Clockwork Angel tid-1

by Cassandra Clare

  Thomas looked relieved. "Yes, miss. And I'll wait out here, just for now. You just let me know when you want me to summon the others."

  Tessa nodded and moved past Thomas to push the door open. The drawing room was dim, the only illumination the gray afternoon light that spilled through the tall windows. In the shadows the sofas and armchairs scattered about the room looked like crouched beasts. In one of the larger armchairs by the fire sat Nate. He had found the bloodstained shirt and trousers he had been wearing at de Quincey's, and had put them on. His feet were bare. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He looked wretched.

  "Nate?" Tessa said softly.

  At that he looked up—and sprang to his feet, a look of incredulous happiness on his face. "Tessie!"

  With a little cry Tessa rushed across the room and threw her arms around her brother, hugging him fiercely. She heard him give a little whimper of pain, but his arms went around her too, and for a moment, embracing him, Tessa was back in her aunt's little kitchen in New York, with the smell of cooking all around her and her aunt's soft laughter as she scolded them for making so much noise.

  Nate pulled away first, and looked down at her. "God, Tessie, you look so different... ."

  A shudder went through her. "What do you mean?"

  He patted her cheek, almost absently. "Older," he said. "Thinner. You were a round-faced little girl when I left New York, weren't you? Or is that just the way I remember you?"

  Tessa reassured her brother that she was still the same little sister he'd always known, but her mind was only partly engaged with his question. She couldn't help staring at him worriedly; he no longer looked as gray as he had, but he was still pale, and bruises stood out in blue, black, and yellow patches on his face and neck. "Nate ..."

  "It's not as bad as it looks," he said, reading the anxiety on her face.

  "Yes, it is. You should be in bed, resting. What are you doing in here?"

  "I was trying to find you. I knew you were here. I saw you, before that bald bastard with the missing eyes got at me. I figured they'd imprisoned you, too. I was going to try to get us out."

  "Imprisoned? Nate, no, it's not like that." She shook her head. "We're safe here."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "This is the Institute, isn't it? I was warned about this place. De Quincey said it was run by madmen, monsters who called themselves Nephilim. He said they keep the damned souls of men penned up in some kind of box of theirs, screaming—"

  "What, the Pyxis? It holds bits of demon energy, Nate, not men's souls! It's perfectly harmless. I'll show it to you later, in the weapons room, if you don't believe me."

  Nate looked no less grim. "He said that if the Nephilim got their hands on me, they'd take me apart, piece by piece, for breaking their Laws."

  A cold shiver went up Tessa's spine; she drew away from her brother, and saw that one of the drawing room windows was open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. So her shiver had been more than just nerves. "Did you open the window? It's so cold in here, Nate."

  Nate shook his head. "It was open when I came in."

  Shaking her head, Tessa went across the room and drew the window down. "You'll catch your death—"

  "Never mind my death," Nate said irritably. "What about the Shadowhunters? Are you saying they haven't kept you imprisoned here?"

  "No." Tessa turned away from the window. "They haven't. They're strange people, but the Shadowhunters have been kind to me. I wanted to stay here. They've been generous enough to let me."

  Nate shook his head. "I don't understand."

  Tessa felt a spark of anger, which surprised her; she pushed it back. It wasn't Nate's fault. There was so much he didn't know. "Where else was I going to go, Nate?" she asked, crossing the room to him and taking his arm. She led him back over to the armchair. "Sit down. You're exhausting yourself."

  Nate sat obediently, and looked up at her. There was a distant look in his eyes. Tessa knew that look. It meant he was plotting, hatching some mad plan, dreaming a ridiculous dream. "We can still get away from this place," he said. "Get to Liverpool, get on a steamer. Go back to New York."

  "And do what?" Tessa said as gently as she could. "There's nothing there for us. Not with Aunt dead. I had to sell all our things to pay for the funeral. The apartment's gone. There was no rent money. There's no place for us in New York, Nate."

  "We'll make a place. A new life."

