“There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for someone to ride up and rescue her. Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.”

“Isabella with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.”

“Isabelle," she said, lightening her tone with an obvious effort, "your loyalty to your friend is understandable --""He's not my friend." Isabelle looked over at Jace, who was staring at her in a sort of daze. "He's my brother.”

“He leaned against the door frame, ignoring the kick of adrenaline the sight of her produced. He wondered why, not for the first time. Isabelle used her beauty like she used her whip, but Clary didn't know she was beautiful at all. Maybe that was why.”

“They also said she was unconscious and that Valentine wasn’t happy about it. He seems to be waiting for her to wake up.”“I’d stay unconscious if I were her,” Isabelle muttered.”

“Damnit.' Isabelle, standing in the mouth of the alley, her wet black hair like a cloak around her shoulders, kicked a trash can out of her way and glowered. 'Oh, for goodness's sake,' she said. 'I can't believe you two. Why? What's wrong with bedrooms? And pivacy?”

“Isabelle's clothes looked ridiculous. Clary had to roll the legs on the jeans up several times before she stopped tripping on them, and the plunging neckline of the red tank top only emphasized her lack of what Eric would have called a "rack.”