Izzy. My sister. She told me you liked me. Liked me, liked me.”“Liked you, liked you?” Magnus buried his grin in the cat’s fur. “Sorry. Are we twelve now? I don’t recall saying anything to Isabelle . . .

But the name Magnus Bane made him think of a towering sort of figure, with huge shoulders and formal purple warlock’s robes, calling down fire and lightning. Not Magnus himself, who was more of a cross between a panther and a demented elf.

Lightwoods,” Magnus said. “They always have to have the last word.

WHO CALLS UPON THE HIGH WARLOCK?