The Infernal Devices Series

by Cassandra Clare

  “I know.” Mortmain looked gray beneath his hat. “That is why I am here. To try to make up for what I’ve done.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” asked Jem, in his clear, strong voice. “And why now?”

  Mortmain looked at Tessa. “Your parents,” he said, “were good, kind people. I have always regretted introducing them to the Shadow World. At the time, I thought it all a delightful game and a bit of a joke. I have learned otherwise since. To assuage that guilt, I will tell you what I know. Even if it means I must flee England to escape de Quincey’s wrath.” He sighed. “Some time ago, de Quincey ordered from me a number of mechanical parts—cogs, cams, gears, and the like. I never asked what he needed them for. One does not inquire such things of the Magister. Only when you Nephilim came to see me did it occur to me that his need for them might be connected to a nefarious purpose. I investigated, and an informant within the club told me that de Quincey intended to build an army of mechanical monsters meant to destroy the ranks of Shadowhunters.” He shook his head. “De Quincey and his ilk may despise Shadowhunters, but I do not. I am only a human man. I know they are all that stand between me and a world in which I and my kind are the playthings of demons. I cannot stand behind what de Quincey is doing.”

  “That is all very well,” Will said, a hint of impatience in his voice, “but you are not telling us anything we do not already know.”

  “Did you also know,” Mortmain said, “that he paid a pair of warlocks called the Dark Sisters to create a binding spell that would animate these creatures not with mechanics but with demonic energies?”

  “We did,” said Jem. “Though I believe there is only one Dark Sister remaining. Will destroyed the other one.”

  “But her sister brought her back via a necromantic charm,” said Mortmain, a hint of triumph in his tone, as if he were relieved to at last have a piece of information that they did not. “Even now the two of them are ensconced in a mansion in Highgate—it used to belong to a warlock, until de Quincey had him killed—working on the binding spell. If my sources are correct, the Dark Sisters will attempt to implement the spell tonight.”

  Will’s blue eyes were dark and thoughtful. “Thank you for the information,” he said, “but de Quincey will soon be no more of a threat to us, or his mechanical monsters, either.”

  Mortmain’s eyes widened. “Is the Clave to move against the Magister? Tonight?”

  “Goodness,” said Will. “You really do know all the terms, don’t you. It’s very disconcerting in a mundane.” He smiled pleasantly.

  “You mean you’re not going to tell me,” said Mortmain ruefully. “I suppose you wouldn’t. But you should know that de Quincey has at his disposal hundreds of those clockwork creatures. An army. The moment the Dark Sisters work their spell, the army will rise and join with de Quincey. If the Enclave is to defeat him, it would be wise to ensure that that army does not rise, or they will be nearly impossible to defeat.”

  “Are you aware of the Dark Sisters’ location, beyond the fact that it is in Highgate?” asked Jem.

  Mortmain nodded. “Most certainly,” he said, and rattled off a street name and house number.

  Will nodded. “Well, we’ll certainly take all this under advisement. Thank you.”

  “Indeed,” said Jem. “Good evening, Mr. Mortmain.”

  “But—” Mortmain looked taken aback. “Are you going to do something about what I’ve told you, or not?”

  “I said we’d take it under advisement,” Will told him. “As for you, Mr. Mortmain, you look like a man with somewhere to be.”

  “What?” Mortmain glanced down at his evening dress, and chuckled. “I suppose so. It’s just—if the Magister finds out that I’ve told you all this, my life could be in danger.”

  “Then perhaps it is time for a holiday,” Jem suggested. “I’ve heard Italy is very pleasant this time of year.”

  Mortmain looked from Will to Jem and back again, and then seemed to give up. His shoulders sagged. He raised his eyes to Tessa. “If you could pass along my apologies to your brother . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” Tessa said, “but thank you, Mr. Mortmain.”

  After a long pause he nodded, then turned away. The three of them watched as he climbed back into his carriage. The sound of the horses’ hooves was loud in the courtyard as the carriage pulled away and rattled through the Institute gates.

  “What are you going to do?” Tessa asked the moment the carriage was out of sight. “About the Dark Sisters?”

