Ryn Tyler finally found her home—and demons are out to destroy it. Attending an angels-only high school should help her master her magical abilities, but stopping the upcoming battle is more important. But the arrival of another Davina complicates things, and Ryn finds herself torn between the two boys.
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Above all, she needs to find Grace. The demons will do anything to stop Ryn from reaching Grace. Lives are on the line, and the future of the Davina—and the entire world—is at stake. Ryn Tyler has finally fulfilled her destiny—but Eagle Valley is in more danger than ever. From the start, Ryn knows Grace is keeping secrets. Everything Ryn thought she knew about the magical world is wrong, but somehow, she and her friends have to make it right again. Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date. For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.
Only the Shadowhunters, warriors dedicated to ridding the world of demons, keep order amidst the chaos. Kidnapped by a secret organization called The Pandemonium Club, Tessa learns that she herself is a Downworlder with a rare ability: the power to transform into another person. Friendless and hunted, Tessa takes refuge with the Shadowhunters of the London Institute, who swear to find her brother if she will use her power to help them.
As their search draws them deep into the heart of an arcane plot that threatens to destroy the Shadowhunters, Tessa realizes that she may need to choose between saving her brother and helping her new friends save the world…and that love may be the most dangerous magic of all. Her books have more than 50 million copies in print worldwide and have been translated into more than thirty-five languages and made into a feature film and a TV show. Cassandra lives in western Massachusetts. Visit her at CassandraClare.
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Learn more about the world of the Shadowhunters at Shadowhunters. In a moment Tessa would ask her to wait in the corridor, and Miranda would leave the room. Energy that was probably better saved for other things. The maid bobbed an awkward curtsy and went out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Tessa rose to her feet, glancing around the small room that had been her prison cell for six weeks.
It was small, with flowered wallpaper, and sparsely furnished—a plain deal table with a white lace cloth over it where she ate her meals; the narrow brass bed where she slept; the cracked washstand and porcelain jug for her ablutions; the windowsill where she stacked her books, and the small chair where she sat each night and wrote letters to her brother—letters she knew she could never send, letters she kept hidden under her mattress where the Dark Sisters would not find them.
It was her way of keeping a diary and of assuring herself, somehow, that she would see Nate again someday and be able to give them to him. She crossed the room to the mirror that hung against the far wall, and smoothed down her hair. There was the pale oval of her face dominated by hollow gray eyes—a shadowed face without color in its cheeks or hope in its expression. She looked away quickly. Jane Eyre had had brown hair, and plenty of other heroines besides.
She looked pinched and bedraggled and altogether like a frightened scarecrow. She wondered if Nate would even recognize her if he saw her today. At that thought her heart seemed to shrink inside her chest. Without him, she was completely alone in the world. There was no one at all for her. No one in the world who cared whether she lived or died. Sometimes the horror of that thought threatened to overwhelm her and plunge her down into a bottomless darkness from which there would be no return.
If no one in the entire world cared about you, did you really exist at all? The click of the lock cut her thoughts off abruptly. The door opened; Miranda stood on the threshold. Black and Mrs. Dark are waiting. There was something ageless about her smooth round face.
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Her hair was the color of ditch water, pulled back harshly behind her ears. Tessa thought they must be related. As they went downstairs together, Miranda marching along with her graceless, clipped gait, Tessa raised her hand to touch the chain around her throat where the clockwork angel hung. It was habit—something she did each time she was forced to see the Dark Sisters. Somehow the feel of the pendant around her neck reassured her.
She kept hold of it as they passed landing after landing. Finally they reached the shadowed cellar. Their office was ahead, through a set of wide double doors. A narrow corridor led away in the other direction, vanishing into darkness; Tessa had no idea what lay down that hallway, but something about the thickness of the shadows made her glad she had never found out.
She hated this room more than any other place on earth. To begin with, it was always hot and wet inside, like a swamp, even when the skies outside were gray and rainy. The walls seemed to seep moisture, and the upholstery on the seats and sofas was always blooming with mold.
It smelled strange as well, like the banks of the Hudson on a hot day: water and garbage and silt. The Sisters were already there, as they always were, seated behind their enormous raised desk.
They were their usual colorful selves, Mrs. Black in a dress of vibrant salmon pink and Mrs. Dark in a gown of peacock blue. Above the brilliantly colored satins, their faces were like deflated gray balloons. They both wore gloves despite how hot the room was. Black, who was spinning the heavy brass globe they kept on the desk with one plump, white-gloved finger. Tessa had many times tried to get a better look at the globe—something about the way the continents were laid out had never looked quite right to her, especially the space in the center of Europe—but the sisters always kept her away from it.
