The Mortal Instruments

δεν ειναι πολυ δυσκολα στα αγγλικα αφου ηδη ξερεις τους ορους...μπορεις απλα να το ξεκινησεις κι οσο το πας

A Question of Power
“Tell me more,” Alec said, pacing up and down the concrete floor of the abandoned subway station at City Hall. “I need to know.”
Camille looked at the boy in front of her. She was lounging on the scarlet divan she had furnished the small space with; it had a soft velvet nap, though was worn in places. Not the finest furnishing she had ever known; and a transit station below Manhattan hardly matched up to her studio in Paris, her townhouse in Amsterdam, or the great manor house by the river near St Petersburg that she recalled now only as a dim memory. “Know more about what?” she demanded, though she knew perfectly well the answer.
“About Magnus,” said Alec. He held a witchlight stone in his hand, carelessly, as if he had forgotten it was there. So typical of the Nephilim, who took for granted their angel-granted powers and the magic that ran in their blood. The stone cast its light upward, showing clearly the planes and angles of Alec’s face. “He won’t speak to me about his past, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not knowing.”
She looked at the boy. He was pale as milk, his blue eyes startling against so much white skin and the darkness of his hair and eyelashes. He was long-legged, slender as a willow branch, but strong: a very pretty boy, even to her, who looked at human beings and saw mortality and rot.
“You may have to stand it,” she said, trying to keep the boredom out of her voice. “If Magnus has not shared his secrets with you yet, he may choose never to do so. So you have have him and his secrets, or not have him at all.”
Alec whirled. “But he shared his secrets with you.”
She shrugged lightly. “We knew each other a long time. I had a long time to give.” She smiled, feeling the sharp kiss of her fang teeth against her lower lip. She was hungry. She thought about the boy, the pulse in his neck that beat more quickly as he spoke, the widening of his eyes. She wondered if he would cry. Human tears were salt, like their blood.
But he didn’t cry. His expression hardened, and she saw a flicker of his ancestors in the set of his jaw. “Who is his father?”
She let her head fall back against the divan. “And why should I tell you?”
“Because you want me to kill Raphael,” he said. “And because I could make life very unpleasant for you if I want to.” He raised the witchlight, and its cold white rays spread through the room. So he had remembered it after all.
She straightened up, pushing her hair back. “This is the last time, Alexander. After this I will not say another word until you come to me with Raphael’s blood on your hands and his heart strung on a chain for me to wear.”
Alec swallowed. “Tell me. Where he was born. Who his father is.”
“You would call it Indonesia,” said Camille, “but to us it was the Dutch East Indies. Magnus’ mother was of mixed blood — a white father and an Indonesian mother. His father was a Prince of Hell. You know the Princes of Hell, angel boy?”
Alec’s winter-pale skin went even paler. “Of course I do,” he said, stiffly. “I am a Shadowhunter. But they are … mythic. The greatest angels of Heaven became the greatest princes in Hell. And the greatest of them all is … Lucifer.” He sucked in a breath. “You aren’t saying …”
Camille pealed with laughter. “That Magnus’ father is the Light-Bringer? The Morning Star? Certainly not!”
“But he is a Prince of Hell.”
“You will have to ask Magnus that yourself,” said Camille, playing with a tassel on the end of the couch arm.
“Maybe he never told you,” Alec said. “Did he love you enough to tell you? Did you love him?”a
“He loved me,” said Camille, thoughtfully. “I did not love him. I was fond of him. But I never loved him. Not like that.” She shifted irritably. “I grow tired of telling you things, little Shadowhunter, especially when you have been of so little use to me.”
Alec’s cheeks flushed the color of pale carnations. Camille could tell by the tension in his slender body that he was holding back both anger and shame: he needed her, she thought with satisfaction, needed her to satisfy the curiosity that consumed him, fed by fear. His need of her was like blood.
“One last thing,” he said, in a low voice. “One last thing, and I will leave you alone.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Am I different?” Alec said. “Is there any way he loves me that is different than the ways he’s loved before?”
She let her lips curl into a slow smile. “The answer to that question, Alexander, will cost you.”
“Cost me what? What more?”
There was pain in his voice.
“Blood,” she said.
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, in an incredulous tone, he said: “You want to drink my blood?”
She chuckled. “Do you know how long it has been since I drank from a willing human? And Shadowhunter blood has a special quality. Not all of you are like your Jace, of course, carrying daylight in your veins. But still — a vintage of unusual quality.”
The flush in his cheeks deepened. He stared at her as she lay back against the velvet, half-closing her eyes. She knew her beauty could not warm or tempt him, but it did not matter. Beauty was power, but there were other kinds of power.
This close to Alec, she could smell his scent: sandalwood cologne, winter chill, the salt tang of human fear. And they were human, Shadowhunters. Underneath it all, still human, prey to human emotions, human weaknesses, and human fears, for all that they believed that they were special.
“Very well,” he said. “Just this once.”
She watched through half-lidded eyes that hid her triumph, the slight trembling in his fingers as he reached for the button that fastened the shirt cuff at his left wrist and flicked it open, then offered her his bare and unprotected skin.

