Clockwork Angel tid-1

by Cassandra Clare

  "She's alive," Thomas said, not opening his eyes.

  "What?" Will was caught off guard.

  "The one you come back for. Her. Tessa. She's with Sophie." Thomas spoke as if it were a fact obvious to anyone that Will would have come back for Tessa's sake. He coughed, and a great mass of blood poured out of his mouth and down his chin. He didn't seem to notice. "Take care of Sophie, Will. Sophie is—"

  But Will never found out what Sophie was, because Thomas's grip went suddenly slack, and his hand fell away and struck the stone floor with an ugly thump. Will drew back. He had seen death enough times, and knew when it had come. There was no need to close Thomas's eyes; they were closed already. "Sleep, then," he said, not quite knowing where the words came from, "good and faithful servant of the Nephilim. And thank you."

  It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, but it was all there was. Will scrambled to his feet and dashed up the staircase.

  * * *

  The doors had closed behind the clockwork creatures; the Sanctuary was very silent. Tessa could hear the water splashing in the fountain behind her.

  Mortmain stood regarding her calmly. He still wasn't frightening to look at, Tessa thought. A small, ordinary man, with dark hair going gray at his temples, and those odd light eyes. "Miss Gray," he said, "I had hoped our first time alone together would be a more pleasant experience for us both."

  Tessa's eyes burned. She said, "What are you? A warlock?"

  His smile was swift, and without feeling. "Merely a human being, Miss Gray."

  "But you did magic," she said. "You spoke in Will's voice—"

  "Anyone can learn to imitate voices, with the proper training," he said. "A simple trick, like sleight of hand. No one ever expects them. Certainly not Shadowhunters. They believe humans are good at nothing, as well as being good for nothing."

  "No," Tessa whispered. "They don't think that."

  His mouth twisted. "How quickly you have grown to love them, your natural enemies. We will soon train you out of that." He moved forward, and Tessa shrank back. "I will not hurt you," he said. "I merely want to show you something." He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a gold watch, very fine-looking, on a thick gold chain.

  Is he wondering what time it is? The mad urge to giggle rose up in the back of Tessa's throat. She forced it down.

  He held the watch out to her. "Miss Gray," he said, "please take this."

  She stared at him. "I don't want it."

  He moved toward her again. Tessa retreated until the back of her skirts brushed the low wall of the fountain. "Take the watch, Miss Gray."

  Tessa shook her head.

  "Take it," he said. "Or I will recall my clockwork servants and have them crush the throats of your two friends until they are dead. I need only go to the door and call to them. It is your choice."

  Bile rose in the back of Tessa's throat. She stared at the watch he held out to her, dangling on its gold chain. It was clearly unwound. The hands had long ago stopped spinning, the time seemingly frozen at midnight. The initials J. T. S. were carved on the back in elegant script.

  "Why?" she whispered. "Why do you want me to take it?"

  "Because I want you to Change," Mortmain said.

  Tessa's head jerked up. She stared at him incredulously. "What?"

  "This watch used to belong to someone," he said. "Someone I very much want to meet again." His voice was even, but there was a sort of undercurrent beneath it, an eager hunger that terrified Tessa more than any rage might have. "I know the Dark Sisters taught you. I know you know your power. You are the only one in the world who can do what you do. I know this because I made you."

  "You made me?" Tessa stared. "You're not saying—you can't be my father—"

  "Your father?" Mortmain laughed shortly. "I am a human, not a Downworlder. There is no demon in me, nor do I consort with demons. There is no blood shared between the two of us, Miss Gray. And yet if it were not for me, you would not exist."

  "I don't understand," Tessa whispered.

  "You don't need to understand." Mortmain's temper was visibly fraying. "You need to do as I tell you. And I am telling you to Change. Now."

  It was like standing in front of the Dark Sisters again, frightened and alert, her heart pounding, being told to access a part of herself that terrified her. Being told to lose herself in that darkness, that nothingness between self and other. Perhaps it would be easy to do as he told her—to reach out and take the watch as commanded, to abandon herself in someone else's skin as she had done before, with no will or choice of her own.

  She looked down, away from Mortmain's searing gaze, and saw something glittering on the fountain wall just behind her. A splash of water, she thought for a moment—but no. It was something else. She spoke then, almost without meaning to.

  "No," she said.

  Mortmain's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

  "I said no." Tessa felt as if she were outside herself somehow, watching herself face down Mortmain as if she were watching a stranger. "I won't do it. Not unless you tell me what you mean when you say you made me. Why am I like this? Why is it that you need my power so badly? What do you plan to force me to do for you? You are doing more than just building an army of monsters. I can see that. I'm not a fool like my brother."

  Mortmain slid the watch back into his pocket. His face was an ugly mask of rage. "No," he said. "You are not a fool like your brother. He is a fool and a coward. You are a fool who has some courage. Though it will do you little good. And it is your friends who will suffer for it. While you watch." He turned on his heel then and strode toward the door.

