Clockwork Angel tid-1

by Cassandra Clare

  "I see." And with that, Will rolled up the paper and slipped it into his jacket. "Much obliged for your help, Magnus."

  Magnus looked faintly puzzled, but his response was courteous: "Of course."

  "I gather you wouldn't be sorry to see de Quincey gone and another vampire in his place," said Will. "Have you actually observed him breaking the Law?"

  "Once. I was invited here to witness one of his 'ceremonies.' As it turned out—" Magnus looked uncharacteristically grim. "Well, let me show you."

  He turned and moved toward the bookshelf that Tessa had been examining earlier, gesturing for them to join him. Will followed, Tessa beside him. Magnus snapped his fingers again, and as blue sparks flew, the illustrated Bible slid to the side, revealing a small hole that had been cut into the wood at the back of the shelf. As Tessa leaned forward in surprise, she saw that it offered a view into an elegant music room. At least, that was what she thought at first, seeing the chairs set up in rows facing the back of the room; it made a sort of theater. Rows of lit candelabras were set up for illumination. Red satin floor-length curtains blocked off the back walls, and the floor was slightly raised, creating a sort of makeshift stage. There was nothing on it but a single chair with a high wooden back.

  Steel manacles were attached to the arms of the chair, glittering like insect carapaces in the candlelight. The wood of the chair was blotched, here and there, with dark red stains. The legs of the chair, Tessa saw, were nailed to the floor.

  "This is where they have their little ... performances," said Magnus, an undertone of distaste in his voice. "They bring out the human and lock him—or her—to the chair. Then they take turns draining their victim slowly, while the crowd watches and applauds."

  "And they enjoy that?" Will said. The disgust in his voice was more than an undertone. "The mundanes' pain? Their fear?"

  "Not all the Night Children are like this," Magnus said quietly. "These are the worst of them."

  "And the victims," said Will, "where do they find them?"

  "Criminals, mostly," said Magnus. "Drunkards, addicts, whores. The forgotten and lost. Those who will not be missed." He looked squarely at Will. "Would you like to elaborate on your plan?"

  "We begin when we see the Law being broken," said Will. "The moment a vampire moves to harm a human, I will signal the Enclave. They'll attack."

  "Really," Magnus said. "How will they get in?"

  "Don't worry about that." Will was unfazed. "Your job is to take Tessa at that point and get her safely out of here. Thomas is waiting outside with the carriage. Bundle yourselves into it and he'll take you back to the Institute."

  "Seems a waste of my talents, assigning me to look after one moderately sized girl," Magnus observed. "Surely you could use me—"

  "This is a Shadowhunter affair," said Will. "We make the Law, and we uphold the Law. The assistance you've given us so far has been invaluable, but we require no more from you."

  Magnus met Tessa's eyes over Will's shoulder; his look was wry. "The proud isolation of the Nephilim. They have use for you when they have use for you, but they cannot bring themselves to share a victory with Downworlders."

  Tessa turned to Will. "You're sending me away as well, before the fighting starts?"

  "I must," said Will. "It would be best for Camille not to be seen to be cooperating with Shadowhunters."

  "That's nonsense," said Tessa. "De Quincey will know I—she—brought you here. He'll know she lied about where she found you. Does she think that after this, the rest of the clan won't know she's a traitor?"

  Somewhere in the back of her head, Camille's soft laughter purred. She did not sound afraid.

  Will and Magnus exchanged a look. "She does not expect," said Magnus, "that a single vampire who is here tonight will survive the evening to accuse her."

  "The dead can tell no tales," said Will softly. The flickering light in the room painted his face in alternating shades of black and gold; the line of his jaw was hard. He looked toward the peephole, eyes narrowing. "Look."

  The three of them jostled to get close to the peephole, through which they saw the pocket doors at one end of the music room slide open. Through them was the large candlelit drawing room; vampires began to stream through the doors, taking their places in the seats before the "stage."

  "It's time," Magnus said softly, and slid the peephole closed.

  * * *

  The music room was nearly full. Tessa, arm in arm with Magnus, watched as Will threaded his way through the crowd, looking for three seats together. He was keeping his head bowed, his eyes on the floor, but even so—

  "They're still looking at him," she said to Magnus under her breath. "At Will, I mean."

