Will exhaled, some of the color returning to his face. "I wasn't sure they'd come," he muttered, "not with the Phosphor malfunctioning." He tore his eyes away from his friends and looked at Tessa. "Go attend to your brother," he said. "That'll get you out of the worst of it. I hope."
He turned and walked away from her without a backward glance. The Nephilim had herded the remaining vampires, those who had not been killed by the fire—or by Will—into the center of a makeshift circle of Shadowhunters. De Quincey towered among the group, his pale face twisted in rage; his shirt was stained with blood—his own or someone else's, she couldn't tell. The other vampires huddled behind him like children behind a parent, looking both fierce and wretched at the same time.
"The Law," de Quincey growled, as Benedict Lightwood advanced on him, a shining blade in his right hand, its surface scored with black runes. "The Law protects us. We surrender to you. The Law—"
"You have broken the Law," snarled Benedict. "Therefore its protection no longer extends to you. The sentence is death."
"One mundane," said de Quincey, sparing a glance toward Nathaniel. "One mundane who has also broken Covenant Law—"
"The Law does not extend to mundanes. They cannot be expected to follow the laws of a world they know nothing of."
"He is worthless," de Quincey said. "You do not know how worthless. Do you really desire to shatter our alliance over one worthless mundane?"
"It is more than just one mundane!" Charlotte cried, and from her jacket she drew the paper Will had taken from the library. Tessa had not seen Will pass it to Charlotte, but he must have. "What of these spells? Did you think we would not discover them? This—this black sorcery is absolutely forbidden by the Covenant!"
De Quincey's still face betrayed only a hint of his surprise. "Where did you find that?"
Charlotte's mouth was a hard thin line. "That doesn't matter."
"Whatever it is you think you know—," de Quincey began.
"We know enough!" Charlotte's voice was full of passion. "We know you hate and despise us! We know your alliance with us has been a sham!"
"And have you made it against Covenant Law now to dislike Shadowhunters?" de Quincey said, but the sneer was gone from his voice. He sounded ragged.
"Do not play your games with us," spat Benedict. "After all we've done for you, after we passed the Accords into Law—Why? We've tried to make you equal to ourselves—"
De Quincey's face twisted. "Equal? You don't know what the word means. You cannot let go of your own conviction, let go of your belief in your inherent superiority, for long enough to even consider what that would mean. Where are our seats on the Council? Where is our embassy in Idris?"
"But that—that's ridiculous," Charlotte said, though she had blanched.
Benedict shot Charlotte an impatient look. "And irrelevant. None of this excuses your behavior, de Quincey. While you sat in council with us, pretending you were interested in peace, behind our backs you broke the Law and mocked our power. Surrender yourself, tell us what we want to know, and we might let your clan survive. Otherwise, there will be no mercy."
Another vampire spoke. It was one of the men who had strapped Nathaniel to his chair, a big flame-haired man with an angry face. "If we needed any further proof that the Nephilim have never meant their promises of peace, here it is. Dare to attack us, Shadowhunters, and you'll have a war on your hands!"
Benedict only grinned. "Then let the war begin here," he said, and flung the blade at de Quincey. It whipped through the air—and plunged hilt-deep into the chest of the redheaded vampire, who had flung himself in front of his clan leader. He exploded in a shower of blood as the other vampires shrieked. With a howl de Quincey rushed Benedict. The other vampires seemed to awaken from their panicked stupor, and swiftly followed suit. Within seconds the room was a melee of screams and chaos.
The sudden chaos unfroze Tessa as well. Catching up her skirts, she ran for the stage, and dropped to her knees next to Nathaniel's chair. His head lolled to the side, his eyes closed. The blood from the wound in his neck had flowed to a slow trickle. Tessa caught at his sleeve. "Nate," she whispered. "Nate, it's me."
He moaned, but made no other reply. Biting her lip, Tessa went to work on the manacles that fastened his wrists to the chair. They were hard iron, fastened to the sturdy chair arms with rows of nails—clearly designed to withstand even vampire strength. She pulled at them until her fingers bled, but they didn't budge. If only she had one of Will's knives.