  “Go after them, of course.” Will’s color was high, his eyes glittering. “Your brother said de Quincey had dozens of those creatures at his disposal; Mortmain says there are hundreds. If Mortmain’s correct, we must get to the Dark Sisters before they work their spell, or the Enclave may well be walking into a slaughter.”

  “But—perhaps it would be better to warn Henry and Charlotte and the others—”

  “How?” Will managed to make the one word sound cutting. “I suppose we could send Thomas to warn the Enclave, but there is no guarantee he will get there in time, and if the Dark Sisters manage to raise the army, he could simply be killed with the rest. No, we must manage the Dark Sisters on our own. I killed one of them before; Jem and I ought to be able to manage two.”

  “But perhaps Mortmain is wrong,” Tessa said. “You have only his word; he might have faulty information.”

  “He might,” Jem acknowledged, “but can you imagine if he doesn’t? And we ignored him? The consequence to the Enclave could be utter destruction.”

  Tessa, knowing he was right, felt her heart sink. “Maybe I could help. I fought the Dark Sisters with you once before. If I could accompany you—”

  “No,” Will said. “It’s out of the question. We have so little time to prepare that we must rely on our fighting experience. And you have none.”

  “I fought off de Quincey at the party—”

  “I said no.” Will’s tone was final. Tessa looked at Jem, but he gave only an apologetic shrug as if to say that he was sorry but Will was right.

  She turned her gaze back to Will. “But what about Boadicea?”

  For a moment she thought he’d forgotten what he’d said to her in the library. Then the glimmer of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he’d tried to fight it and couldn’t. “You will be Boadicea someday, Tessa,” he said, “but not tonight.” He turned to Jem. “We ought to get Thomas and tell him to ready the carriage. Highgate’s not close; we’d best get started.”

  Full night had descended on the city by the time Will and Jem stood out by the carriage, preparing to depart. Thomas was checking the fastenings on the horses while Will, his stele a white flash in the dimness, scrawled a Mark on Jem’s bare forearm. Tessa, having registered her disapproval, stood on the steps and watched them, a hollow feeling in her stomach.

  After satisfying himself that the harnesses were secure, Thomas turned and ran lightly up the steps, stopping when Tessa raised a hand to halt him. “Are they going now?” she asked. “Is that all?”

  He nodded. “All ready to go, miss.” He had tried to get Jem and Will to take him along, but Will was concerned that Charlotte would be angry at Thomas for participating in their exploit and had told him not to come.

  “Besides,” Will had said, “we ought to have a man in the house—someone to protect the Institute while we’re gone. Nathaniel doesn’t count,” he’d added, with a sideways glance at Tessa, who had ignored him.

  Will slid Jem’s sleeve down, covering the Marks he had made. As he returned his stele to his pocket, Jem stood looking up at him; their faces were pale smudges in the torchlight. Tessa raised her hand, then lowered it slowly. What was it he had said? Shadowhunters don’t say good-bye, not before a battle. Or good luck. You must behave as if return is certain, not a matter of chance.

  The boys, as if alerted by her gesture, looked up toward her. She thought she could see the blue of Will’s eyes, even from where she stood. He wore a strang
e look as their eyes locked, the look of someone who has just woken up and wonders if what they are looking at is real or a dream.

  It was Jem who broke away and ran up the stairs to her. As he reached her, she saw that he had high color in his face, and his eyes were bright and hot. She wondered how much of the drug Will had let him take, so that he would be ready to fight.

  “Tessa—,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean to say good-bye,” she said quickly. “But—it seems odd to let you leave without saying anything at all.”

  He looked at her curiously. He did something that surprised her then, and took her hand, turning it over. She looked down at it, at her bitten fingernails, the still-healing scratches along the backs of her fingers.

  He kissed the back of it, just a light touch of his mouth, and his hair—as soft and light as silk—brushed her wrist as he lowered his head. She felt a shock go through her, strong enough to startle her, and she stood speechless as he straightened, his mouth curving into a smile.

  “Mizpah,” he said.

