Best Teen & Young Adult Dark Fantasy

All three books in the #1 New York Times bestselling Infernal Devices trilogy, are now available together in a collectible paperback boxed set. Enter the secret world of the Shadowhunters with this handsomely packaged boxed set that includes Clockwork Angel , Clockwork Prince , and Clockwork Princess . She is the coauthor of The Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy with Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson, and Robin Wasserman, as well as The Shadowhunter’s Codex, which she cowrote with her husband, Joshua Lewis.

All six books in the #1 New York Times bestselling Mortal Instruments series, now available in a collectible paperback boxed set. She is the coauthor of The Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy with Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson, and Robin Wasserman, as well as The Shadowhunter’s Codex, which she cowrote with her husband, Joshua Lewis.

Sunny Los Angeles can be a dark place indeed in Cassandra Clare’s Lord of Shadows , the sequel to the #1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling Lady Midnight . Caught between the demands of faerie and the laws of the Clave, Emma, Julian, and Mark must find a way to come together to defend everything they hold dear—before it’s too late. Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp and deadly. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types. The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like substance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teenagers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched in platinum and black diamonds. He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked. Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and shrugged on a padded jacket. He unzipped the inside pocket of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking the ones with the fanciest hilts. Kit dropped the dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hastily. He was tall, with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs of his shirt. “They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle. They hadn’t spoken much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade, the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. People keep telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw. Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just under a display of heavy claymores. We bear the glories and the burdens of our names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all our lives. His wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open eye on the back of his left hand. Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. He tried to picture himself standing behind the counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the past few days. Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s house, but he knew he’d done it. She’d always loved the Santa Monica Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round. The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by artisanal ice cream and lobster platters. And there were still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered and sometimes, more sinister things. That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadowhunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater: red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness, too, the danger and the rot. Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him, eating caramel corn and laughing. Fortunately, there weren’t many of them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plastic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss. The tips of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the delicacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his eyes and cheekbones. Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table hockey—is that a goldfish?”. Mark had spent the past few years of his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faeries. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giving them in tribute to the Faerie Courts. He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take him by surprise. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her his prize. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him apologetically. “Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly. Sometimes she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy, blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water. Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade given to her by her parents. His nickname in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind and body focused on the task at hand. “There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark, humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris wheel. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. Mundanes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed her way to the front. A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in. Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage. From this angle, the Ferris wheel was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted iron bars. Emma could see the beach below, the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees and greenery. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort of clinical distance. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight of him. The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they powdered his tanned skin with gold. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands, strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheekbones when he blinked. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out all around them as they neared the top of the wheel. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of the wheel. “Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catching onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin. Pulling herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. Emma could hear it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made up the inside of the wheel. Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she were dangling off the edge of the world. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel onto its structural supports. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel. The Teuthida had its tentacles fastened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twisting it. Julian was closer, but she knew the weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown, and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach the demon. The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it, and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain. Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-slanted spokes of the wheel. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him. Emma could see crowds of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark and Cristina . “Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma asked as she and Julian drew near. It wasn’t quite dead, so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She kicked at the sand in front of her. She was unbelievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this without a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange. It wasn’t as if Mark liked lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were incapable of untruths, that he found it unnatural. Neither he nor Cristina was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beautiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights of the Ferris wheel. And because there was something about him, something indefinably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom and lawlessness. “That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him, Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness, a careful consideration of whatever the situation was.