  Tessa bent down and seized up the object that had glittered behind her. It was the knife Jessamine had put there, the blade gleaming in the Sanctuary witchlight. "Stop," she cried. "Mr. Mortmain. Stop."

  He turned then, and saw her holding the knife. A look of disgusted amusement spread across his face. "Really, Miss Gray," he said. "Do you honestly think you can harm me with that? Did you think I came entirely unarmed?" He moved his jacket aside slightly, and she saw the butt of a pistol, gleaming at his belt.

  "No," she said. "No, I don't think I can hurt you." She turned the knife around then, so that the hilt was away from her, the blade pointing directly at her own chest. "But if you take one more step toward that door, I promise you, I'll put this knife through my heart."

  Repairing the mess Will had made of the carriage harnesses took Jem longer than he would have liked, and the moon was worryingly high in the sky by the time he rattled through the gates of the Institute and pulled Xanthos up at the foot of the steps.

  Balios, untethered, was standing by the newel post at the foot of the stairs, looking exhausted. Will must have ridden like the devil, Jem thought, but at least he had arrived safely. It was a small bit of reassurance, considering that the doors of the Institute stood wide, sending a dart of horror through him. It was a sight that seemed so wrong that it was like looking at a face missing eyes or a sky with no stars. It was something that simply should not be.

  Jem raised his voice. "Will?" he called. "Will, can you hear me?" When there was no answer, he leaped down from the driver's seat of the carriage and reached up to pull his jade-headed cane down after him. He held it lightly, balancing the weight. His wrists had begun to ache, which concerned him. Usually withdrawal from the demon powder began as pain in his joints, a dull ache that spread slowly until his whole body burned like fire. But he could not afford that pain now. There was Will to think about, and Tessa. He could not rid himself of the image of her on the steps, looking down at him as he spoke the ancient words. She had looked so worried, and the thought that she might have been worried about him had given him an unexpected pleasure.

  He turned to start up the steps, and paused. Someone was already coming down them. More than one person—a crowd. They were backlit by the light of the Institute, and for a moment he blinked at them, seeing only silhouettes. A few seemed strangely misshapen.

  "Jem!"
The voice was high, desperate. Familiar.

  Jessamine.

  Galvanized, Jem darted up the stairs, and then paused. In front of him stood Nathaniel Gray, his clothes torn and spotted with blood. A makeshift bandage was wound around his head and was soaked with blood by his right temple. His expression was grim.

  On either side of him moved clockwork automatons, like obedient servants. One flanked his right side, one his left. Behind were two more. One held a struggling Jessamine; the other a limp, half-insensible Sophie.

  "Jem!" Jessamine shrieked. "Nate's a liar. He was helping Mortmain all this time—Mortmain's the Magister, not de Quincey—"

  Nathaniel whirled. "Silence her," he barked at the clockwork creature behind him. Its metal arms tightened around Jessamine, who choked and fell silent, her face white with pain. Her eyes darted toward the automaton on Nathaniel's right. Following her gaze, Jem saw that the creature held the familiar golden square of the Pyxis in its hands.

  At the look on his face, Nate smiled. "None but a Shadowhunter can touch it," he said. "No living creature, that is. But an automaton is not alive."

  "That is what all this was about?" Jem demanded, astounded. "The Pyxis? What possible use could it be to you?"

  "My master wants demon energies, and demon energies he shall have," said Nate pompously. "Nor will he forget that I am the one who provided them for him."

  Jem shook his head. "And what will he give you then? What did he give you to betray your sister? Thirty pieces of silver?"

  Nate's face twisted, and for a moment Jem thought he could see through the blandly handsome mask to what was really underneath—something malignant and repellent that made Jem want to turn away and retch. "That thing," he said, "is not my sister."

  "It is hard to believe, isn't it," said Jem, making no effort to hide his loathing, "that you and Tessa share anything at all, even a single drop of blood. She is so much finer than you."

  Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "She is not my concern. She belongs to Mortmain."

  "I don't know what Mortmain has promised you," Jem said, "but I can promise you that if you hurt Jessamine or Sophie—and if you take the Pyxis from these premises—the Clave will hunt you. And find you. And kill you."

  Nathaniel shook his head slowly. "You don't understand," he said. "None of the Nephilim understand. The most you can offer is to let me live. But the Magister can promise me that I won't ever die." He turned to the clockwork creature on his left, the one not holding the Pyxis. "Kill him," he said.

  The automaton sprang toward Jem. It was faster by far than the creatures Jem had faced on Blackfriars Bridge. He barely had time to flip the catch that released the blade at the end of his cane and raise it, before the thing was on him. The creature squealed like a braking train when Jem drove the blade directly into its chest and sawed it from side to side, tearing the metal wide open. The creature spun away, spraying a Catherine wheel of red sparks.

  Nate, caught by the spray of fire, yelled and jumped back, beating at the sparks burning holes into his clothes. Jem took the opportunity to leap up two of the steps and slam Nate across the back with the flat of his blade, knocking him to his knees. Nate twisted around to look for his clockwork protector, but it was staggering from side to side across the steps, sparks fountaining from its chest; it seemed evident that Jem had severed one of its central mechanisms. The automaton holding the Pyxis stood stock-still; clearly Nate was not its first priority.

