"We are far outnumbered," said Cecily. "Everyone is fighting for their lives--"
"For their lives, but not to win?" Henry asked.
Magnus shook his head. "We cannot win. There is no hope. There are too many of them."
"And Tessa and Will?"
"Will found her," Cecily said. "They are here, in the room."
Henry closed his eyes, breathed in hard, then opened them again. The blue tinge had already begun to fade. "Then we must make a Portal. But first we must get everyone's attention--separate them from the automatons so that we are not all sucked through the Portal to the Institute together. The last thing we need is any of those Infernal Devices winding up in London." He looked at Magnus. "Reach into the pocket of my coat."
As Magnus reached out, Cecily saw that his hand was trembling slightly. Clearly the effort of keeping the protective wall solid around them was beginning to take its toll on him.
He withdrew his hand from Henry's pocket. In it was a small golden box, with no visible hinges or opening.
Henry's words came with difficulty. "Cecily--take it, please. Take it, and throw it. As hard and far as you can."
Magnus handed over the box to Cecily with shaking fingers. It felt warm against her hand, though she could not tell if that was from some heat inside it or simply the result of its having been in Henry's pocket.
She glanced down at Magnus. His face was drawn. "I'm letting the wall down now," he said. "Throw, Cecily."
He raised his hands. Sparks flew; the wall shimmered and vanished. Cecily drew her arm back and threw the box.
For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a dull implosion--a vanishing inward of sound, as if everything in the room were being sucked down an enormous drain. Cecily's ears popped, and she sank to the ground, clapping her hands to the sides of her head. Magnus was also on his knees, and their small group huddled together as what seemed like a massive wind blew through the room.
The wind roared, and joining the sound of the wind was the sound of creaking, tearing metal as the clockwork creatures in the room began to stagger and stumble. Cecily saw Gabriel dart out of the way as an automaton fell at his feet and began spasming, its iron arms and legs flailing as if it were in the throes of a fit. Her eyes darted to Will and the Silent Brother he fought beside, whose hood had fallen back. Even among everything else that was happening, Cecily felt a shock go through her. Brother Zachariah was--Jem. She had known, they had all known, that Jem had gone to the Silent City to become a Silent Brother or die trying, but that he would be well enough to be here now, with them, fighting beside Will as he used to, that he would have the strength ...
There was a crash as a clockwork monster crumpled to the ground between Will and Jem, forcing them to spring apart. The air smelled like the air just before a storm.
"Henry--" Charlotte's hair blew about her face.
Henry's face was tight with pain. "It's--a sort of Pyxis. Meant to detach demon souls from their bodies. Before death. I haven't had time--to perfect it. But it seemed worth trying."
Magnus staggered to his feet. His voice rose over the sound of crumpling metal and the high shrieks of demons. "Come here! All of you! Gather, Shadowhunters!"
Bridget stood her ground, still fighting two automatons whose movements had become jerky and uneven, but the others began to run toward them: Will, Jem, Gabriel ... but Tessa, where was Tessa? Cecily saw Will realize Tessa's absence at the same time that she did; he turned, his hand on Jem's arm, his blue eyes scanning the room. She saw his lips form the word "Tessa," though she could hear nothing over the ever-louder shrieking of the wind, the shuddering of metal--
"Stop."
A bolt of silvery light shot down, like a fork of lightning, from the top of the dome, and exploded through the room like the sparks of a Catherine wheel. The wind stilled and stopped, leaving the room filled with a ringing silence.
Cecily looked up. On the gallery halfway up the dome stood a man in a well-cut dark suit, a man she recognized instantly.
It was Mortmain.
"Stop."
The voice echoed through the room, sending chills through Tessa's veins. Mortmain. She knew his speech, his voice, even though she could see nothing past the stone pillar that hid the alcove Armaros had dragged her into. The demon automaton had kept a tight hold on her, even as a dull explosion had rocked the room, followed by a biting, vicious wind that had blown past their alcove, leaving them untouched.