Shadowhunters and demons square off for the final showdown in the spellbinding, seductive conclusion to the #1 New York Times bestselling Mortal Instruments series—now with a gorgeous new cover, a map, a new foreword, and exclusive bonus content! The beach in Los Angeles—white sand, crashing blue water, you’re strolling along the tide line . The boy sitting across from him sighed and ran his hands through his shaggy dark hair. Though it was a cold December day, werewolves didn’t feel weather as acutely as humans, and Jordan had his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. They were seated opposite each other on a patch of browning grass in a clearing in Central Park, both cross-legged, their hands on their knees, palms up. As Jace looked up, Isabelle caught his eye and gave him an encouraging wave. He smiled to himself—neither of them really had a reason to be here, but they had come anyway, “for moral support.” Though, Jace suspected it had more to do with the fact that Alec hated to be at loose ends these days, Isabelle hated for her brother to be on his own, and both of them were avoiding their parents and the Institute. Jace took his hands off his knees—the lotus position was giving him wrist cramps—and leaned back on his arms. Chilly wind rattled the few dead leaves that still clung to the branches of the trees. Against the pale winter sky the leaves had a spare elegance, like pen and ink sketches. Below the sleeves of his shirt, the tattoos that wrapped his arms were visible. The fire in his veins made his mind race too, thoughts coming too quickly, one after another, like exploding fireworks. But he hadn’t managed to do much more than irritate Alec with requests for healing runes and, on one memorable occasion, accidentally set fire to one of the crossbeams. It was Simon who had pointed out that his roommate meditated every day, and who’d said that learning the habit was what had calmed the uncontrollable fits of rage that were often part of the transformation into a werewolf. The first session had ended with Jace burning a mark into Simon and Jordan’s hardwood floor, so Jordan had suggested they take it outside for the second round to prevent further property damage. I know what brings me peace, and it isn’t sandy beaches or chirping birds in rain forests. Jace threw his hands up and stood, brushing grass off his jeans. “Now you get it.” He heard the crackle of dry grass and turned, in time to see Clary duck through a gap between two trees and emerge into the clearing, Simon only a few steps behind her. He remembered the second time he had ever seen Clary, across the main room of Java Jones. He remembered the unfamiliar twist of jealousy in his chest, pressing out his breath, the feeling of satisfaction when she’d left Simon behind to come and talk to him. He’d gone from being eaten up with jealousy of Simon, to a grudging respect for his tenacity and courage, to actually considering him a friend, though he doubted he’d ever say so out loud. Jace watched as Clary looked over and blew him a kiss, her red hair bouncing in its ponytail. She headed toward Jace and Jordan, leaving Simon to scamper up the rocky ground to where Alec and Isabelle were sitting; he collapsed beside Isabelle, who immediately leaned over to say something to him, her black curtain of hair hiding her face. Clary stopped in front of Jace, rocking back on her heels with a smile. “Without me you’d be bouncing down Madison Avenue, shooting sparks out of all your orifices.” He rose to his feet, shrugging on his green jacket. “Got to meet Maia downtown.” He gave a mock salute and was gone, slipping into the trees and vanishing with the silent tread of the wolf he was under the skin. Six months ago he wouldn’t have believed anyone who’d told him he was going to wind up taking behavioral lessons from a werewolf. Jordan and Simon and Jace had struck up something of a friendship in the past months. Jace couldn’t help using their apartment as a refuge, away from the daily pressures of the Institute, away from the reminders that the Clave was still unprepared for war with Sebastian. The word brushed the back of Jace’s mind like the touch of a feather, making him shiver. He saw an angel’s wing, torn from its body, lying in a pool of golden blood. “What’s wrong?” Clary said; Jace suddenly looked a million miles away. Since the heavenly fire had entered his body, he’d tended to drift off more into his head. She felt a little pang—Jace, when she had met him, had been so controlled, only a little of his real self leaking out through the cracks in his personal armor, like light through the chinks in a wall. Now, though, the fire in his veins was forcing him to put them back up, to bite down on his emotions for safety’s sake. The winter sun was high and cold; it sharpened the bones of his face and threw the shadows under his eyes into relief. His skin felt warm under her touch; he seemed to run several degrees hotter than normal since his encounter with Glorious. His heart still pounded its familiar, steady rhythm, but the blood being pushed through his veins seemed to thrum under her touch with the kinetic energy of a fire just about to catch. She went up on her toes to kiss his cheek, but he turned, and their lips brushed. They’d done nothing more than kiss since the fire had first started singing in his blood, and they’d done even that carefully. Jace was careful now, his mouth sliding softly against hers, his hand closing on her shoulder. He moved to pull her closer, and a sharp, dry spark passed between them, like the zing of static electricity. Jace bowed while Clary stepped back slightly sheepishly, hooking