He is a demon, Clarissa, said Valentine, still in the same soft voice. A demon with a man’s face. I know how deceptive such monsters can be. Remember, I spared him once myself.Monster? echoed Clary. She thought of Luke, Luke pushing her on the swings when she was five years old, higher, always higher; Luke at her graduation from middle school, camera clicking away like a proud father’s; Luke sorting through each box of books as it arrived at his store, looking for anything she might like and putting it aside. Luke lifting her up to pull apples down from the trees near his farmhouse. Luke, whose place as her father this man was trying to take. Luke isn’t a monster, she said in a voice that matched Valentine’s, steel for steel. Or a murderer. You are.Clary! It was Jace.Clary ignored him. Her eyes were fixed on her father’s cold black ones. You murdered your wife’s parents, not in battle but in cold blood, she said. And I bet you murdered Michael Wayland and his little boy, too. Threw their bones in with my grandparents’ so that my mother would think you and Jace were dead. Put your necklace around Michael Wayland’s neck before you burned him so everyone would think those bones were yours. After all your talk about the untainted blood of the Clave — you didn’t care at all about their blood or their innocence when you killed them, did you? Slaughtering old people and children in cold blood, that’s monstrous.
Cassandra Clare