  Tessa looked at her brother sadly. There was pain in seeing him like this, his face full of hopeless pleading, bruises blossoming on his cheekbones like ugly flowers, his fair hair still matted in places with blood. Nate was not like other people, Aunt Harriet had always said. He had a beautiful innocence about him that had to be protected at all costs.

  And Tessa had tried. She and her aunt had hidden Nate's own weaknesses from him, the consequences of his own flaws and failings. Never telling him of the work Aunt Harriet had had to do to make up the money he had lost gambling, of the taunts Tessa had endured from other children, calling her brother a drunk, a wastrel. They had hidden these things from him to keep him from being hurt. But he had been hurt anyway, Tessa thought. Maybe Jem was right. Maybe the truth was always best.

  Sitting down on the ottoman opposite her brother, she looked at him steadily. "It can't be like that, Nate. Not yet. This mess we're both in now, it will follow us even if we run. And if we run, we'll be alone when it does find us. There will be no one to help or protect us. We need the Institute, Nate. We need the Nephilim."

  Nate's blue eyes were dazed. "I guess so," he said, and the phrase struck Tessa, who had heard nothing but British voices for nearly two months, as so American that she felt homesick. "It's because of me that you're here. De Quincey tortured me. Made me write those letters, send you that ticket. He told me he wouldn't hurt you once he had you, but then he never let me see you, and I thought—I thought—" He raised his head and looked at her dully. "You ought to hate me."

  Tessa's voice was firm. "I could never hate you. You're my brother. You're my blood."

  "Do you think when all this is over, we can go back home?" Nate asked. "Forget all this ever happened? Live normal lives?"

  Live normal lives. The words conjured up an image of herself and Nate in some small, sunny apartment. Nate could get another job, and in the evening she could cook and clean for him, while on weekends they could walk in the park or take the train to Coney Island and ride the carousel, or go to the top of the Iron Tower and watch the fireworks explode at night over the Manhattan Beach Hotel. There would be real sunshine, not like this gray watery version of summer, and Tessa could be an ordinary girl, with her head in a book and her feet planted firmly on the familiar pavement of New York City.

  But when she tried to hold this mental picture in her head, the vision seemed to crumble and fall away from her, like a cobweb when you tried to lift it whole in your hands. She saw Will's face, and Jem's, and Charlotte's, and even Magnus's as he said, Poor thing. Now that you know the truth, you can never go back.

  "But we are not normal," said Tessa. "I am not normal. And you know that, Nate."

  He looked down at the floor. "I know." He gave a helpless little wave of his hand. "So it's true. You are what de Quincey said you were. Magical. He said you had the power to change shape, Tessie, to become anything you wanted to be."

  "Did you even believe him? It's true—well, almost true—but I barely believed it myself at first. It's so strange—"

  "I've seen stranger things." His voice was hollow. "God, it ought to have been me."

  Tessa frowned. "What do you mean?"

  But before he could answer, the door swung open. "Miss Gray." It was Thomas, looking apologetic. "Miss Gray, Master Will is—"

  "Master Will is right here." It was Will, ducking nimbly around Thomas, despite the other boy's bulk. He was still in the clothes he'd changed into the night before, and they looked rumpled. Tessa wondered if he'd slept in the chair in Jem's room. There were blue-gray shad
ows under his eyes, and he looked tired, though his eyes brightened—with relief? amusement? Tessa couldn't tell—as his gaze fell on Nate.

  "Our wanderer, found at last," he said. "Thomas tells me you were hiding behind the curtains?"

  Nate looked at Will dully. "Who are you?"

  Quickly Tessa made the introductions, though neither boy seemed all that happy to meet the other. Nate still looked as if he were dying, and Will was regarding Nate as if he were a new scientific discovery, and not a very attractive one at that.

  "So you're a Shadowhunter," Nate said. "De Quincey told me that you lot were monsters."

  "Was that before or after he tried to eat you?" Will inquired.

  Tessa rose quickly to her feet. "Will. Might I speak to you in the corridor for a moment, please?"

  If she had expected resistance, she didn't get it. After a last hostile look at Nate, Will nodded and went with her silently out into the hall, closing the drawing room door behind him.