Αχ μωρε αυτος ο Αλεκ ειναι ικανος για τα παντα για τον Μαγκνους.Ερωτευτηκε πρωτη φορα και πολυ δυνατα και δεν ξερει πως να το ελενξει και μπλεκει με λαθος ατομα.
Ευχομαι και αυτο το ζευγαρι να καταληξει μαζι.Αυτο ειναι το πιο ουσιαστικο με τους ηρωες της Κλερ ποναμε για ολους και θελουμε ολοι να ειναι ευτυχισμενοι.

Ο καθε χαρακτηρας που δημιουργει αυτη η γυναικα ειναι ξεχωριστος και δεν μπορεις παρα να δεθεις λιγο πολυ με ολους !!!

Θελω να πιστευω πως το ζευγαρακι μας στο τελευταιο βιβλιο θα βρει και αυτο την λυτρωση του !!

Η λυση για αυτους νομιζω πως θα πρεπει να ειναι πολυ πιο δυνατη απο απλα να καταληξουν μαζι...ο Αλεκ δεν νομιζω να γινοταν ποτε αθανατος....αλλα αραγε ο Μαγκνους θα τολμαγε να γινει ποτε θνητος αν εβρισκε τον τροπο...?

Τί λες τώρα???? τί μου το τελειώνει έτσι????? αν και φαντάζομαι τι έγινε!!! που πήγες και έμπλεξες Αλεκ???? και η άλλη μη χάσει!!! έχω κακό προαίσθημα για αυτό το ζευγάρι,τώρα που βλέπω ότι ανέφερε και το Λούσιφερ !!

Bασικα αυτη ηταν η συζητηση που ειχε ο Αλεκ με την Καμιλ κι οταν το εμαθε ο Μαγκνους τον χωρισε...Θα υπαρξουν και τα υπολοιπα κομματια που υπηρχαν στις εδικες εκδοσεις της πολης των χαμενων ψυχων αν και δεν νομιζω να εχει κατι παραπανω απο αυτο σε σχεση με τον Αλεκ.

Α μάλιστα τώρα κατάλαβα!!!! ευχαριστώ.

Τιποτα...