  She blinked at him, a little dazed. “What?”

  “A sort of good-bye without saying good-bye,” he said. “It is a reference to a passage in the Bible. ‘And Mizpah, for he said, the Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent one from another.’”

  There was no chance for Tessa to say anything in response, for he had turned and run down the steps to join Will, who was as motionless as a statue, his face upturned, at the foot of the steps. His hands, sheathed in black gloves, were in fists at his sides, Tessa thought. But perhaps it was a trick of the light, for when Jem reached him and touched him on the shoulder, he turned with a laugh, and without another look at Tessa, he swung himself up into the driver’s seat, Jem following him. He cracked the whip, and the carriage rattled through the gate, which slammed shut behind it as if pushed by invisible hands. Tessa heard the lock catch, a hard click in the silence, and then the sound of church bells ringing somewhere in the city.

  Sophie and Agatha were waiting in the entryway for Tessa when she came back inside; Agatha was saying something to Sophie, but Sophie didn’t appear to be listening. She looked over at Tessa as she came in, and something about the way she looked, for a moment, reminded Tessa of the way Will had looked at her in the courtyard. But that was ridiculous; there were no two people in the world more unalike than Sophie and Will.

  Tessa stepped aside as Agatha went to close the great, heavy double doors. She had just pushed them shut, panting slightly, when the knob of the leftmost door, untouched, began to turn.

  Sophie frowned. “They can’t be back so soon, can they?”

  Agatha gazed down, perplexed, at the turning knob, her hands still braced against the door—then stood back as the doors swung wide before her.

  A figure stood on the doorstep, backlit by the light outside. For a moment all Tessa could tell was that he was tall and clad in a frayed jacket. Agatha, her head tipping back as she gazed upward, said in a startled voice, “Oh, my Lor’—”

  The figure moved. Light flashed on metal; Agatha screamed and staggered. She seemed to be trying to back away from the stranger, but something was preventing her.

  “Dear God in Heaven,” Sophie whispered. “What is that?”

  For a moment Tessa saw the whole scene frozen, as if it were a painting—the open door, the clockwork automaton, the one with the stripped bare hands, still in the same worn gray jacket. And still, dear God, with Jem’s blood on its hands, dried red-black on the dull gray flesh, and the strips of copper showing through where the skin had been scraped or pulled away. One bloodstained hand gripped Agatha’s wrist; clamped in the other was a long, thin knife. Tessa moved forward, but it was already too late. The creature swung the blade with blinding speed, and buried it in Agatha’s chest.

  Agatha choked, her hands going to the blade. The creature stood, ragged and terrifying and unmoving as she clawed at the knife hilt; then, with appalling swiftness, it yanked the blade back, letting her crumple to the ground. Nor did the automaton remain to watch her fall, but turned and walked back out the door through which it had come.

  Galvanized, Sophie screamed “Agatha!” and ran to her side. Tessa dashed to the door. The clockwork creature was walking down the steps, into the empty courtyard. She stared after it. What on earth had it come for, and why was it leaving now? But there was no time to dwell on that. She reached for the rope of the summoning bell and pulled it, hard. As the sound clanged through the building, she slammed the door shut, dropping the lock bar into place, then turned to help Sophie.

  Together they managed to lift Agatha and half-carry, half-drag her across the room, where they fell to their knees beside her. Sophie, ripping strips of fabric from her white apron and pressing them over Agatha’s wound, said in a tone of wild panic, “I don’t understand, miss. Nothing should be able to touch that door—none but one with Shadowhunter blood should be able to turn the doorknob.”

  But he had Shadowhunter blood, Tessa thought with a sudden horror. Jem’s blood, staining its metal hands like paint. Could that be why it had bent over Jem that night after the bridge? Could that be why it had fled, once it had gotten what it wanted—his blood? And didn’t that mean it could come back whenever it wanted?

  She began to rise to her feet, but it was already too late. The bar that held the door closed cracked with a noise like a gunshot, and tumbled to the ground in two pieces. Sophie looked up and screamed again, though she didn’t move away from Agatha as the door burst open, a window onto the night.

