at least they survived), but at some point in the space time continuum they have sex.
- " Jace; Were you ever in love before Clary ?" Answer: No.
- any Simon and izzy moments in cols like ahem makeout sessions?" Hmm, a lot of perverse questions. They have some . .moments.
- Jonathan, you got any plans for Jocelyn?" Rest assured Sebastian can't wait to see dear old mom again.
- THE LAST COUNCIL is name of the first chapter of CoLS
- Does Simon think that Clary is a virgin?" yes, because she is his best friend, and also, it is true.
- speaking of virgins , would Will let Jem die a virgin?" Gaaah! Well, what's he supposed to do about it???
- Maryse; Have consider about leaving Robert before, or just recently now?” Definitely considered leaving him before; decided to stick it out because she was pregnant with Max.
- “I know this is weird but... Have Isabelle ever kiss Jace or Alec?” ALEC??? *rolls around laughing* *gets up and brushes self off* Oooookay. Look, you know, I can actually see Isabelle maybe kissing Jace when she was like 13 before the Westermark effect really kicked in. But now I think she would think it was gross. I mean, I don’t have brothers or sisters which probably allows me to write the “incest plotline” without feeling much of anything about it, but I do understand that this would be widely considered grody by most, and the idea of two people brought up together hooking up does squick me. Also--- Alec is gay! He does not want to kiss girls, whether or not they are his sister.
- · ...Max was actually Robert's kid, right?" He was. MARYSE didn't cheat.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Sexy Manor House Scene Jace's POV
Here's what Cassie has to say:
Okay, first, THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO VOTED FOR JACE IN THE YA CRUSH TOURNEY. http://bit.ly/ndzenu Tomorrow will be an even tougher battle but for now enjoy the fruits of your victory....
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.”
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.”
Outtake from City of Lost Souls.
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.
“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.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Preview of The Manor House, Jace's POV
Hi Shadowhunters! Today was released a YA Crush Tourney in the YA Sisterhood Page. What is happening? Jace vs Ash in this poll. And why Jace has to win? I only have two answers for that:
Now, just to tease us like Cassie always love to do, she has shared a teaser of the scene and here it is:
Jace's hands slid under Clary's flimsy shirt and onto the heat of her skin. He was pretty sure all the blood had left his brain as his fingers worked at the clasp of her bra — which was ridiculous, what was the point of being a Shadowhunter 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.
Poll ends tomorrow so hurry!
GO! HERE'S THE LINK AGAIN: GO.HERE.GO.HERE.GO.HERE.GO.HERE
- Because if he wins, Cassie will share Sexy Manor House Scene from City of Glass, Jace's POV.
- Because he's Jace, for Angel's sake! :D
Now, just to tease us like Cassie always love to do, she has shared a teaser of the scene and here it is:
Jace's hands slid under Clary's flimsy shirt and onto the heat of her skin. He was pretty sure all the blood had left his brain as his fingers worked at the clasp of her bra — which was ridiculous, what was the point of being a Shadowhunter 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.
Poll ends tomorrow so hurry!
GO! HERE'S THE LINK AGAIN: GO.HERE.GO.HERE.GO.HERE.GO.HERE
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Cassie on 'Loss' and new CoLS Teaser
If you noticed 'Loss' was out before Cassie hitted the 40,000 followers on her Twitter, because of that she posted this:
On the topic of "Of Loss" — I posted the Will POV Clockwork Angel scene yesterday that I'd been saying I was going to post at 40,000 followers. I posted it early because I saw that it was already floating around out there in various forms. One was a link to my website: I work in draft versions on my website sometimes because there is no way to *find* those pages unless I post them (or so I'd always thought); I assume the people who posted it guessed what the link would be (add "loss" to the end of the website address, it's not that difficult). I was annoyed, because it was a draft version (I'd been working on it in an open window but I'd never hit 'update' so it was missing a bunch of details, had typos, etc) and because — well, when you write something, you'd rather post it yourself then find out from Twitter that it's been done for you. I'm not annoyed at anyone for reading it — how would you know, even my *publisher* retweeted it — and we are not talking about stealing or hacking here (though for the first few minutes that I saw that it was up, I did worry). My website is safe and will continue to be its wonky self. I wish the person/people who found it had asked me before publicizing it but that may have been a misunderstanding rather than malice. In the end it is a minor deal: there are two versions of 'Of Loss' floating around. The correct one is the one currently on my site. I've cleared all the draft versions of things away and won't be working on the site that way any more. Lesson learned : one's fans are always smarter about the Internet than you are. —C
Now, this is the entry with the City of Lost Souls Teaser.