  "Of course they are," said Magnus. His eyes reflected light like a cat's as they surveyed the room. "Look at him. The face of a bad angel and eyes like the night sky in Hell. He's very pretty, and vampires like that. I can't say I mind either." Magnus grinned. "Black hair and blue eyes are my favorite combination."

  Tessa reached up to pat Camille's pale blond curls.

  Magnus shrugged. "Nobody's perfect."

  Tessa was spared answering; Will had found a set of chairs together, and was beckoning them over with a gloved hand. She tried not to pay attention to the way the vampires were looking at him as she let Magnus lead her toward the seats. It was true that he was beautiful, but what did they care? Will was just food to them, wasn't he?

  She sat down with Magnus on one side of her and Will on the other, her silk taffeta skirts rustling like leaves in a stiff wind. The room was cool, not like a room crowded with human beings, who would have been giving off body heat. Will's sleeve slid up his arm as he reached to pat the pocket of his waistcoat, and she saw that his arm was dotted with goose bumps. She wondered if the human companions of vampires were always cold.

  A rustle of whispers went through the room, and Tessa tore her eyes from Will. The light of the candelabras did not reach the far recesses of the room; portions of the "stage"—the back of the room—were blotched with shadows, and even Tessa's vampire eyes could not discern what was moving within the darkness until de Quincey appeared suddenly from the shadows.

  The audience was silent. Then de Quincey grinned. It was a manic grin, showing fangs, and it transformed his face. He looked wild and savage now, wolflike. A murmur of hushed appreciation went through the room, the way a human audience might show appreciation for an actor with a particularly good stage presence.

  "Good evening," said de Quincey. "Welcome, friends. Those of you who have joined me here"—and he smiled directly at Tessa, who was too nervous to do anything but stare back—"are proud sons and daughters of the Night Children. We do not bend our necks beneath the oppressive yoke called the Law. We do not answer to Nephilim. Nor shall we abandon our ancient customs at their whim."

  It was impossible not to notice the effect de Quincey's speech was having on Will. He was as taut as a bow, his hands clenched in his lap, the veins standing out in his neck.

  "We have a prisoner," de Quincey went on. "His crime is betraying the Night Children." He swept his gaze across the audience of waiting vampires. "And what is the punishment for such treason?"

  "It is death!" cried a voice, the vampire woman Delilah. She was straining forward in her seat, a terrible eagerness on her face.

  The other vampires took up her cry. "Death! Death!"

  More shadowy forms slipped between the curtains that formed the makeshift stage. Two male vampires, holding between them the struggling form of a human man. A black hood concealed the man's features. All Tessa could see was that he was slender, probably young—and filthy, his fine clothes torn and ragged. His bare feet left bloody smears on the boards as the men dragged him forward and flung him into the chair. A faint gasp of sympathy escaped Tessa's throat; she felt Will tense beside her.

  The man continued to thrash feebly, like an insect on the end of a pin, as the vampires strapped his wrists and ankles to the chair, and then stepped bac
k. De Quincey grinned; his fangs were out. They shone like ivory pins as he surveyed the crowd. Tessa could sense the vampires' restlessness—and more than their restlessness, their hunger. No longer did they resemble a well-bred audience of human theatergoers. They were as avid as lions scenting prey, lurching forward in their chairs, theirs eyes wide and glowing, their mouths open.

  "When can you summon the Enclave?" Tessa said to Will in an urgent whisper.

  Will's voice was tight. "When he draws blood. We must see him do it."

  "Will—"

  "Tessa." He whispered her real name, his fingers gripping hers. "Be quiet."

  Reluctantly Tessa returned her attention to the stage, where de Quincey was approaching the shackled prisoner. He paused by the chair—reached out—and his thin pale fingers brushed the man's shoulder, as light as a spider's touch. The prisoner convulsed, jerking in desperate terror as the vampire's hand slid from his shoulder to his neck. De Quincey laid two white fingers to the man's pulse point, as if he were a doctor checking a patient's heartbeat.

  De Quincey wore a silver ring on one finger, Tessa saw, one side of which sharpened to a needle point that protruded when he tightened his hand into a fist. There was a flash of silver, and the prisoner screamed—the first sound he had made. There was something familiar about the sound.