her thumbs into the belt of her jeans. “Unfortunately, that’s the only kind of friends we have.” Clary bumped her shoulder against his arm, and they headed up toward the rocks. Alec was sitting a little apart, staring at the screen of his phone with an expression of intense concentration. He looked smaller these days, almost skinny in his worn blue pullover, holes at the elbows, his lips bitten and chapped. He’d spent the first week after Magnus had broken up with him in a sort of daze of sadness and disbelief. Jace threw a handful of dead leaves at Alec, making him splutter. Under normal circumstances Jace would have killed, or at least threatened, anyone who hurt Alec; this was different. Alec protested and reached for it, but Jace held him off with one hand, expertly scrolling through the messages on the phone with the other. The Clave keeps wanting to hear what happened when we fought Sebastian at the Burren. We’ve all had to give accounts, like, fifty times. Descriptions of the Dark Shadowhunters, the Infernal Cup, the weapons they used, the runes that were on them. “Always good to know the Clave has a well-thought-out and reliable plan.” For a moment she regretted her words, remembering that Robert Lightwood was the new Inquisitor. A small force, scattered—they don’t want to believe he’s really a threat. She hadn’t dreamed much since they’d come back from the Burren with Jace’s veins full of fire, but when she did have nightmares, they were about her brother. “I heard Mom say that the warlocks of the Spiral Labyrinth have been looking for a way to reverse the effects of the Infernal Cup,” said Isabelle. The bodies of the Dark Shadowhunters killed at the Burren had been brought back to the Bone City for the Silent Brothers to examine. Isabelle found her voice again: “And the Iron Sisters are churning out weapons. In the days immediately following the battle at the Burren, when the fire had raged through Jace’s veins violently enough to make him scream sometimes with the pain, the Silent Brothers had examined him over and over, had tested him with ice and flame, with blessed metal and cold iron, trying to see if there was some way to draw the fire out of him, to contain it. The fire of Glorious, having once been captured in a blade, seemed in no hurry to inhabit another, or indeed to leave Jace’s body for any kind of vessel. Brother Zachariah had told Clary that in the earliest days of Shadowhunters, the Nephilim had sought to capture heavenly fire in a weapon, something that could be wielded against demons. They had never managed it, and eventually seraph blades had become their weapons of choice. Glorious’s fire lay curled in Jace’s veins like a serpent, and the best he could hope for was to control it so that it didn’t destroy him. The loud beep of a text message sounded; Isabelle had flicked on her phone again. you know, Christmas?” She thought back suddenly to the rather distressing Thanksgiving dinner at Luke’s when Jace, on being asked to carve the turkey, had laid into the bird with a sword until there had been little left but turkey flakes. I think Shadowhunters got annoyed with being left out of all the mundane celebrations, though, so a lot of Institutes have Christmas parties. Of course they didn’t want to celebrate Christmas after losing Max. Jace sighed, and kissed Clary—a quick good-bye brush of lips against her temple, but it made her shiver. Not being able to touch Jace or kiss him properly was starting to make her jump out of her own skin. The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmastime. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. It threw its shadow across them when she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store. Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. Even though, as Clary had pointed out, Jace was probably the safest boyfriend in the world since he was pretty much banned from (1) getting angry, (2) making sexual advances, and (3) doing anything that would produce an adrenaline rush. On the other hand, he had been possessed; she and her mother had both watched while he’d stood by and let Sebastian attack Luke. “There is so much in this store I can picture Magnus wanting,” Simon said, picking up a glass bottle of body glitter suspended in some kind of oil. “Alec remembers my name,” said Simon, and he set the bottle back down. “You’ve waited a long time to make your move, Fray, I’ll say that for you.”. Clary didn’t bother with a smart retort; she was still thinking of what Simon had said about forgiveness, and remembering someone else, someone else’s voice and face and eyes. “Do you really think Isabelle wants to smell like a dried fruit plate?”. “I don’t like the thought of you going away.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. And besides, how long would it take everyone at school to notice they were getting older but I wasn’t? “I would have gotten you pencils usually, art supplies, but you don’t draw anymore, do you, except with your stele? “I haven’t heard anything from the Dumort bunch since Maureen took over from Camille. Before Clary could answer, she heard someone call out her name; thoroughly puzzled, she looked over and saw her mother shoving her way through a crowd of shoppers. In his flannel shirt he looked out of place among the stylish New Yorkers. Breaking free of the crowd, Jocelyn caught up to them and threw her arms around Clary. Clary felt a sudden cold wash through her veins, as if she’d swallowed icy water. Jace used an Open rune to get in through the front door, took the stairs two at a time, and buzzed Magnus’s apartment bell. Two more long buzzes, and Magnus finally yanked the door open, looking furious. You must be the—what, fourth?