Yesterday I posted up a new extra: Of Loss: Will Herondale's perspective on the attic scene from Clockwork Angel.Spoilers for Clockwork Angel, obvs!
[Other past extras for anyone who may have missed them: Because it is Bitter: The Seelie Court scene from City of Ashes told from Jace's point of view.
Kissed: Magnus and Alec's first kiss.]
I'm going to count that as the August teaser for CP (which I just got the proof pages for — it clocks in at 501 pages, a size excellent for killing mosquitos, less good for propping wobbly chairlegs) so here is the teaser for Lost Souls:
* * *
“Warlock,” he said. “I know who you are.”
Magnus raised his eyebrows. “You do?”
“Magnus Bane. Destroyer of the demon Marabas. Son of——”
“Now,” said Magnus, quickly. “There’s no need to go into all of that.”
“But there is.” The demon sounded reasonable, even amused. “If it is infernal assistance you require, why not summon your father?”
Alec looked at Magnus with his mouth open.
Source: C'sLJ and TD
On the topic of "Of Loss" — I posted the Will POV Clockwork Angel scene yesterday that I'd been saying I was going to post at 40,000 followers. I posted it early because I saw that it was already floating around out there in various forms. One was a link to my website: I work in draft versions on my website sometimes because there is no way to *find* those pages unless I post them (or so I'd always thought); I assume the people who posted it guessed what the link would be (add "loss" to the end of the website address, it's not that difficult). I was annoyed, because it was a draft version (I'd been working on it in an open window but I'd never hit 'update' so it was missing a bunch of details, had typos, etc) and because — well, when you write something, you'd rather post it yourself then find out from Twitter that it's been done for you. I'm not annoyed at anyone for reading it — how would you know, even my *publisher* retweeted it — and we are not talking about stealing or hacking here (though for the first few minutes that I saw that it was up, I did worry). My website is safe and will continue to be its wonky self. I wish the person/people who found it had asked me before publicizing it but that may have been a misunderstanding rather than malice. In the end it is a minor deal: there are two versions of 'Of Loss' floating around. The correct one is the one currently on my site. I've cleared all the draft versions of things away and won't be working on the site that way any more. Lesson learned : one's fans are always smarter about the Internet than you are. —C
Now, this is the entry with the City of Lost Souls Teaser.
Yesterday I posted up a new extra: Of Loss: Will Herondale's perspective on the attic scene from Clockwork Angel.Spoilers for Clockwork Angel, obvs!
[Other past extras for anyone who may have missed them: Because it is Bitter: The Seelie Court scene from City of Ashes told from Jace's point of view.
Kissed: Magnus and Alec's first kiss.]
I'm going to count that as the August teaser for CP (which I just got the proof pages for — it clocks in at 501 pages, a size excellent for killing mosquitos, less good for propping wobbly chairlegs) so here is the teaser for Lost Souls:
* * *
“Warlock,” he said. “I know who you are.”
Magnus raised his eyebrows. “You do?”
“Magnus Bane. Destroyer of the demon Marabas. Son of——”
“Now,” said Magnus, quickly. “There’s no need to go into all of that.”
“But there is.” The demon sounded reasonable, even amused. “If it is infernal assistance you require, why not summon your father?”
Alec looked at Magnus with his mouth open.
Source: C'sLJ and TD
Friday, August 05, 2011
'Loss' Is Out!
'Loss' the Sexy Holly Water Scene from Will's POV is out! You can read it HERE
But I'll post it here anyway :)
Loss
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.
So, what do you think of it?
I think its amazing! I love it.
Source: here
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