It wasn't until Will, having finished with Jem, came sauntering over to her that she realized why she was so tired.
"Back to yourself, I see," he said. He had a damp towel in one hand but hadn't yet bothered to clean the blood off his face and neck.
Tessa glanced down at herself. It was true. At some point she had lost Camille and become herself again. She must have been dazed indeed, she thought, not to have noticed the return of her own heartbeat. It pulsed inside her chest like a drum.
"I didn't know you knew how to use a pistol," Will added.
"I don't," Tessa said. "I think Camille must have. It was—instinctive." She bit her lip. "Not that it matters, since it didn't work."
"We rarely use them. Etching runes into the metal of a gun or bullet prevents the gunpowder from igniting; no one knows why. Henry has tried to address the problem, of course, but not with any success. Since you can't kill a demon without a runed weapon or a seraph blade, guns aren't much use to us. Vampires die if you shoot them through the heart, admittedly, and werewolves can be injured if you have a silver bullet, but if you miss the vitals, they'll just come at you angrier than ever. Runed blades simply work better for our purposes. Get a vampire with a runed blade and it's much harder for them to recover and heal."
Tessa looked at him, her gaze steady. "Isn't it hard?"
Will tossed the damp cloth aside. It was scarlet with blood. "Isn't what hard?"
"Killing vampires," she said. "They may not be people, but they look like people. They feel as people do. They scream and bleed. Isn't it hard to slaughter them?"
Will's jaw tightened. "No," he said. "And if you really knew anything about them—"
"Camille feels," she said. "She loves and hates."
"And she is still alive. Everyone has choices, Tessa. Those vampires would not have been here tonight if they hadn't made theirs." He glanced down at Nathaniel, limp in Tessa's lap. "Nor, I imagine, would your brother have been."
"I don't know why de Quincey wanted him dead," Tessa said softly. "I don't know what he could have done to incur the wrath of vampires."
"Tessa!" It was Charlotte, darting up to Tessa and Will like a hummingbird. She still seemed so tiny, and so harmless, Tessa thought—despite the fighting gear she wore and the black Marks that laced her skin like curling snakes. "We've been given permission to bring your brother back to the Institute with us," she announced, gesturing at Nathaniel with a small hand. "The vampires may well have drugged him. He's certainly been bitten, and who knows what else? He could turn darkling—or worse, if we don't prevent it. In any case, I doubt they'll be able to help him in a mundane hospital. With us, at least the Silent Brothers can see to him, poor thing."
"Poor thing?" echoed Will rather rudely. "He rather got himself into this, didn't he? No one told him to run off and get himself involved with a bunch of Downworlders."
"Really, Will." Charlotte eyed him coldly. "Can't you have a little empathy?"
"Dear God," said Will, looking from Charlotte to Nate and back again. "Is there anything that makes women sillier than the sight of a wounded young man?"
Tessa slitted her eyes at him. "You might want to clean the rest of the blood off your face before you continue arguing in that vein."
Will threw his arms up into the air and stalked off. Charlotte looked at Tessa, a half smile curving the side of her mouth. "I must say, I rather like the way you manage Will."
Tessa shook her head. "No one manages Will."
It was quickly decided that Tessa and Nathaniel would go with Henry and Charlotte in the town coach; Will and Jem would ride home in a smaller carriage borrowed from Charlotte's aunt, with Thomas as their driver. The Lightwoods and the rest of the Enclave would stay behind to search de Quincey's house, leaving no evidence of their battle for the mundanes to find in the morning. Will had wanted to stay and take part in the search, but Charlotte had been firm. He had ingested vampire blood and needed to return to the Institute as soon as possible to begin the cure.
Thomas, however, would not allow Will into the carriage as covered in blood as he was. After announcing that he would return in "half a tick," Thomas had gone off to find a damp piece of cloth. Will leaned against the side of the carriage, watching as the Enclave rushed in and out of de Quincey's house like ants, salvaging papers and furniture from the remains of the fire.