She glanced out over the room. It was still dark with smoke. In among the swirls of blackness, she could see the bright flashes of weapons, the Shadowhunters brandishing the brilliant white daggers Tessa knew now were called seraph blades, each one brought into shimmering life by the name of an angel. Vampire blood flew from the blades' edges, as bright as a scatter of rubies. She realized—with a shock of surprise, for the vampires at first had terrified her—that the vampires were clearly overmatched here. Though the Night Children were vicious and fast, the Shadowhunters were nearly as fast, and had weapons and training on their side. Vampire after vampire fell under the onslaught of the seraph blades. Blood ran in sheets across the floor, soaking the edges of the Persian rugs.
The smoke cleared in a spot, and Tessa saw Charlotte dispatching a burly vampire in a gray morning jacket. She slashed the blade of her knife across his throat, and blood sprayed across the wall behind them. He sank, snarling, to his knees, and Charlotte finished him with a thrust of her blade to his chest.
A blur of motion exploded behind Charlotte; it was Will, followed by a wild-eyed vampire brandishing a silver pistol. He pointed it at Will, aimed, and fired. Will dived out of the way and skidded across the bloody floor. He rolled to his feet, and bounded up onto a velvet-seated chair. Ducking another shot, he leaped again, and Tessa watched with amazement as he ran lightly along the backs of a row of chairs, leaping down from the last of them. He whirled to face the vampire, now a distance from him across the room. Somehow a short-bladed knife gleamed in his hand, though Tessa had not seen him draw it. He threw it. The vampire ducked aside, but was not quite fast enough; the knife sank into his shoulder. He roared in pain and was reaching for the knife when a slim, dark shadow reared up out of nowhere. There was a flash of silver, and the vampire blew apart in a shower of blood and dust. As the mess cleared, Tessa saw Jem, a long blade still raised in his fist. He was grinning, but not at her; he kicked the silver pistol—now lying abandoned among the vampire's remains—hard, and it skidded across the floor, fetching up at Will's feet. Will nodded toward Jem with a return of his grin, swept the pistol off the floor, and shoved it through his belt.
"Will!" Tessa called to him, though she wasn't sure if he could hear her over the din. "Will—"
Something seized her by the back of her dress and hauled her up and backward. It was like being caught in the talons of an enormous bird. Tessa screamed once, and found herself flung forward, skidding across the floor. She hit the stack of chairs. They crashed to the floor in a deafening mass, and Tessa, sprawled among the mess, looked up with a shout of pain.
De Quincey stood over her. His black eyes were wild, rimmed with red; his white hair straggled over his face in matted clumps, and his shirt was slashed open across the front, the edges of the tear soaked with blood. He must have been cut, though not deeply enough to kill him, and had healed. The skin under the torn shirt looked unmarked now. "Bitch," he snarled at Tessa. "Lying traitorous bitch. You brought that boy in here, Camille. That Nephilim."
Tessa scrambled backward; her back hit the wall of fallen chairs.
"I welcomed you back to the clan, even after your disgusting little—interlude—with the lycanthrope. I tolerate that ridiculous warlock of yours. And this is how you repay me. Repay us." He held his hands out to her; they were streaked with black ash. "You see this," he said. "The dust of our dead people. Dead vampires. And you betrayed them for Nephilim." He spat the word as if it were poison.
Something b
ubbled up out of Tessa's throat. Laughter. Not her laughter; Camille's. "'Disgusting interlude'?" The words came out of Tessa's mouth before she could stop them. It was as if she had no control over what she was saying. "I loved him—like you never loved me—like you've never loved anything. And you killed him just to show the clan that you could. I want you to know what it is like to lose everything that matters to you. I want you to know, as your home burns and your clan is brought to ashes and your own miserable life ends, that I am the one who is doing this to you."
And Camille's voice was gone just as quickly as it had come, leaving Tessa feeling drained and shocked. That didn't stop her, though, from using her hands, behind her, to scrabble among the smashed chairs. Surely there had to be something, some broken-off piece that she could use as a weapon. De Quincey was staring at her in shock, his mouth open. Tessa imagined that no one had ever talked to him like that. Certainly not another vampire.
