“[…] Something sharp kissed the base of Kit’s throat. He sucked in air and raised his eyes.
He was staring right at a boy his own age. Ink-black hair and eyes the color of the edge of a knife, eyes that darted away from his as the boy scowled. He had a long, thin, black-clad body and pale skin Marked all over with the runes of the Nephilim.
Kit had never been this close to a Shadowhunter. The boy had one hand on his glowing light – it wasn’t a flashlight or anything electronic; Kit knew magic when he saw it – and the other gripped a dagger whose point rested against Kit’s throat.
Kit had imagined before what he’d do if a Nephilim ever grabbed him. How he’d stomp on their feet, break their bones, snap their wrists, spit in their faces. He did none of those things, thought of none of those things. He looked at the boy with the knife to his throat, the boy whose black eyelashes feathered down against his cheeckbones as he glanced away from Kit, and he felt something like a shock of recognition pass through him.
He thought, How beautiful. […]”