  A thin line of red appeared on the prisoner's throat, like a loop of red wire. Blood welled and spilled down into the hollow of his collarbone. The prisoner thrashed and struggled as de Quincey, his face now a rictus mask of hunger, reached to touch two fingers to the red liquid. He lifted the stained fingertips to his mouth. The crowd was hissing and moaning, barely able to stay in their seats. Tessa glanced toward the woman in the white-plumed hat. Her mouth was open, her chin wet with drool.

  "Will," Tessa murmured. "Will, please."

  Will glanced past her, at Magnus. "Magnus. Take her out of here."

  Something in Tessa rebelled at the idea of being sent away. "Will, no, I'm all right here—"

  Will's voice was quiet, but his eyes blazed. "We've been over this. Go, or I won't summon the Enclave. Go, or that man will die."

  "Come." It was Magnus, his hand on her elbow, guiding her to stand. Reluctantly she allowed the warlock to draw her to her feet, and then toward the doors. Tessa glanced around anxiously to see if anyone noticed their departure, but no one was looking at them. All attention was riveted on de Quincey and the prisoner, and many vampires were already on their feet, hissing and cheering and making inhuman hungry sounds.

  Among the seething crowd, Will was still seated, leaning forward like a hunting dog yearning to be released from the leash. His left hand slid into his waistcoat pocket, and emerged with something copper held between his fingers.

  The Phosphor.

  Magnus swung the door open behind them. "Hurry."

  Tessa hesitated, looking back at the stage. De Quincey was standing behind the prisoner now. His grinning mouth was smeared with blood. He reached out and took hold of the prisoner's hood.

  Will rose to his feet, the Phosphor held aloft. Magnus swore and pulled at Tessa's arm. She half-turned as if to go with him, then froze as de Quincey whipped off the black hood to reveal the prisoner beneath.

  His face was swollen and bruised with beatings. One of his eyes was black and swelled shut. His blond hair was pasted to his skull with blood and sweat. But none of that mattered; Tessa would have known him anyway, anywhere. She knew now why his cry of pain had sounded so familiar to her.

  It was Nathaniel.

  11

  FEW ARE ANGELS

  We all are men,

  In our own natures frail, and capable

  Of our flesh; few are angels

  —Shakespeare, King Henry VIII

  Tessa screamed.

  Not a human scream but a vampire scream. She barely recognized the sound that came from her own throat—it sounded like shattering glass. Only later did she even realize that she was screaming words. She would have thought she'd cry her brother's name, but she didn't.

  "Will!" she screamed. "Will, now! Do it now!"

  A gasp ran through the room. Dozens of white faces swung toward Tessa. Her scream had broken through their bloodlust. De Quincey was motionless on the stage; even Nathaniel was looking at her, dazed and staring, as if wondering if her screams were a dream born out of his agony.

  Will, his finger on the button of the Phosphor, hesitated. His eyes met Tessa's across the room. It was only for a split second, but de Quincey saw their glance. As if he could read it, the look on his face changed, and he swung his hand up to point directly at Will.

  "The boy," he spat. "Stop him!"

  Will tore his gaze from Tessa's. The vampires were already rising to their feet, moving toward him, their eyes glittering with rage and hunger. Will looked past them, at de Quincey, who was staring at Will with fury. There was no fear on Will's face as his gaze met the vampire's—no hesitation, and no surprise.

  "I am not a boy," he said. "I am Nephilim."

  And he pressed the button.

  Tessa braced herself for a flare of white witchlight. Instead there was a great whoosh of sound as the flames of the candelabras shot toward the ceiling. Sparks flew, scattering the floor with glowing embers, catching in the curtains, in the skirts of women's dresses. Suddenly the room was full of billowing black smoke and screams—high-pitched and horrible.