Part Two of City of Lost Souls: Special Content
The alleyway scene in City of Fallen Angels, from Jace’s perspective.
The Act of Falling

“Because I can’t talk to you,” Jace said. “I can’t talk to you, I can’t be with you, I can’t even look at you.” —City of Fallen Angels

Jace will never forget the look on Clary’s face after he says it. Shock at first, blanching into pain.
He has hurt her before, never because he wanted to, though he had lashed out in his own blindness. The time she walked in on him kissing Aline and he said every awful thing he could think of as if the mere words themselves might have the power to make her disappear, to send her back where she was safe.
He has always cared more about whether she was safe than anything else. If he didn’t, none of this would be happening. Jace wonders if she can see it in his eyes, that terror, the shards of all those dozens of dreams in which he stabbed her or choked her or drowned her and looked down at his hands afterward, wet with her blood.
She backs up a step. There is something in her face, but it isn’t fear. It’s infinitely worse. She turns, almost tripping in her haste to get away, and rushes out of the club.
For a moment he stands and looks after her. This is exactly what he wanted, a part of his mind screams at him. To drive her away. To keep her safe, away from him.
But the rest of his mind is watching the door slam behind her and seeing the final ruin of all his dreams. It was one thing to push it to this point. It is another to let go forever. Because he knows Clary, and if she goes now, she will not ever come back.
Come back.
Somehow he is outside the club and the rain is pelting down like gunfire. He sees everything in a single sweep, the way he always has, the way he was trained to do. The white van at the curb, the slant of the street as it curves back toward Greenpoint, the dark opening of an alley behind the bar, and Clary at the corner, about to cross the street and walk out of his life forever.
She yanks her arm out of his when he reaches for her, but when he puts his hand against her back she lets him guide her into the alley. His hand slides across her back to her arm as she whirls to face him — and he can see everything around them again: the wet brick wall behind them, the barred windows, the discarded musical equipment soaking in puddles of rainwater.
And Clary is lifting her face, small and pale, her mascara running in glittery streaks beneath her eyes. Her hair looks dark, pasted to her head. She feels both fragile and dangerous in his grasp, a glass explosive.
She jerks her arm away from his. “If you’re planning to apologize, don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.” He tries to protest, to tell her he only wanted to help Simon, but she is shaking her head, her words like stinging missiles: “And you couldn’t tell me? Couldn’t text me a single line letting me know where you were? Oh, wait. You couldn’t, because you still have my goddamned phone. Give it to me.”
He reaches to hand the phone back to her, but he is barely aware of his movements. He wants to say: No, no, no, I couldn’t tell you. I can’t tell you. I can’t say I’m afraid of hurting you even though I don’t want to. I can’t say I’m afraid of becoming my father. Your faith in me is the best thing in my life and I can’t bear to destroy it. “—Forgive me —”
Her face goes white, her lipstick bright against her stark skin. “I don’t even know what you think I’m supposed to forgive you for. Not loving me any more?”
She moves away from him and stumbles, blindly, and he can’t stop himself: he reaches for her. She is delicate and shivering in his arms and they are both soaking wet and he can’t stop. Her mouth is part-open, and be brings his own lips down against hers, tasting lipstick and sweet ginger and Clary.
I love you. He can’t say it, so he tries to tell her with the pressure of his lips and his body and his hands. I love you, I love you. His hands are around her waist, lifting her, and he had forgotten: she isn’t fragile; she is strong. Her fingers are digging into his shoulders, her mouth fierce against his, and his heart is pounding like it’s trying to get free of his body as he sets her down on a broken speaker.
Stop, his mind is telling him. Stop, stop, stop. He forces his hands away from her and places them on the wall, on either side of her head. Only that brings his body closer to hers, and that is a mistake. He can see the pulse slamming in her throat; her lipstick is gone he can’t look away from the carnation-pink of her mouth, flushed from kissing, as she breathes: “Why can’t you talk to me? Why can’t you look at me?”
His heart is pounding as if it wants to leave his body and take up independent residence somewhere else. “Because I love you.”
It is the truth, and an inadequate truth at that, but he feels it punch through him with the force of a lie. Her face softens, her eyes widening. Her hands are against him, small and delicate and careful, and he leans into her, breathing the scent of her under the smell of rainwater. “I don’t care,” he hears himself say. “I’m sick of trying to pretend I can live without you. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you see it’s killing me?”
He is drowning, and it is too late. He reaches for her like an addict reaching hopelessly for the drug he has sworn not to touch again, having decided it is better to burn up in one final blaze than live forever without it.
And the gray world blazes up around him with color as they come together, bodies slamming hard against the wall behind them. The water soaking her dress has made it as slick as motor oil under his fingers. He catches and pulls at her, desire reshaping their bodies with every touch. Her breathing is ragged in his ears, her eyelids half-closed and fluttering. He is touching her skin everywhere he can: her throat, the back of her neck, her collarbones hard under his fingertips, her arms, smooth and slippery. Her hands are on him, too, no shyer than his own, and every touch seems to burn away the rain and the cold.
She is gripping his shoulders when she raises her legs and wraps them around his waist, and he makes a noise he didn’t even know he could make. It is too late to go back now. His hands clench involuntarily, and he feels the fabric of her tights rip under his fingers, and he is touching her bare skin. And their kisses taste like rain. And if he wasn’t falling before, he is falling now.
He thinks of the Fall, of angels tumbling forever in fire, and Icarus, who had flown too close to the sun. He had thought of the agony of the fall, the terror of it, but never that it might be joyful. Lucifer had not wanted to fall, but neither had he wanted to serve, and as Jace gathered Clary close against him, closer than he had ever thought they could be, he wondered if it was only in the act of falling that one could be truly free.