—of you lot to bother me.” Magnus counted off on his long fingers. “I don’t have a relationship with Alec,” said Magnus flatly, but Jace had already shouldered past him and was in his living room, looking around curiously. One of the things Jace had always secretly liked about Magnus’s apartment was that it rarely looked the same way twice. Sometimes it looked like a French bordello, or a Victorian opium den, or the inside of a spaceship. Stacks of old Chinese food cartons littered the coffee table. Chairman Meow lay on the rag rug, all four legs sticking straight out in front of him like a dead deer. “That’s the Chinese food.” Magnus threw himself onto the sofa and stretched out his long legs. “Oh, he won’t sneak around behind my back with one of my exes planning to shorten my life again? “He won’t lie to you or mislead you or hide things from you or whatever it is you’re actually upset about.” He threw himself into a wingback leather chair and raised an eyebrow. “What do I care?” Jace said, so loudly that Chairman Meow sat bolt upright as if he’d been shocked. “I care about Alec,” Jace said, fixing Magnus with an unswerving gaze. “Don’t you ever think,” Magnus mused, pulling at a bit of peeling fingernail polish, “that the whole parabatai business is rather cruel? And though your parabatai is the closest person in the world to you in some ways, you can’t fall in love with them. All fragile nobility and humanity on one side, and all the thoughtless fire of angels on the other.” His eyes flicked toward Jace. Most people are afraid of you, or they seem to owe you something or you slept with them once, but friends—I don’t see you having a lot of those.”. “If you mean do I suddenly feel compelled to get back together with Alec, no,” said Magnus. “If I wanted to lie on a couch and complain to someone about my parents, I’d hire a psychiatrist.”. “I’m going to take a nap.” He reached out for a crumpled blanket lying on the floor, just as Jace’s phone rang. Magnus watched, arrested midmotion, as Jace dug around in his pocket and flipped the phone open. “Come back,” Isabelle said, and Jace sat up straight, the pillow tumbling to the floor. He could hear the sharpness in it, like the off notes of a badly tuned piano. He saw golden blood, and white feathers scattered across a marble floor. He remembered the apartment, a knife in his hands, the world at his feet, Sebastian’s grip on his wrist, those fathomless black eyes looking at him with dark amusement. There were dozens of unfamiliar coats and jackets hanging in the entryway of the Institute. Clary felt the tight buzzing of tension in her shoulders as she unzipped her own wool coat and hung it on one of the hooks that lined the walls. Jocelyn had unwound a long gray scarf from around her neck, and barely looked as Luke took it from her to drape it on a hook. Her green eyes were darting around the room, taking in the gate of the elevator, the arched ceiling overhead, the faded murals of men and angels. “It’s the ‘we’ part that concerns me.” Jocelyn wound her hair up into a knot at the back of her head, and secured it with her fingers. She hadn’t seen her brother since the fight at the Burren, but she carried him in some small part of her mind, an intrusive, unwelcome ghost. Someone had pushed back all the furniture in the library, clearing a large space in the middle of the room, just atop the mosaic of the Angel. A massive table had been placed there, a huge slab of marble balanced on top of two kneeling stone angels. Some members, like Kadir and Maryse, Clary knew by name. Maryse was standing, ticking off names on her fingers as she chanted aloud. Maryse looked startled, as if she hadn’t realized Jocelyn had come in. She looked drawn and exhausted, her hair scraped back severely, a stain—red wine or blood?—on the sleeve of her tailored jacket. “Helen,” said Alec, and Clary thought of the girl who had fought with them against Sebastian at the Burren. She remembered her in the nave of the Institute, a dark-haired boy clinging to her wrist. “Aline’s girlfriend,” Clary blurted out, and saw the Conclave look at her with thinly veiled hostility. Would you?” Jocelyn’s eyes met Maryse’s, and Clary wondered if this was how it had been when they’d both been in the Circle, the sharp edges of their personalities rubbing up against each other, causing sparks. He was flushed with the cold, bareheaded, fair hair tousled by the wind. His hands were gloveless, red at the tips from the weather, scarred with Marks new and old. He saw Clary and gave her a quick smile before settling into a chair propped against the wall. Her heart was pounding, sick in her chest; yet at the same time there was a strange sense of relief. “The Clave has called for immediate evacuation,” said Maryse, and at that, everyone went silent, even Jace. Some of her usual imperious air was back, her mouth a thin line, her jaw set with determination. Cassandra Clare is the #1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of Lord of Shadows and Lady Midnight , as well as the internationally bestselling Mortal Instruments series and Infernal Devices trilogy. She is the coauthor of The Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy with Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson, and Robin Wasserman, as well as The Shadowhunter’s Codex, which she cowrote with her husband, Joshua Lewis. Her books have more than 50 million copies in print worldwide and have been translated into more than thirty-five languages, a feature film, and a TV show, Shadowhunters , currently airing on Freeform.

