The Evil We Love

Loving someone doesn't mean you're never going to make mistakes.

Have you never seen a movie? Read a comic book? That's always how it starts - just a little temptation, just a little taste of evil, and then BAM, your light saber turns red and you're breathing through a big black mask and slicing off your son's hand just to be mean." They looked at him blankly.

History, the way the teachers liked it, was a racetrack, a straight shot from start to finish line; life itself was more of a maze.

It's obvious to me that you don't want to be here," Robert told his daughter. "What gave it away? The fact that I told you a million times that I didn't want to come? That I didn't want to play your stupid game? That I thought it was cruel and manipulative and a total waste of time?" "Yes," Robert said. "That.

Love, real love, is being seen. Being known. Knowing the ugliest part of someone, and loving them anyway. And... I guess I think two people in love become something else, something more than the sum of their parts, you know? That it must be like you’re creating a new world that exists just for the two of you. You’re gods of your own pocket universe.

No. You don't get to call me Izzy, you don't send me letters, you don't follow me into dark corridors and try to save me from rats." "Trust me, we see a rat, it's every man for himself.

So, I guess, thanks for sticking around for that whole thing with my dad," Isabelle said. "You didn't exactly give me much of a choice," Simon pointed out. Isabelle laughed, almost fondly. "You really have no idea how a social encounter is supposed to work, do you? I say 'thank you'; you say 'you're welcome.'" "Like, if I said, thank you for fooling all my friends into thinking you were a wild-and-crazy demon summoner so that they could get in trouble with the dean, you would say...?" "You're welcome for teaching them all a valuable lesson." She grinned.

It's Isabelle," George said. Simon leaped out of bed - or, gallantly tried to, at least. He got a bit tangled in his sheets, so it was more like he tumbled-twisted-THUDDED out of bed, but eventually he made it to his feet, ready to charge into action. "What happened to Isabelle?

He felt something he'd never felt before - but he had a sinking sensation that he recognized it anyway. He was pretty sure he felt like he was in love.

Would you have joined the Circle. Would you have stood by Valentine's side at the Uprising? Raise your hand, if you think it's possible." Simon was unsurprised to see not a single hand in the air. He'd played this game back in mundane school, every time his history class covered World War II. Simon knew no one ever thought they would be a Nazi. Simon also knew that, statistically, most of them were wrong.

You will be tempted to think this ordeal marks you as weak. Instead, remember it as proof of your strength.

Simon blinked himself awake, confused, for a moment, why he was in a dungeon that smelled of dung rather than his Brooklyn bedroom - then, once he got his bearings, confused all over again about why he was being awoken in the middle of the night by a wide-eyed Scotsman. "Is there a fire?" Simon asked. "There better be a fire. Or a demon attack. And I'm not talking about some puny lower-lever demon, mind you. You want to wake me up in the middle of a dream about rock superstardom, it better be a Greater Demon.

Against all odds, the Academy had come to feel like home. A slimy, moldy, dungeonlike home without working toilets, maybe, but home nevertheless. He and George had even named the rats that lived behind their walls. Every night, they left Jon Cartwright Jr., III, and IV a piece of stale bread to nibble, in hopes they'd prefer the crumbs to human feet.

Love, real love, is being seen. Being known. Knowing the ugliest part of someone, and loving them anyway.

What's next? You want to convince me they're making another crap Last Airbender movie?

Jon gave Simon a patronizing pat on the shoulder. “I’m going to miss your witty repartee this summer, Lewis.” “I’m going to hope you get eaten by a spider demon this summer, Cartwright.” George slipped an arm around both of them, grinning maniacally and humming “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

Entreat me not to leave thee, Or return from following after thee— For whither thou goest, I will go, And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Angel do so to me, and more also, If aught but death part thee and me.

The moment they met, Simon had decided that if looks matched personalities, Jon Cartwright would look like a horse's ass. Unfortunately, there is no justice in the world, and he looked instead like a walking Ken doll. Sometimes first impressions were misleading; sometimes they peered straight through to a person's inner soul. Simon was as sure now as he'd ever been: Jon's inner soul was a horse's ass.

Not the letter again?” Simon’s roommate at the Academy, George Lovelace, groaned. He flung himself down on his bed, sweeping an arm melodramatically across his forehead. “Oh, Isabelle, my darling, if I stare at this letter long enough, maybe I’ll telepathically woo you back to my weeping bosom.

He stays,” she told her father. “He most certainly does not.” “Simon stays with me, or I leave with him,” Isabelle said. “Those are your choices.

Maryse was more than a girl. She was a force.

To be a Shadowhunter was to live in the shadow of death

Through it all, Isabelle watched Simon, something unexpected in her gaze. Something almost like . . . pride.

If I have to, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you that you can be certain of me

He just knew, on a level beneath reason and memory, that some part of him belonged with Isabelle. Maybe even belonged to Isabelle.

Simon wasn’t listening at all. Simon was staring at Isabelle, willing her to look at him.

Simon stood up and said the first thing that popped into his mind. "I just wanted to tell you that we all really enjoyed that beef stew they saved for dinner. You should serve that again." Dean Penhallow gave him an odd look. " those weren't beets, Simon." This didn't surprise him.

because when you’re watching from the sidelines, invisible, it’s easy to see clearly.

Over the last year, Simon had come to understand that the Shadowhunters preferred to believe their choices were perfect, their laws infallible.

He and George had even named the rats that lived behind their walls. Every night, they left Jon Cartwright Jr., III, and IV a piece of stale bread to nibble, in hopes they’d prefer the crumbs to human feet.