Tessa tried not to wince as the door shut behind her, closing off what little breeze there was in this airless place.
Dark tilted her head to the side. She was used to being handed things by the Dark Sisters now. Once the laces of a boot; once a single earring, stained with blood. Dark again, a hint of impatience in her voice. She remembered books she had read, novels in which characters were on trial, standing quaking in the dock at the Old Bailey and praying for a verdict of not guilty. She often felt she was on trial herself in this room, without knowing of what crime she stood accused. And of the only two people in the world she trusted, one was dead and the other imprisoned. Black had been leaning down over her, her breath as bitter as vinegar, her eyes alight.
There was a copy of Great Expectations and—of all things—Little Women. Tessa had hugged the books to herself and, alone and unwatched in her room, had let herself cry. It had grown easier since then, the Changing. She drew on those memories now, tightening her grip on the ragged bit of pink fabric she held. She opened her mind and let the darkness come down, let the connection that bound her to the hair ribbon and the spirit inside it—the ghostly echo of the person who had once owned it—unravel like a golden thread leading through the shadows.
The room she was in, the oppressive heat, the noisy breathing of the Dark Sisters, all of it fell away as she followed the thread, as the light grew more intense around her and she wrapped herself in it as if she were wrapping herself in a blanket. Her skin began to tingle and to sting with thousands of tiny shocks.
This had been the worst part, once—the part that had convinced her she was dying. Now she was used to it, and bore it stoically as she shuddered all over, from her scalp to her toes.
The clockwork angel around her throat seemed to tick faster, as if in rhythm with her speeding heart. The pressure inside her skin built—Tessa gasped—and her eyes, which had been closed, flew open as the sensation built to a crescendo—and then vanished. It was over. Tessa blinked dizzily. The first moment after a Change was always like blinking water out of your eyes after submerging yourself in a bath. She looked down at herself. Her new body was slight, almost frail, and the fabric of her dress hung loose, pooling on the floor at her feet.
Her hands, clasped in front of her, were pale and thin, with chapped tips and bitten nails. Unfamiliar, alien hands. Black demanded. She had risen to her feet and was looking down at Tessa with her pale eyes burning. She looked almost hungry. The girl whose skin she wore answered for her, speaking through her the way spirits were said to speak through their mediums—but Tessa hated to think about it that way; the Change was so much more intimate, so much more frightening, than that.
Born in Cheapside, Emma had been one of six children. Her father was dead, and her mother sold peppermint water from a cart in the East End. Emma had learned to sew to bring in money when she was still a small child. Nights, she spent sitting at the little table in her kitchen, sewing seams by the light of a tallow candle. Sometimes, when the candle burned down and there was no money for another, she would go out into the streets and sit below one of the municipal gas lamps, using its light to sew by.
She was smiling thinly now, running her tongue over her lower lip, as if she could sense what the answer would be. Tessa saw narrow, shadowy streets, wrapped in thick fog, a silver needle working by faint yellow gaslight. A step, muffled in the fog. Hands that reached out of the shadows and took hold of her shoulders, hands that dragged her, screaming, into the darkness.
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The needle and thread falling from her hands, the bows ripped from her hair as she struggled. A harsh voice shouting something angry. And then the silver blade of a knife flashing down through the dark, slicing into her skin, drawing out the blood. She kicked out at the man holding her, succeeding in knocking the dagger from his hand; she caught the blade and ran, stumbling as she weakened, the blood draining out of her fast, so fast. She crumpled in an alley, hearing the hissing scream of something behind her.
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She knew it was following her, and she was hoping to die before it reached her— The Change shattered like glass. With a cry Tessa fell to her knees, the torn little bow falling from her hand. It was her hand again—Emma had gone, like a cast-off skin. Tessa was once more alone inside her own mind.
Where is Emma? Dark exhaled, a sound of satisfaction. That was very good. The front of her dress was splotched with blood, but there was no pain. She closed her eyes, spinning in the darkness, willing herself not to faint. You remember what happened with the Adams woman. Weeks ago she had Changed into a woman who had died of a gunshot wound to the heart; blood had poured down her dress and she had Changed back immediately, screaming in hysterical terror until the Sisters had made her see that she herself was unharmed.
Black said. Dark agreed. Black gave a little gasp. What were they talking about? Who was the Magister? She watched through lowered eyelashes as Mrs. Dark jerked the silk bellpull that would summon Miranda to come and take Tessa back to her room. It appeared that the lesson was over for today. If we told the Magister she was ready, I cannot imagine he would not hurry here without delay. Dark, stepping out from behind the desk, chuckled.
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