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps I underestimated you. Perhaps you will destroy me." He advanced on her, his hands out, reaching. "But I will bring you with me—"
Tessa's fingers closed around the leg of a chair; without even thinking about it, she swung the chair up and over and brought it crashing down on de Quincey's back. She felt elated as he yelled and staggered back. She scrambled to her feet as the vampire straightened up, and she swung the chair at him again. This time a jagged bit of broken chair arm caught him across the face, opening up a long red cut. His lips curled back from his teeth in a silent snarl, and he sprang—there was no other word for it. It was like the silent spring of a cat. He struck Tessa to the ground, landing on top of her and knocking the chair from her hand. He lunged at her throat, teeth bared, and she raked her clawed hand across his face. His blood, where it dripped on her, seemed to burn, like acid. She screamed and struck out at him harder, but he only laughed; his pupils had disappeared into the black of his eyes, and he looked entirely inhuman, like some sort of monstrous predatory serpent.
He caught her wrists in his grasp and forced them down on either side of her, hard against the floor. "Camille," he said, leaning down over her, his voice thick. "Be still, little Camille. It will be over in moments—"
He threw his head back like a striking cobra. Terrified, Tessa struggled to free her trapped legs, meaning to kick him, kick him as hard as she could—
He yelled. Yelled and writhed, and Tessa saw that there was a hand caught in his hair, yanking his head up and back, dragging him to his feet. A hand inked all over with swirling black Marks.
Will's hand.
De Quincey was hauled screaming to his feet, his hands clamped to his head. Tessa struggled upright, staring, as Will flung the howling vampire contemptuously away from him. Will wasn't smiling anymore, but his eyes were glittering, and Tessa could see why Magnus had described their color as the sky in Hell.
"Nephilim." De Quincey staggered, righted himself, and spat at Will's feet.
Will drew the pistol from his belt and aimed it at de Quincey. "One of the Devil's own abominations, aren't you? You don't even deserve to live in this world with the rest of us, and yet when we let you do so out of pity, you throw our gift back in our faces."
"As if we need your pity," de Quincey replied. "As if we could ever be less than you. You Nephilim, thinking you are—" He stopped abruptly. He was so smeared with filth that it was hard to tell, but it looked as if the cut on his face had already healed.
"Are what?" Will cocked the pistol; the click was loud even above the noise of the battle. "Say it."
The vampire's eyes burned. "Say what?"
"'God,'" said Will. "You were going to tell me that we Nephilim play at God, weren't you? Except you can't even say the word. Mock the Bible all you want with your little collection, you still can't say it." His finger was white on the trigger of the gun. "Say it. Say it, and I'll let you live."
The vampire bared his teeth. "You cannot kill me with that—that stupid human toy."
"If the bullet passes through your heart," Will said, his aim unwavering, "you'll die. And I am a very good shot."
Tessa stood, frozen, staring at the tableau before her. She wanted to step backward, to go to Nathaniel, but she was afraid to move.
De Quincey raised his head. He opened his mouth. A thin rattle came out as he tried to speak, tried to shape a word his soul would not let him say. He gasped again, choked, and put a hand to his throat. Will began to laugh—
And the vampire sprang. His face twisted in a mask of rage and pain, he launched himself at Will with a howl. There was a blur of movement. Then the gun went off and there was a spray of blood. Will hit the floor, the pistol skidding from his grip, the vampire on top of him. Tessa scrambled to retrieve the pistol, caught it, and turned to see that de Quincey had seized Will from the back, his forearm jammed against Will's throat.
She raised the pistol, her hand shaking—but she had never used a pistol before, had never shot anything, and how to shoot the vampire without injuring Will? Will was clearly choking, his face suffused with blood. De Quincey snarled something and tightened his grip—
And Will, ducking his head, sank his teeth into the vampire's forearm. De Quincey yelled and jerked his arm away; Will flung himself to the side, retching, and rolled to his knees to spit blood onto the stage. When he looked up, glittering red blood was smeared across the lower half of his face. His teeth shone red too when he—Tessa couldn't believe it—grinned, actually grinned, and looking at de Quincey, said, "How do you like it, vampire? You were going to bite that mundane earlier. Now you know what it's like, don't you?"