All six books in the #1 New York Times bestselling Mortal Instruments series, now available in a collectible paperback boxed set. She is the coauthor of The Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy with Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson, and Robin Wasserman, as well as The Shadowhunter’s Codex, which she cowrote with her husband, Joshua Lewis.

All six books in the #1 New York Times bestselling Mortal Instruments series, now available in a collectible paperback boxed set. She is the coauthor of The Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy with Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson, and Robin Wasserman, as well as The Shadowhunter’s Codex, which she cowrote with her husband, Joshua Lewis.

Perfect for fans of Lord of the Rings, the New York Times bestselling Inheritance Cycle about the dragon rider Eragon has sold over 35 million copies and is an international fantasy sensation. Gifted with only an ancient sword, a loyal dragon, and sage advice from an old storyteller, Eragon is soon swept into a dangerous tapestry of magic, glory, and power. A #1 New York Times Bestseller. A #1 Publishers Weekly Bestseller. A Wall Street Journal Bestseller. A Book Sense Bestseller.

The Angel Experiment (Maximum Ride #1) School's Out--Forever (Maximum Ride #2) Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports (Maximum Ride #3). He is the author of the Alex Cross novels , the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider .

Harry must allow Professor Snape to teach him how to protect himself from Voldemort's savage assaults on his mind. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is currently the featured read in Pottermore’s Wizarding World Book Club. As his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry approaches, 15-year-old Harry Potter is in full-blown adolescence, complete with regular outbursts of rage, a nearly debilitating crush, and the blooming of a powerful sense of rebellion. Somehow, over the summer, gossip (usually traced back to the magic world's newspaper, the Daily Prophet ) has turned Harry's tragic and heroic encounter with Voldemort at the Triwizard Tournament into an excuse to ridicule and discount the teen. With an overwhelming course load as the fifth years prepare for their Ordinary Wizarding Levels examinations (O.W.Ls), devastating changes in the Gryffindor Quidditch team lineup, vivid dreams about long hallways and closed doors, and increasing pain in his lightning-shaped scar, Harry's resilience is sorely tested. The head of the Ministry of Magic is determined to discredit Dumbledore and undermine his leadership of Hogwarts, and he appoints nasty, pink-cardigan-clad Professor Umbridge as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and High Inquisitor of the school, bringing misery upon staff and students alike. There are a lot of secret doings, a little romance, and very little Quidditch or Hagrid (more reasons for Harry's gloom), but the power of this book comes from the young magician's struggles with his emotions and identity.