Silence had fallen now, and Tessa wanted desperately to tear away from the metal arms that held her, to run into the room and see if any of her friends, those she loved, had been harmed, even killed. But struggling against him was like struggling against a wall. She kicked out anyway, just as Mortmain's voice rang through the room again:
"Where is Miss Gray? Bring her to me."
Armaros made a rumbling noise, and lurched into motion. Lifting Tessa by the arms, he carried her from the alcove into the main room.
It was a scene of chaos. The automatons stood frozen, looking up at their master. Many were crumpled on the ground, or hacked into pieces. The floor was slippery with a mixture of blood and oil.
In the center of the room, in a circle, stood the Shadowhunters and their companions. Cyril was kneeling upon the ground, a torn piece of bloody bandage wrapped around his leg. Near him was Henry, half-sitting and half-lying down in Charlotte's arms. He was pale, so pale.... Tessa's eyes met Will's as he raised his head and saw her. A look of dismay passed over his face, and he started forward. Jem seized his sleeve. His eyes were on Tessa too; they were wide and dark and full of horror.
She looked away from both of them, away and up at Mortmain. He stood at the railing of the gallery above them, like a preacher at a pulpit, and smirked down. "Miss Gray," he said. "So good of you to join us."
She spat, tasting blood in her mouth where the automaton's fingers had raked her cheek.
Mortmain raised an eyebrow. "Set her down," he said to Armaros. "Keep your hands on her shoulders."
The demon obeyed with a low chuckle. As soon as Tessa's boots touched the ground, she straightened her spine, raising her chin and glaring viciously at Mortmain. "It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding day," she said.
"Indeed," Mortmain said. "But bad luck for whom?"
Tessa did not look around. The sight of so many automatons, and the ragtag band of Shadowhunters who were all that stood before them, was too painful. "The Nephilim have already entered your fortress," she said. "There will be others behind them. They will swarm your automatons and destroy them. Surrender now, and perhaps you will keep your life."
Mortmain threw his head back and laughed. "Brava, madam," he said. "You stand there surrounded by defeat, and demand my surrender."
"We are not defeated--," Will began, and Mortmain hissed out a breath through his teeth, audible in the echoing room. As one, all the automatons in the room snapped their heads toward Will--a terrifying synchronicity.
"Not a word from you, Nephilim," Mortmain said. "The next time one of you speaks will be the last time you ever draw breath."
"Let them go," Tessa said. "This is nothing to do with them. Let them go, and keep me."
"You bargain with nothing in your hands," Mortmain said. "You are wrong if you think other Shadowhunters are coming to help you. At this very moment a significant part of my army is cutting your Council to pieces." Tessa heard Charlotte gasp, a short, stifled noise. "Clever of the Nephilim to handily assemble themselves all in one place, that I might wipe them out in one fell swoop."
"Please," Tessa said. "Turn your hand from them. Your grievances against the Nephilim are just. But if they are all dead, who will be lessoned by your vengeance? Who will atone? If there is no one to learn from the past, there is no one to carry on its lessons. Let them live. Let them carry your teachings into the future. They can be your legacy."
He nodded thoughtfully, as though he were weighing her words. "I will spare them--I will keep them here, as our priso
ners. Their captivity will keep you pleasant, and it will keep you obedient"--his voice hardened--"because you love them, and if you ever even try to escape, I will kill them all." He paused. "What do you say, Miss Gray? I have been generous, and now I am owed thanks."
The only sound in the room was the creak of the automatons and Tessa's own blood pounding in her ears. She realized now what Mrs. Black had meant by her words in the carriage. And the more knowledge of them you have, the more your sympathies lie with them, the more effective a weapon you will be to raze them to the ground. Tessa had become one of the Shadowhunters, if not entirely like them. She cared for them and loved them, and Mortmain would use that caring and that love to force her hand. In saving the few she loved, she would doom them all. And yet to condemn Will and Jem, Charlotte and Henry, Cecily and the others to death was unthinkable.
"Yes." She heard Jem--or was it Will--make a muffled sound. "Yes, I will take that bargain." She looked up. "Tell the demon to let me go, and I will come up to you."
She saw Mortmain's eyes narrow. "No," he said. "Armaros, bring her to me."