καλέ που τα βρίσκεις;;;

Στο twitter της Cassie...μπαινω καθε μερα ολη μερα...

svsthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Πορωμενη μεχρι θανατου....

Αχ δεν μπορω....ο Τζεις θα με στειλει μια και καλη.
Τον λατρευω!!!!

Aυτος ο Τζεις θα με πεθανει...........

Εντάξει τώρα μπορώ να φύγω απ'το σπίτι με ένα τεράστιο χαμόγελο στα χείλη.Ξεκίνησε ωραία η μέρα!!!

Λοιπόν.... μόλις ξεκίνησα το 3ο βιβλίο και έχω να πω ότι κάτι μου λέει ότι είναι το καλύτερα από τα τρία και ας είμαι μόνο στην αρχή
εδώ η συγγραφέας μας περνάει τα συναισθήματα του Τζες έστω και μέσα από τις ατάκες του και όχι τις σκέψεις του τόσο δυνατά που έχω μείνει κάπως έτσι
τα λόγια του είναι (άραγε υπάρχουν λόγια να το περιγράψεις;;;; μπαααααααα)

όσο αφορά Τζες εναντίων Σαϊμον
έχω κατουρηθεί στα γέλια αφού σταματάω για να πάρω ανάσα πριν συνεχίσω
είναι πραγματικά το κάτι άλλο

H αληθεια ειναι χρυσανθη μου οτι το 3ο ειναι το αγαπημενο μου !!!!! Γινονται παρα πολλα πραγματα και τα συναισθηματα ειναι κυμαινομενα και πολυ εντονα πολλες φορες !!
Ελπιζω να το απολαυσεις !!!!

Οσο για τον Σαιμον δυστηχως δεν εχει ελπιδες..... Ο τζεις ειναι αναντικαταστατος !!!!

καλέ εννοείτε ποιος του δίνει σημασία
πλάκα κάνω απλά δεν με τραβάει σαν άντρας για φίλος μια χαρά μου κάθετε

σε ευχαριστώ Αλεξάνδρα μου

Τιποτα απλα μολις το τελειωσεις επεστρεψε για οτιδηποτε θες να συζητησουμε ....

δεν είμαι του σύνολου γενικότερα θα επανέρχομαι κάθε που θα έχω να πω κάτι

μέχρι στιγμής πάντως δεν με έχει απογοητεύσει

Σπόιλερ:

Αχ Τζεις...σε αυτο το βιβλιο ειναι που με γονατισε....κι εμενα ειναι το αγαπημενο μου.

αρχίζω να καταλαβαίνω το γιατί

σε ποιο σημειο εισαι...?