MI 02 - City of Ashes - Cassandra Clare, E-books
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//-->THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTSCITYOFASHESCASSANDRA CLAREWALKERBOOKSI know your streets, sweet city,I know the demons and angels that flockand roost in your boughs like birds.I know you, river, as if you flowed through my heart.I am your warrior daughter.There are letters made of your bodyas a fountain is made of water.There are languagesof which you are the blueprintand as we speak themthe city rises …—Elka Cloke, This Bitter LanguagePROLOGUE:SMOKE AND DIAMONDSTHE FORMIDABLE GLASS-AND-STEEL STRUCTURE ROSE FROMits position on Front Street like a glittering needlethreading the sky. There were fifty-seven floors to the Metropole, Manhattan’s most expensivenew downtown condominium tower. The topmost floor, the fifty-seventh, contained the mostluxurious apartment of all: the Metropole penthouse, a masterpiece of sleek black-and-whitedesign. Too new to have gathered dust yet, its bare marble floors reflected back the starsvisible through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. The window glass was perfectlytranslucent, providing such a complete illusion that there was nothing between the viewerand the view that it had been known to induce vertigo even in those unafraid of heights.Far below ran the silver ribbon of the East River, braceleted by shining bridges, flecked byboats as small as flyspecks, splitting the shining banks of light that were Manhattan andBrooklyn on either side. On a clear night the illuminated Statue of Liberty was just visible tothe south—but there was fog tonight, and Liberty Island was hidden behind a white bank ofmist.However spectacular the view, the man standing in front of the window didn’t lookparticularly impressed by it. There was a frown on his narrow, ascetic face as he turned awayfrom the glass and strode across the floor, the heels of his boots echoing against the marble.“Aren’t you ready yet?” he demanded, raking a hand through his salt-white hair. “We’ve beenhere nearly an hour.”The boy kneeling on the floor looked up at him, nervous and petulant. “It’s the marble. It’smore solid than I thought. It’s making it hard to draw the pentagram.”“So skip the pentagram.” Up close it was easier to see that despite his white hair, the manwasn’t old. His hard face was severe but unlined, his eyes clear and steady.The boy swallowed hard and the membranous black wings protruding from his narrowshoulder blades (he had cut slits in the back of his denim jacket to accommodate them)flapped nervously. “The pentagram is a necessary part of any demon-raising ritual. You knowthat, sir. Without it…”“We’re not protected. I know that, young Elias. But get on with it. I’ve known warlockswho could raise a demon, chat him up, and dispatch him back to hell in the time it’s takenyou to draw half a five-pointed star.”The boy said nothing, only attacked the marble again, this time with renewed urgency.Sweat dripped from his forehead and he pushed his hair back with a hand whose fingers were
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