The demon's hands tightened on her arms; Tessa bit her lip with the pain. As if in sympathy, the clockwork angel at her throat twitched.
Few can claim a single angel who guards them. But you can.
Her hand went to her throat. The angel seemed to thrum under her fingers, as if it were breathing, as if it were trying to communicate something to her. Her hand tightened on it, the points of the wings cutting into her palm. She thought of her dream.
Is this what you look like?
You see here only a fraction of what I am. In my true form I am deadly glory.
Armaros's hands closed on Tessa's arms.
Your clockwork angel contains within it a bit of the spirit of an angel, Mortmain had said. She thought of the white star mark the clockwork angel had left on Will's shoulder. She thought of the smooth, beautiful, unmoving face of the angel, the cool hands that had held her as she had fallen from Mrs. Black's carriage toward the churning water below.
The demon began to lift her.
Tessa thought of her dream.
She took a deep breath. She did not know if what she was about to do was even possible, or simply madness. As Armaros raised her with his hands, she closed her eyes, reaching out with her mind, reaching into the clockwork angel. She tumbled for a moment through dark space, and then a gray limbo, seeking that light, that spark of spirit, that life--
And there it was, a sudden blaze, a bonfire, brighter than any spark she had ever seen before. She reached for it, wrapping it about herself, coils of white fire that burned and scorched her skin. She screamed aloud--
And Changed.
White fire blasted through her veins. She shot upward, her gear ripping and tearing and falling away, light blazing all around her. She was fire. She was a falling star. Armaros's arms were torn from her body--soundlessly he melted and dissolved, scorched by the heavenly fire that blazed through Tessa.
She was flying--flying upward. No, she was rising, growing. Her bones stretched and elongated, a lattice being pulled outward and upward as she grew impossibly. Her skin had turned gold, and it stretched and tore as she hurtled upward like the bean stalk from the old fairy tale, and where her skin tore, golden ichor leaked from the wounds. Curls like shavings of hot white metal sprang from her head, surrounding her face. And from her back burst wings--massive wings, greater than any bird's.
She supposed that she should be terrified. Glancing down, she saw the Shadowhunters staring up at her, their mouths open. The whole room was filled with blinding light, light that poured from her. She had become Ithuriel. The divine fire of angels was blazing through her, scorching her bones, searing her eyes. But she felt only a steely calm.
She stood twenty feet high now. She was eye to eye with Mortmain, who was frozen with terror, his hands gripping the railing of the balcony. The clockwork angel, after all, had been his gift to her mother. He must never have imagined that it would ever be put to this use.
"It's not possible," he said hoarsely. "Not possible--"
You have entrapped an angel of Heaven, Tessa said, though it was not her voice speaking but Ithuriel's speaking through her. His voice echoed through her body like the ringing of a gong. Distantly she wondered if her heart was beating--did angels have hearts? Would this kill her? If it did, it was worth it. You have tried to create life. Life is the province of Heaven. And Heaven does not take kindly to usurpers.
Mortmain turned to run. But he was slow, as all humans were slow. Tessa reached out her hand, Ithuriel's hand, and closed it about him as he ran, lifting him off his feet. He screamed as the angel's grip scorched him. He was writhing, already burning, as Tessa tightened her grip, crushing his body to a jelly of scarlet blood and white bones.
She opened her fingers. Mortmain's crushed body fell, crashing to the ground among his own automatons. There was a shuddering, a great creaking scream of metal as of a building collapsing, and the automatons began to fall, one by one, crumpling to the ground, lifeless without their Magister to animate them. A garden of metal flowers, withering and dying one by one, and the Shadowhunters stood in the center of them, looking about themselves in wonder.
And then Tessa realized that she did still have a heart, for it leaped in joy to see them alive and safe. Yet even as she reached for them with her golden hands--one stained with scarlet now, Mortmain's blood mixing with Ithuriel's golden ichor--they shrank back from the blaze of light around her. No, no, she wanted to say, I would never hurt you, but the words would not come. She could not speak; the burning was too great. She struggled to find her way back to herself, to Change into Tessa again, but she was lost in the blaze of the fire, as if she had fallen into the heart of the sun. An agony of flames exploded through her, and she felt herself begin to fall, the clockwork angel a red-hot lariat about her throat. Please, she thought, but everything was fire and burning, and she fell, senseless, into the light.
