The Mortal Instruments by Cassandra Clare

The boy’s green eyes scanned the dance floor, where slender limbs clad in scraps of silk and black leather appeared and disappeared inside the revolving columns of smoke as the mundies danced. Not that the humans didn’t have their uses. Of course, he could probably have gotten by without all that trouble, but it was part of the fun-fooling the mundies, doing it all out in the open right in front of them, getting off on the blank looks on their sheeplike faces. Another glamour on his eyes, and the moment the bouncer had looked straight at him, he was in. It had been so easy-a little bit of a glamour on the blade, to make it look harmless. The boy in the red jacket stroked the long razor-sharp blade in his hands, an idle smile playing over his lips. Colored lights played over the dance floor, turning it into a multicolored fairyland of blues and acid greens, hot pinks and golds. Inside, the club was full of dry-ice smoke. “Didn’t you?”Ĭlary dug her elbow into his ribs, but didn’t answer. “You thought he was cute,” said Simon, sounding resigned. There was a word for him that her mother would have used- insouciant. Clary liked the lilt to his shoulders, the way he tossed his hair as he went.

The boy’s wide eyes were way too bright a green, Clary noticed: the color of antifreeze, spring grass. It bent as easily as a blade of grass bending sideways. “I’m a vampire hunter.” He pushed down on the wooden thing.

He had electric blue dyed hair that stuck up around his head like the tentacles of a startled octopus, but no elaborate facial tattoos or big metal bars through his ears or lips. He was normal-enough-looking, Clary thought, for Pandemonium.

It looked like a wooden beam, pointed at one end. “Aw, come on.” The kid hoisted the thing up over his head. Fifteen-year-old Clary Fray, standing in line with her best friend, Simon, leaned forward along with everyone else, hoping for some excitement. The bouncers were fierce and would come down instantly on anyone who looked like they were going to start trouble. It was a long wait to get into the all-ages club, especially on a Sunday, and not much generally happened in line. The fifty or so teenagers in line outside the Pandemonium Club leaned forward to eavesdrop. He stared down at the boy in the red zip-up jacket and shook his shaved head. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the bouncer said, folding his arms across his massive chest.

The Mortal Instruments by Cassandra Clare