De Quincey, on his knees, stared from Will to the ugly red hole in his own arm, which was already beginning to close up, though dark blood still trickled from it thinly. "For that," he said, "you will die, Nephilim."
Will spread his arms wide. On his knees, grinning like a demon, blood dripping from his mouth, he barely looked human himself. "Come and get me."
De Quincey gathered himself to spring—and Tessa pulled the trigger. The gun kicked back, hard, into her hand, and the vampire fell sideways, blood streaming from his shoulder. She had missed the heart. Damn it.
Howling, de Quincey began to pull himself to his feet. Tessa raised her arm, pulled the trigger on the pistol again—nothing. A soft click let her know the gun was empty.
De Quincey laughed. He was still clutching his shoulder, though the blood flow had already slowed to a trickle. "Camille," he spat at Tessa. "I will be back for you. I will make you sorry you were ever reborn."
Tessa felt a chill at the pit of her stomach—not just her fear. Camille's. De Quincey bared his teeth one last time and whirled with incredible speed. He raced across the room and flung himself into a high glass window. It shattered outward in an explosion of glass, carrying him forward as if his body were being carried on a wave, vanishing into the night.
Will swore. "We can't lose him—," he began, and started forward. Then he spun as Tessa screamed. A ragged-looking male vampire had risen up behind her like a ghost appearing out of the air, and had snatched her by the shoulders. She tried to pull free, but his grip was too strong. She could hear him murmuring in her ear, horrible words about how she was a traitor to the Night Children, and how he would tear her open with his teeth.
"Tessa," Will shouted, and she wasn't sure if he sounded angry, or something else. He reached for the gleaming weapons at his belt. His hand closed around the hilt of a seraph blade, just as the vampire spun Tessa around. She caught sight of his leering white face, the blood-tipped fangs out, ready to tear. The vampire lunged forward—
And exploded in a shower of dust and blood. He dissolved, the flesh melting away from his face and hands, and Tessa caught sight for a moment of the blackened skeleton beneath before it, too, crumbled, leaving an empty pile of clothes behind. Clothes, and a gleaming silver blade.
She looked up. Jem stood a few feet away, looking very pale. He held the blade in his left hand; his right was empty. There was a long cut along on
e of his cheeks, but he seemed otherwise uninjured. His hair and eyes gleamed a brutal silver in the light of the dying flames. "I think," he said, "that that was the last of them."
Surprised, Tessa glanced around the room. The chaos had subsided. Shadowhunters moved here and there in the wreckage—some were seated on chairs, being attended to by stele-wielding healers—but she could not see a single vampire. The smoke of the burning had subsided as well, though white ash from the torched curtains still floated down over the room like unexpected snow.
Will, blood still dripping from his chin, looked at Jem with his eyebrows raised. "Nice throw," he said.
Jem shook his head. "You bit de Quincey," he said. "You fool. He's a vampire. You know what it means to bite a vampire."
"I had no choice," said Will. "He was choking me."
"I know," Jem said. "But really, Will. Again?"
It was Henry, in the end, who freed Nathaniel from the torture chair by the simple expedient of smashing it apart with the flat side of a sword until the manacles came free. Nathaniel slid to the floor, where he lay moaning, Tessa cradling him. Charlotte fussed a bit, bringing wet cloths to clean Nate's face, and a ragged bit of curtain to throw over him, before she raced off to engage Benedict Lightwood in an energetic conversation—during which she alternated between pointing back at Tessa and Nathaniel and waving her hands in a dramatic manner. Tessa, utterly dazed and exhausted, wondered what on earth Charlotte could be doing.
It hardly mattered, really. Everything seemed to be going on in a dream. She sat on the floor with Nathaniel as the Shadowhunters moved around her, drawing on one another with their steles. It was incredible to watch their injuries vanishing as the healing Marks went onto their skin. They all seemed equally able to draw the Marks. She watched as Jem, wincing, unbuttoned his shirt to show a long cut along one pale shoulder; he looked away, his mouth tight, as Will drew a careful Mark below the injury.
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