22
THUNDER IN THE TRUMPET
For till the thunder in the trumpet be,
Soul may divide from body, but not we
One from another
--Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Laus Veneris"
Clockwork creatures clawed at Tessa out of black mists. Fire ran through her veins, and when she looked down, her skin was cracked and blistering, golden ichor running in sheets down her arms. She saw the endless fields of Heaven, saw a sky constantly on fire with a blaze that would have blinded any human. She saw silver clouds with edges like razors, and felt the icy emptiness that hollowed the hearts of angels.
"Tessa." It was Will; she would have known his speech anywhere. "Tessa, wake up, wake up. Tessa, please."
She could hear the pain in his voice and wanted to reach out for him, but as she lifted her arms, the flames rose and charred her fingers. Her hands turned to ash and blew away on the hot wind.
Tessa tossed on her bed in a delirium of fever and nightmares. The sheets, twisted around her, were soaked with sweat, her hair plastered to her temples. Her skin, always pale, was near-translucent, showing the mapping of veins beneath her skin, the shape of her bones. Her clockwork angel was at her throat; every once in a while she would catch at it, and then cry out in a lost voice, as if the touch pained her.
"She's in so much agony." Charlotte dipped a cloth in cool water and pressed it to Tessa's burning forehead. The girl made a soft protesting sound at the touch but didn't move to bat Charlotte's hand away. Charlotte would have liked to think it was because the cool cloths were helping, but she knew that it was more likely that Tessa was simply becoming too exhausted. "Isn't there anything more we can do?"
The angel's fire is leaving her body. Brother Enoch, standing at Charlotte's side, spoke in his eerie omnidirectional whisper. It will take the time it takes. She will be free of pain when it is gone.
"But she will live?"
She has survived thus far. The Silent Brother sounded grim. The fire should have k
illed her. It would have killed any normal human. But she is part Shadowhunter and part demon, and she was protected by the angel whose fire she drew on. It shielded her even in those last moments as it blazed up and burned away its own corporeal form.
Charlotte could not help but remember the circular room under Cadair Idris, Tessa stepping forward and transforming from girl into flame, blazing up like a column of fire, her hair turning to tendrils of sparks, the light of it blinding and terrifying. Crouched on the floor by Henry's body, Charlotte had wondered how even angels could burn like that and live.
When the angel had left Tessa, she had collapsed, her clothes hanging in tatters and her skin covered in marks as if she had been scorched. Several Shadowhunters had rushed to her side between the crumpling automatons, though it had been something of a blur to Charlotte--scenes viewed through the wavering lens of her terror over Henry: Will lifting Tessa in his arms; the Magister's stronghold beginning to close itself up behind them, doors slamming closed as they raced through the corridors, Magnus's blue fire lighting them a path to escape. The creation of a second Portal. More Silent Brothers waiting for them at the Institute, scarred hands and scarred faces, shutting out even Charlotte as they closed themselves in with Henry and Tessa. Will turning to Jem, his expression stricken. He had reached out for his parabatai.
"James," he had said. "You can find out--what they're doing to her--if she'll live--"
But Brother Enoch had stepped between them. His name is not James Carstairs, he had said. It is Zachariah now.
Will's look, the way he had lowered his hand. "Let him speak for himself."
But Jem had only turned, turned and walked away from all of them, out of the Institute, Will watching him go in disbelief, and Charlotte had remembered the first time they had ever met: Are you really dying? I am sorry.
It was Will, still looking stunned and disbelieving, who had explained to them all, haltingly, Tessa's story: the function of the clockwork angel, the tale of the ill-fated Starkweathers, and the unorthodox manner of Tessa's conception. Aloysius had been right, Charlotte reflected. Tessa was his great-granddaughter. A descendant he would never know, for he had been slain in the Council massacre.
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