There might be a God, Clary, and there might not, but I don't think it matters. Either way, we're on our own. - Cassandra Clare

"Magnus, standing by the door, snapped his fingers impatiently. "Move it along, teenagers. The only person who gets to canoodle in my bedroom is my magnificent self."
"Canoodle?" repeated Clary, never having heard the word before.
"Magnificent?" repeated Jace, who was just being nasty. Magnus growled. The growl sounded like "Get out.

Faeries have no sense of humor."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. There's a pixie nightclub downtown called Hot Wings. Not that I have ever been there.

I did not make a pie,” Alec repeated, gesturing expressively with one hand, “for three reasons. One, because I do not have any pie ingredients. Two, because I don’t actually
know how to make a pie.”
He paused, clearly waiting.
Removing his sword and leaning it against the cave wall, Jace said warily, “And three?”
“Because I am not your bitch,” Alec said, clearly pleased with himself.