  The steps of the Institute were no longer empty; they were teeming, but not with people. Clockwork monsters swarmed up them, their movements jerky, their faces blank and staring. They were not quite like the ones Tessa had seen before. Some looked as though they had been put together so hastily that they had no faces at all, just smooth ovals of metal patched here and there with uneven bits of human skin. Even more horrible, quite a few of them had bits of machinery in place of arms or legs. One automaton had a scythe where his arm ought to have been; another sported a saw that stuck out of the hanging sleeve of his shirt like a parody of a real arm.

  Tessa rose and flung herself against the open door, trying to heave it shut. It was heavy, and seemed to move agonizingly slowly. Behind her, Sophie was screaming, helplessly, over and over; Agatha was horribly silent. With a ragged gasp Tessa pushed at the door one more time—

  And jerked her hands back as the door was torn out of her grasp, ripped from its hinges like a handful of weeds ripped out of the earth. She fell back as the automaton who had seized the door flung it aside and heaved itself forward, its metal feet clanking against the stone as it lurched over the threshold—followed by another and then another of its mechanical brethren, at least a dozen of them, advancing toward Tessa with their monstrous arms outstretched.

  By the time Will and Jem reached the mansion in Highgate, the moon had begun to rise. Highgate was on a hill in the north part of London, commanding an excellent view of the city below, pale under the moon’s light, which turned the fog and coal smoke that hung over the city into a silvery cloud. A dream city, Will thought, floating in the air. A bit of poetry hung at the edges of his mind, something about the terrible wonder of London, but his nerves were tight with the jangling tension of impending battle, and he could not remember the words.

  The house was a great Georgian pile, set in abundant parkland. A high brick wall ran around it, the slanting dark mansard roof just visible above it from the street. A shiver of cold passed over Will as they drew near it, but he was unsurprised to feel such a thing in Highgate. They were near what Londoners called the Gravel Pit Woods at the city’s edge, where thousands of bodies had been dumped during the Great Plague. Lacking a proper burial, their angry shades haunted the neighborhood even now, and Will had been sent up here more than once, thanks to their activities.

  A black metal gate set into the mansion’s wall kept out intruders, but Jem’s Open rune made short work of the lock.
After leaving the carriage just inside the gate, the two Shadow-hunters found themselves on the curving drive that led up to the house’s front entrance. The path was weed-ridden and overgrown, and the gardens stretched out around it, dotted with crumbling outbuildings and the blackened stumps of dead trees.

  Jem turned to Will, eyes feverish. “Shall we get on with it?”

  Will drew a seraph blade from his belt. “Israfel,” he whispered, and the weapon blazed up like a fork of contained lightning. Seraph blades burned so brightly that Will always expected them to give off heat, but their blades were ice cold to the touch. He remembered Tessa telling him that Hell was cold, and he fought back the odd urge to smile at the memory. They’d been running for their lives, she ought to have been terrified, and there she had been, telling him about the Inferno in precise American tones.

  “Indeed,” he said to Jem. “It’s time.”

  They ascended the front steps and tried the doors. Though Will had expected them to be locked, they were open, and gave way at the touch with a resonant creaking. He and Jem edged inside the house, the light of their seraph blades illuminating the way.

  They found themselves in a grand foyer. The arched windows behind them had probably once been magnificent. Now they alternated whole panes with broken ones. Through the spiderwebbing cracks in the glass, a view of the tangled and overgrown parkland beyond was visible. The marble underfoot was cracked and broken, weeds growing up through it as they had been growing through the stones of the drive. Before Will and Jem, a great curving staircase swept upward, toward the shadowy first floor.

  “This can’t be right,” Jem whispered. “It’s as if no one’s been here in fifty years.”

  Barely had he finished speaking when a sound rose on the night air, a sound that lifted the hairs on Will’s neck and made the Marks on his shoulders burn. It was singing—but not pleasant singing. It was a voice capable of reaching notes no human voice could reach. Overhead, the chandelier’s crystal pendants rattled like wineglasses set to vibrating at the touch of a finger.