Returning with a soapy rag, Thomas handed it over to Will, and leaned his big frame against the side of the carriage. It rocked under his weight. Charlotte had always encouraged Thomas to join Jem and Will for the physical parts of their training, and as the years had gone by, Thomas had grown from a scrawny child to a man so large and muscular that tailors despaired over his measurements. Will might have been the better fighter—his blood made him that—but Thomas's commanding physical presence was not easy to ignore.
Sometimes Will could not help remembering Thomas as he had first come to the Institute. He belonged to a family that had served the Nephilim for years, but he had been born so frail they'd thought he wouldn't live. When he'd reached twelve years of age, he'd been sent to the Institute; at that time he'd still been so small that he'd looked barely nine. Will had made fun of Charlotte for wanting to employ him, but had secretly hoped he would stay so that there might be another boy his own age in the house. And they had been friends of a sort, the Shadowhunter and the servant boy—until Jem had come and Will had forgotten Thomas almost completely. Thomas had never seemed to hold it against him, treating Will always with the same friendliness with which he treated everyone else.
"Always rum to see this sort of thing goin' on, and none of the neighbors out for so much as a gander," Thomas said now, glancing up and down the street. Charlotte had always demanded that the Institute servants speak "proper" English within its walls, and Thomas's East End accent tended to come and go depending on whether he remembered.
"There are heavy glamours at work here." Will scrubbed at his face and neck. "And I would imagine there are quite a few on this street who are not mundanes, who know to mind their own business when Shadowhunters are involved."
"Well, you are a terrifying lot, that's true," Thomas said, so equably that Will suspected he was being made fun of. Thomas pointed at Will's face. "You'll have a stunner of a mouse tomorrow, if you don't get an iratze on there."
"Maybe I want a black eye," said Will peevishly. "Did you think of that?"
Thomas just grinned and swung himself up into the driver's box at the front of the carriage. Will went back to scrubbing dried vampire blood off his hands and arms. The task was absorbing enough that he was able to almost completely ignore Gabriel Lightwood when the other boy appeared out of the shadows and sauntered over to Will, a superior smile plastered on his face.
"Nice work in there, Herondale, setting the place on fire," Gabriel observed. "Good thing we were there to clean up after you, or the whole plan would have gone down in flames, along with the shreds of your reputation."
"Are you implying that shreds of my reputation remain intact?" Will demanded with mock horror. "Clearly I have been doing something wrong. Or not doing something wrong, as the case may be." He banged on the side of the carriage. "Thomas! We must away at once to the nearest brothel! I seek scandal and low companionship."
Thomas snorted and muttered something that sounded like "bosh," which Will ignored.
Gabriel's face darkened. "Is there anything that isn't a joke to you?"
"Nothing that comes to mind."
"You know," Gabriel said, "there was a time I thought we could be friends, Will."
"There was a time I thought I was a ferret," Will said, "but that turned out to be the opium haze. Did you know it had that effect? Because I didn't."
"I think," Gabriel said, "that perhaps you might consider whether jokes about opium are either amusing or tasteful, given the ... situation of your friend Carstairs."
Will froze. Still in the same tone of voice, he said, "You mean his disability?"
Gabriel
blinked. "What?"
"That's what you called it. Back at the Institute. His 'disability.'" Will tossed the bloody cloth aside. "And you wonder why we aren't friends."
"I just wondered," Gabriel said, in a more subdued voice, "if perhaps you have ever had enough."
"Enough of what?"
"Enough of behaving as you do."
Will crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes glinted dangerously. "Oh, I can never get enough," he said. "Which, incidentally, is what your sister said to me when—"
The carriage door flew open. A hand shot out, grabbed Will by the back of the shirt, and hauled him inside. The door banged shut after him, and Thomas, sitting bolt upright, seized the reins of the horses. A moment later the carriage had lurched forth into the night, leaving Gabriel staring, infuriated, after it.