  The illumination in the windowless corridor was variable, the witchlight casting discrete bright pools of light that didn't quite touch one another. Will and Tessa stood in the shadows between two of the pools, looking at each other—warily, Tessa thought, like angry cats circling in an alley.

  It was Will who broke the silence. "Very well. You have me alone in the corridor—"

  "Yes, yes," said Tessa impatiently, "and thousands of women all over England would pay handsomely for the privilege of such an opportunity. Can we put aside the display of your wit for a moment? This is important."

  "You want me to apologize, do you?" Will said. "For what happened in the attic?"

  Tessa, caught off guard, blinked. "The attic?"

  "You want me to say I'm sorry that I kissed you."

  At the words, the memory rose up again in Tessa with an unexpected clarity—Will's fingers in her hair, the touch of his hand on her glove, his mouth on hers. She felt herself flush and hoped furiously that it wouldn't be visible in the dimness. "What—no. No!"

  "So you don't want me to be sorry," Will said. He was smiling very slightly now, the sort of smile a small child might bend upon the castle he has just built out of toy blocks, before he destroys it with a wave of his arm.

  "I don't care whether you're sorry or not," Tessa said. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to tell you to be kind to my brother. He's been through an awful ordeal. He doesn't need to be interrogated like some sort of criminal."

  Will replied more quietly than Tessa would have thought. "I understand that. But if he's hiding anything—"

  "Everyone hides things!" Tessa burst out, surprising herself. "There are things I know he's ashamed of, but that doesn't mean they need to matter to you. It's not as if you tell everyone everything, do you?"

  Will looked wary. "What are you on about?"

  What about your parents, Will? Why did you refuse to see them? Why do you have nowhere to go but here? And why, in the attic, did you send me away? But Tessa said none of those things. Instead she said, "What about Jem? Why didn't you tell me he was ill the way he is?"

  "Jem?" Will's surprise seemed genuine. "He didn't want me to. He considers it his business. Which it is. You might recall, I wasn't even in favor of him telling you himself. He thought he owed you an explanation, but he didn't. Jem owes nothing to anyone. What happened to him wasn't his fault, and yet he carries the burden of it and is ashamed—"

  "He has nothing to be ashamed of."

  "You might think so. Others see no difference between his illness and an addiction, and they despise him for being weak. As if he could just stop taking the drug if he had enough willpower." Will sounded surprisingly bitter. "They've said as much, sometimes to his face. I didn't want him to have to hear you say it too."

  "I would never have said that."

  "How would I have guessed what you might say?" Will said. "I don't really know you, Tessa, do I? Any more than you know me."

  "You don't want anyone to know you," Tessa snapped. "And very well, I won't try. But don't pretend that Jem is just like you. Perhaps he'd rather people knew the truth of who he is."

  "Don't," Will said, his blue eyes darkening. "Don't think you know Jem better than I do."

  "If you care about him so much, why aren't you doing anything to help him? Why not look for a cure?"

  "Do you think we haven't? Do you think Charlotte hasn't looked, Henry hasn't looked, that we haven't hired warlocks, paid for information, called in favors? Do you imagine Jem's death is just something we have all accepted without ever fighting against it?"

  "Jem told me that he had asked you all to stop looking," Tessa said, calm in the face of his anger, "and that you had. Haven't you?"

  "He told you that, did he?"

  "Have you stopped?"

  "There is nothing to find, Tessa. There is no cure."

  "You don't know that. You could keep looking and not ever tell him you were looking. There might be something. Even the littlest chance—"

  Will raised his eyebrows. The flickering corridor light deepened the shadows under his eyes, the angular bones of his cheeks. "You think we should disregard his wishes?"

  "I think that you should do whatever you can, even if it means you must lie to him. I think I don't understand your acceptance of his death."

  "And I think that you do not understand that sometimes the only choice is between acceptance and madness."