  Tessa could no longer see Will. She tried to dart forward, but Magnus—she had nearly forgotten he was there—caught her firmly by the wrist. "Miss Gray, no," he said, and when she responded by pulling away harder, he added, "Miss Gray! You're a vampire now! If you catch fire, you'll go up like kindling wood—"

  As if to illustrate his point, at that moment a stray spark landed atop Lady Delilah's white wig. It burst into flames. With a cry she tried to rip it from her head, but as her hands came in contact with the flames, they, too, caught fire as if they were made of paper instead of skin. In less than a second both her arms were burning like torches. Howling, she raced toward the door, but the fire was faster than she was. Within seconds a bonfire raged where she had stood. Tessa could just see the outline of a blackened screaming creature writhing inside it.

  "Do you see what I mean?" Magnus shouted in Tessa's ear, struggling to make himself heard over the howls of the vampires, who were diving this way and that, trying to avoid the flames.

  "Let me go!" Tessa shrieked. De Quincey had leaped into the melee; Nathaniel was slumped alone onstage, apparently unconscious, only his manacles holding him to the chair. "That's my brother up there. My brother!"

  Magnus stared at her. Taking advantage of his confusion, Tessa jerked her arm free and began to run toward the stage. The room was chaos: vampires rushing to and fro, many of them stampeding toward the doorway. The vampires who had reached the door were pushing and shoving to get through it first; others had turned course and were streaming toward the French doors that looked out over the garden.

  Tessa veered to avoid a fallen chair, and nearly ran headlong into the redheaded vampire in the blue dress who had glared at her earlier. She looked terrified now. She plunged toward Tessa—then seemed to stumble. Her mouth opened in a scream, and blood poured from it like a fountain. Her face crumpled, folding in on itself, the skin resolving into dust and raining down from the bones of her skull. Her red hair shriveled and turned gray; the skin of her arms melted and turned to powder, and with a last despairing shriek the vampire woman collapsed into a stringy heap of bones and dust lying atop an empty satin dress.

  Tessa gagged, tore her eyes away from the remains, and saw Will. He stood directly in front of her, holding a long silver knife; the blade was smeared with scarlet blood. His face was bloody too, his eyes wild. "What the hell are you still doing here?" he shouted at Tessa. "You unbelievably stupid—"

  Tessa heard the noise before Will did, a thin whining sound, like a piece of broken machinery. The fair-haired boy in the gray jacket—the human servant Lady Delilah h
ad drunk from earlier—was rushing at Will, a high-pitched wailing sound coming from his throat, his face smeared with tears and blood. He was carrying a torn-off chair leg in one hand; the end of it was ragged and sharp.

  "Will, look out!" Tessa shouted, and Will spun. He moved fast, Tessa saw, like a dark blur, and the knife in his hand was a flash of silver in the smoky dimness. When he stopped moving, the boy was lying on the ground, the blade protruding from his chest. Blood welled around it, thicker and darker than vampire blood.

  Will, staring down, was ashen. "I thought ..."

  "He would have killed you if he could," Tessa said.

  "You know nothing of it," Will said. He shook his head, once, as if clearing it of her voice, or of the sight of the boy on the ground. The subjugate looked very young, his twisted face softer in death. "I told you to go—"

  "That's my brother," Tessa said, pointing toward the back of the room. Nathaniel was still unconscious, limp in his manacles. If it weren't for the blood still flowing from the wound in his neck, she would have thought he was dead. "Nathaniel. In the chair."

  Will's eyes widened in astonishment. "But how—?" he began. He didn't get a chance to finish his question. At that moment the sound of shattering glass filled the room. The French windows burst inward, and the room was suddenly flooded with Shadowhunters in their dark fighting gear. They were driving before them in a screaming, ragged group the vampires who had fled into the garden. As Tessa stared, more Shadowhunters began flooding in from the other doors as well, herding more vampires in front of them, like dogs herding sheep into a pen. De Quincey staggered before the other vampires, his pale face smeared with black ash, his teeth bared.

  Tessa saw Henry among the Nephilim, easily recognizable by his ginger hair. Charlotte was there too, dressed like a man all in dark fighting gear, like the women pictured in Tessa's Shadowhunter book. She looked small and determined and surprisingly fierce. And then there was Jem. His gear made him appear all the more startlingly pale, and the black Marks on his skin stood out like ink on paper. In the crowd she recognized Gabriel Lightwood; his father, Benedict; slim black-haired Mrs. Highsmith; and behind them all strode Magnus, blue sparks flying from his hands as he gestured.