"What were you thinking?" Jem, having deposited Will onto the carriage seat opposite him, shook his head, his silvery eyes shining in the dimness. He held his cane between his knees, his hand resting lightly atop the dragon's-head carving. The cane had belonged to Jem's father, Will knew, and had been designed for him by a Shadowhunter weapons maker in Beijing. "Baiting Gabriel Lightwood like that—why do you do it? What's the point?"
"You heard what he said about you—"
"I don't care what he says about me. It's what everyone thinks. He just has the nerve to say it." Jem leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "You know, I cannot function as your missing sense of self-preservation forever. Eventually you will have to learn to manage without me."
Will, as he always did, ignored this. "Gabriel Lightwood is hardly much of a threat."
"Then forget Gabriel. Is there a particular reason you keep biting vampires?"
Will touched the dried blood on his wrists, and smiled. "They don't expect it."
"Of course they don't. They know what happens when one of us consumes vampire blood. They probably expect you to have more sense."
"That expectation never seems to serve them very well, does it?"
"It hardly serves you, either." Jem looked at Will thoughtfully. He was the only one who never fell out of temper with Will. Whatever Will did, the most extreme reaction he seemed to be able to provoke in Jem was mild exasperation. "What happened in there? We were waiting for the signal—"
"Henry's bloody Phosphor didn't work. Instead of sending up a flare of light, it set the curtains on fire."
Jem made a choked noise.
Will glared at him. "It's not funny. I didn't know whether the rest of you were going to show up or not."
"Did you really think we wouldn't come after you when the whole place went up like a torch?" Jem asked reasonably. "They could have been roasting you over a spit, for all we knew."
"And Tessa, the silly creature, was supposed to be out the door with Magnus, but she wouldn't leave—"
"Her brother was manacled to a chair in the room," Jem pointed out. "I'm not sure I would have left either."
"I see you're determined to miss my point."
"If your point is that there was a pretty girl in the room and it was distracting you, then I think I've taken your point handily."
"You think she's pretty?" Will was surprised; Jem rarely opined on this sort of thing.
"Yes, and you do too."
"I hadn't noticed, really."
"Yes, you have, and I've noticed you noticing." Jem was smiling. Despite the stress of the battle, he looked healthy tonight. There was color in his cheeks, and his eyes were a dark and steady silver. There were times, when the illness was at its worst, when all the color drained even from his eyes, leaving them horribly pale, nearly white, with that black speck of pupil in the center like a speck of black ash on snow. It was times like that when he also became delirious. Will had held Jem down while he'd thrashed about and cried out in another language and his eyes had rolled back into his head, and every time it happened, Will thought that this was it, and Jem was really going to die this time. He sometimes then thought about what he would do afterward, but he couldn't imagine it, any more than he could look back and remember his life before he had come to the Institute. Neither bore thinking about for very long.
But then there were other times, like this, when he looked at Jem and saw no mark of illness on him, and wondered what it would be like in a world where Jem was not dying. And that did not bear thinking about either. It was a terrible black place in himself that the fear came from, a dark voice he could only silence with anger, risk, and pain.
"Will." Jem's voice cut into Will's unpleasant reverie. "Have you heard a single word I've said in the past five minutes?"
"Not really."
"We needn't talk about Tessa if you don't want to, you know."
"It's not Tessa." This was true. Will hadn't been thinking about Tessa. He was getting good at not thinking about her, really; all it took was determination and practice. "One of the vampires had a human servant who rushed me. I killed him," said Will. "Without even thinking about it. He was just a stupid human boy, and I killed him."
"He was a darkling," said Jem. "He was Turning. It would have been a matter of time."
"He was just a boy," Will said again. He turned his face toward the window, though the brightness of the witchlight in the carriage meant that all he could see was his own face, reflected back at him. "I'm going to get drunk when we get home," he added. "I think I'm going to have to."
"No, you won't," said Jem. "You know exactly what will happen when we get home."
Because he was right, Will scowled.