Then, on Harry's eleventh birthday, a great beetle-eyed giant of a man called Rubeus Hagrid bursts in with some astonishing news: Harry Potter is a wizard, and he has a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He is left only with a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, curiously refined sensibilities, and a host of mysterious powers to remind him that he's quite, yes, altogether different from his aunt, uncle, and spoiled, piglike cousin Dudley. Of course, Uncle Vernon yells most unpleasantly, "I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" So far it has won the National Book Award, the Smarties Prize, the Children's Book Award, and is short-listed for the Carnegie Medal, the U.K. version of the Newbery Medal. After 11 years of disregard and neglect at the hands of his aunt, uncle and their swinish son Dudley, Harry suddenly receives a visit from a giant named Hagrid, who informs Harry that his mother and father were a witch and a wizard, and that he is to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry himself.

Then, on Harry's eleventh birthday, a great beetle-eyed giant of a man called Rubeus Hagrid bursts in with some astonishing news: Harry Potter is a wizard, and he has a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He is left only with a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, curiously refined sensibilities, and a host of mysterious powers to remind him that he's quite, yes, altogether different from his aunt, uncle, and spoiled, piglike cousin Dudley. Of course, Uncle Vernon yells most unpleasantly, "I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" So far it has won the National Book Award, the Smarties Prize, the Children's Book Award, and is short-listed for the Carnegie Medal, the U.K. version of the Newbery Medal. After 11 years of disregard and neglect at the hands of his aunt, uncle and their swinish son Dudley, Harry suddenly receives a visit from a giant named Hagrid, who informs Harry that his mother and father were a witch and a wizard, and that he is to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry himself.

All six books in the #1 New York Times bestselling Mortal Instruments series, now available in a collectible paperback boxed set. She is the coauthor of The Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy with Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson, and Robin Wasserman, as well as The Shadowhunter’s Codex, which she cowrote with her husband, Joshua Lewis.

All five books in the Heroes of Olympus series -- in a paperback boxed set of heroic proportions. "Fans won't be disappointed as the cliff-hanger ending from the previous book, The Mark of Athena , leads to further exciting adventures by the intrepid demigods. PRAISE FOR THE MARK OF ATHENA. PRAISE FOR THE BLOOD OF OLYMPUS.

The highly anticipated, entirely new coming-of-age story for the world's greatest super hero: WONDER WOMAN by the # 1 New York Times bestselling author LEIGH BARDUGO. But when the opportunity finally comes, she throws away her chance at glory and breaks Amazon law—risking exile—to save a mere mortal. Even worse, Alia Keralis is no ordinary girl and with this single brave act, Diana may have doomed the world. When a bomb detonates aboard her ship, Alia is rescued by a mysterious girl of extraordinary strength and forced to confront a horrible truth: Alia is a Warbringer—a direct descendant of the infamous Helen of Troy, fated to bring about an age of bloodshed and misery. — The Bulletin "Bardugo breathes zippy new life into the story with a twisty plot, whip-smart characters, and her trademark masterful writing." " Cinematic battles and a race against time keep the excitement high, but the focus on girls looking out for each other is what makes this tie-in shine. Alia taps into her own bravery and Diana learns about sexism, racism and something the Amazons have always dismissed: the courage, resilience and ingenuity of mere mortals."

See where the futuristic YA fairytale saga all began, with the tale of a teenage cyborg who must fight for Earth's survival against villains from outer space. But when her life becomes intertwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she suddenly finds herself at the center of an intergalactic struggle, and a forbidden attraction. Caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal, she must uncover secrets about her past in order to protect her world's future. “This series opener and debut offers a high coolness factor by rewriting Cinderella as a kickass mechanic in a plague-ridden future.” ― Kirkus Reviews on Cinder. “First in the Lunar Chronicles series, this futuristic twist on Cinderella retains just enough of the original that readers will enjoy spotting the subtle similarities. But debut author Meyer's brilliance is in sending the story into an entirely new, utterly thrilling dimension .” ― Publishers Weekly, starred review for Cinder. “Singing mice and glass slippers are replaced with snarky androids and mechanical feet in this richly imagined and darkly subversive retelling of ‘Cinderella. Marissa didn't actually go to Stadium High School, but she did attend Pacific Lutheran University, where she earned her bachelor's degree in Creative Writing.