“You won’t cut my son’s throat,” said the Unseelie King, gazing down at Julian with a look of disdain. “You’re a Shadowhunter. You have a code of honor.” “You’re thinking of Shadowhunters the way they used to be,” said Julian. “I came of age in the Dark War. I was baptized in blood and fire.” “You are soft,” said the King, “gentle as angels are gentle.” Julian settled the knife more firmly into the curve of Erec’s throat. The faerie prince smelled like fear and blood. “I killed my own father,” he said. “You think I won’t kill your son?”

“It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can’t see who you are. It is better to lead than to follow. It is better to speak up than stay silent. It is better to open doors than to shut them on people.”

And she was his Champion. She was here to fight for him—and for her freedom. And nothing more. He lay down, his hand still upon his sword, and fell asleep.

Still the image haunted his dreams throughout the night. 

“Jules,” Emma said. “Say something, please —” His hands tightened convulsively on her shoulders. She gasped as his body collided with hers, walking her backward until her shoulders hit the wall. She gazed up at him with obvious astonishment; he could see his face reflected in her dark irises. He barely recognized himself, and his voice sounded strange when he spoke, even to his own ears: “Julian,” he said. “I want you to call me Julian. Only ever that.” Her eyes seemed to spark. Her lips moved slowly — her soft, delicious lips, her mouth that he had stared at for what felt like a million years of silent, hopeless wanting. “Julian,” she said, exhaling his name on a breath. The sound of her voice shaping his full name — not the name she’d called him when they were children — sent something hot and dark through his veins. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he took her mouth with a hard, violent desperation that could hardly be called a kiss. Every muscle in his body seemed to contract at once: the kiss filled all his senses, softness, sweetness, the scent of her hair and skin, the sight of her closed eyes, the flutter of her lashes. Emma. His Emma. (x)

“You’re thinking of Shadowhunters the way they used to be,” said Julian. “I came of age in the Dark War. I was baptized in blood and fire.”

—

“You think angels are gentle,” said Julian, “they are anything but. They bring justice in blood and heavenly fire. They take vengeance with fists and iron. Their glory is such it would burn out your eyes if you looked at them. It is a cold and brutal glory.

The ends of her hair had begun to burn, and the tips of his fingers. There was no heat and no pain. Only the fire.