Ahead of Will and Jem, in the first carriage, Tessa sat on the velvet bench seat across from Henry and Charlotte; they were talking in murmurs about the night and how it had gone. Tessa let the words wash over her, barely caring. Only two Shadowhunters had been killed, but de Quincey's escape was a disaster, and Charlotte was worried that the Enclave would be angry with her. Henry made soothing noises, but Charlotte seemed inconsolable. Tessa would have felt bad for her, if she'd had the energy to feel much at all.
Nathaniel lay across Tessa, his head in her lap. She bent over him, stroking his filthy matted hair with her gloved fingers. "Nate," she said, so softly that she hoped Charlotte couldn't hear her. "It's all right now. Everything's all right."
Nathaniel's lashes fluttered and his eyes opened. His hand came up—the fingernails broken, his joints swollen and twisted—and he took tight hold of her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "Don't go," he said thickly. His eyes fluttered shut again; he was clearly drifting in and out of consciousness, if he was really conscious at all. "Tessie—stay."
No one else ever called her that; she shut her eyes, willing the tears back. She did not want Charlotte—or any Shadowhunter—to see her cry.
12
BLOOD AND WATER
I dare not always touch her, lest the kiss
Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss,
Brief bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin;
Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.
—Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Laus Veneris"
When they reached the Institute, Sophie and Agatha were waiting at the open doors with lanterns. Tessa stumbled with tiredness as she left the carriage, and was surprised—and grateful—when Sophie came to help her up the steps. Charlotte and Henry half-carried Nathaniel. Behind them the carriage with Will and Jem in it rattled through the gates, Thomas's voice carrying on the cool night air as he called out a greeting.
Jessamine, not to Tessa's surprise, was nowhere to be seen.
They installed Nathaniel in a bedroom much like Tessa's—the same dark heavy wood furniture, the same grand bed and wardrobe. As Charlotte and Agatha settled Nathaniel into the bed, Tessa sank into the chair beside it, half-feverish with worry and exhaustion. Voices—soft sickroom voices—swirled around her. She heard Charlotte say something about the Silent Brothers, and Henry answered in a subdued voice. At some point Sophie appeared at her elbow and urged her to drink something hot and sweet-sour
that brought energy slowly flooding back into her veins. Soon enough she was able to sit up and look around her a bit, and she realized to her surprise that except for herself and her brother, the room was empty. Everyone had gone.
She glanced down at Nathaniel. He lay corpse-still, his face lividly bruised, his matted hair tangled against the pillows. Tessa could not help but recall with a pang the beautifully dressed brother of her memories, his fair hair always so carefully brushed and arranged, shoes and cuffs spotless. This Nathaniel did not look like someone who had ever spun his sister around the living room in a dance, humming to himself under his breath for the sheer joy of being alive.
She leaned forward, meaning to look more closely at his face, and saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she saw it was only herself, reflected in the mirror on the far wall. In Camille's dress, she looked to her own eyes like a child playing dress-up. She was too slight for the sophisticated style of it. She looked like a child—a silly child. No wonder Will had—
"Tessie?" Nathaniel's voice, weak and frail, broke her instantly out of her thoughts of Will. "Tessie, don't leave me. I think I'm ill."
"Nate." She reached for his hand, seized it between her gloved palms. "You're all right. You'll be all right. They've sent for doctors... ."
"Who are 'they'?" His voice was a thin cry. "Where are we? I don't know this place."
"This is the Institute. You'll be safe here."
Nathaniel blinked. There were dark rings, almost black, around each of his eyes, and his lips were crusted with what looked like dried blood. His eyes wandered from side to side, not fixing on anything. "Shadowhunters." He sighed the word on an exhale of breath. "I didn't think they really existed... . The Magister," Nathaniel whispered suddenly, and Tessa's nerves jumped. "He said they were the Law. He said they were to be feared. But there is no law in this world. There is no punishment—just killing or being killed." His voice rose. "Tessie, I'm so sorry—about everything—"
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