  Behind them in the corridor someone cleared their throat. "What's going on here, then?" asked a familiar voice. Both Tessa and Will had been so caught up in their conversation that they had not heard Jem approaching. Will gave a guilty start before turning to look at his friend, who was regarding them both with calm interest. Jem was fully dressed but looked as if he had just woken from a feverish sleep, his hair mussed and his cheeks burning with color.

  Will looked surprised, and not entirely pleased, to see him. "What are you doing out of bed?"

  "I ran into Charlotte in the hall. She said we were all meeting in the drawing room to talk with Tessa's brother." Jem's tone was mild, and it was impossible to tell from his expression how much of Tessa and Will's conversation he had overheard. "I'm well enough to listen, at least."

  "Oh, good, you're all here." It was Charlotte, hurrying up the corridor. Behind her strode Henry, and on either side of him, Jessamine and Sophie. Jessie had changed into one of her nicest dresses, Tessa observed, a sheer blue muslin, and she was carrying a folded blanket. Sophie, beside her, held a tray with tea and sandwiches on it.

  "Are those for Nate?" Tessa asked, surprised. "The tea, and the blankets?"

  Sophie nodded. "Mrs. Branwell thought he'd likely be hungry—"

  "And I thought he might be cold. He was shivering so last night," Jessamine put in eagerly. "Should we bring these things in to him, then?"

  Charlotte looked to Tessa for her approval, which disarmed her. Charlotte would be kind to Nate; she couldn't help it. "Yes. He's waiting for you."

  "Thank you, Tessa," Charlotte said softly, and then she pushed the drawing room door open and went in, followed by the others. As Tessa moved to go after them, she felt a hand on her arm, a touch so light she almost might not have noticed it.

  It was Jem. "Wait," he said. "Just a moment."

  She turned to look at him. Through the open doorway she could hear a murmur of voices—Henry's friendly baritone, Jessamine's eager falsetto rising as she said Nate's name. "What is it?"

  He hesitated. His hand on her arm was cool; his fingers felt like thin stems of glass against her skin. She wondered if the skin over the bones of his cheeks, where he was flushed and feverish, would be warmer to the touch.

  "But my sister—" Nate's voice floated into the hallway, sounding anxious. "Is she joining us? Where is she?"

  "Never mind. It's nothing." With a reassuring smile Jem dropped his hand. Tessa wondered, but turned and went into the drawing room, Jem behind her.

  Sophie was kneeling by the grate, building up the fire; Na
te was still in the armchair, where he sat with Jessamine's blanket thrown over his lap. Jessamine, upright on a stool nearby, was beaming proudly. Henry and Charlotte sat on the sofa opposite Nate—Charlotte clearly bursting with curiosity—and Will, as usual, was holding up the nearest wall by leaning against it and looking both irritable and amused at the same time.

  As Jem went to join Will, Tessa fixed her attention on her brother. Some of the tension had gone out of him when she'd come back into the room, but he still looked miserable. He was plucking at Jessamine's blanket with his fingertips. She crossed the room and sank down onto the ottoman at his feet, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair or pat his shoulder. She could feel all the eyes in the room on her. Everyone was watching her and her brother, and she could have heard a pin drop.

  "Nate," she said softly. "I assume everyone has introduced themselves?"

  Nate, still picking at the blanket, nodded.

  "Mr. Gray," said Charlotte, "we have spoken to Mr. Mortmain already. He has told us a great deal about you. About your fondness for Downworld. And gambling."

  "Charlotte," Tessa protested.

  Nate spoke heavily. "It's true, Tessie."

  "No one blames your brother for what happened, Tessa." Charlotte made her voice very gentle as she turned back to Nate. "Mortmain says you already knew he was involved in occult practices when you arrived in London. How did you know that he was a member of the Pandemonium Club?"

  Nate hesitated.

  "Mr. Gray, we simply need to understand what happened to you. De Quincey's interest in you—I know you aren't well, and we have no wish to cruelly interrogate you, but if you could offer us even a little information, it might be of the most invaluable assistance—"

  "It was Aunt Harriet's sewing notions," Nate said in a low voice.

  Tessa blinked. "It was what?"