  "Drop them!" Nate cried to the clockwork creatures holding Sophie and Jessamine. "Kill the Shadowhunter! Kill him, do you hear?"

  Jessamine and Sophie, released, tumbled to the ground, both gasping but clearly still alive. Jem's relief was short-lived, though, as the second pair of automatons lurched toward him, moving with incredible speed. He slashed out at one with his cane. It leaped back, out of range, and the other raised a hand—not a hand, really, more a square block of metal, its side edged with ragged teeth like a saw—

  A yell came from behind Jem, and Henry charged past him, wielding a massive broadsword. He swung it hard, slashing through the automaton's raised arm and sending its hand flying. It skidded across the cobblestones, sparking and hissing, before bursting into flames.

  "Jem!" It was Charlotte's voice, raised in warning. Jem spun, and saw the other automaton reaching for him from behind. He drove his blade into the creature's throat, sawing at the copper tubes inside, while Charlotte slashed at its knees with her whip. With a high whine, it collapsed to the ground, legs severed. Charlotte, her pale face set, brought the whip down again, while Jem turned to see that Henry, his ginger hair pasted to his forehead with sweat, was lowering his broadsword. The automaton he had attacked was now a heap of scrap metal on the ground.

  In fact, bits of clockwork were scattered across the courtyard, some of it still burning, like a field of fallen stars. Jessamine and Sophie were clinging to each other; Jessamine supporting the other girl, whose throat was necklaced with dark bruises. Jessamine met Jem's eyes across the steps. He thought it might have been the first time she'd really ever looked like she was glad to see him.

  "He's gone," she said. "Nathaniel. He vanished with that creature—and the Pyxis."

  "I don't understand." Charlotte's bloodied face was a mask of shock. "Tessa's brother ..."

  "Everything he said to us was a lie," said Jessamine. "The whole business with sending you off after the vampires was a diversion."

  "Dear God," said Charlotte. "So de Quincey wasn't lying—" She shook her head, as if to clear it of cobwebs. "When we reached his house in Chelsea, we found him there with just a few vampires, no more than six or seven—certainly not the hundred Nathaniel had warned about, and no clockwork creatures that anyone could find. Benedict slew de Quincey, but not before the vampire laughed at us for calling him the Magister—said we had let Mortmain make fools of us. Mortmain. And I'd thought he was just—just a mundane."

  Henry sank down on the top step, his broad sword clanking. "This is a disaster."

  "Will," Charlotte said dazedly, as if in a dream. "And Tessa. Where are they?"

  "Tessa's in the Sanctuary. With Mortmain. Will—" Jessamine shook her head. "I didn't realize he was here."

  "He's inside," Jem said, raising his gaze to the Institute. He remembered his poison-racked dream—the Institute in flames, a haze of smoke over London, and great clockwork creatures striding to and fro among the buildings like monstrous spiders. "He would have gone after Tessa."

  Mortmain's face had drained of blood. "What are you doing?" he demanded, striding toward her.

  Tessa set the tip of the blade to her chest and pushed. The pain was sharp, sudden. Blood bloomed on the bosom of her dress. "Don't come any closer."

  Mortmain stopped, his face contorted with fury. "What makes you think I care if you live or die, Miss Gray?"

  "As you said, you made me," said Tessa. "For whatever reason, you desired that I exist. You valued me enough that you would not have wanted the Dark Sisters to harm me in any permanent way. Somehow, I am significant to you. Oh, not my self, of course. My power. That is what matters to you." She could feel blood, warm and wet, trickling down her skin, but the pain was nothing compared to her satisfaction at seeing the look of fear on Mortmain's face.

  He spoke through gritted teeth. "What is it you want from me?"

  "No. What is it you want from me? Tell me. Tell me why you created me. Tell me who my true parents are. Was my mother really my mother? My father, my father?"

  Mortmain's smile was twisted. "You are asking the wrong questions, Miss Gray."

  "Why am I ... what I am, and Nate is only human? Why is he not like me?"

  "Nathaniel is only your half brother. He is nothing more than a human being, and not a very good example of that. Do not mourn that you are not more like him."

  "Then ..." Tessa paused. Her heart was racing. "My mother could not have been a demon," she said quietly. "Or anything supernatural, because Aunt Harriet was her sister, and she was only human
. So it must have been my father. My father was a demon?"

  Mortmain grinned, a sudden ugly grin. "Put down the knife and I will give you your answers. Perhaps we can even summon up the thing that fathered you, if you are so desperate to meet him—or should I say 'it'?"

  "Then I am a warlock," Tessa said. Her throat felt tight. "That is what you are saying."

  Mortmain's pale eyes were full of scorn. "If you insist," he said, "I suppose that is the best word for what you are."

  Tessa heard Magnus Bane's clear voice in her head: Oh, you're a warlock. Depend on it. And yet—

  "I don't believe any of this," Tessa said. "My mother, she would never have—not with a demon."

  "She had no idea." Mortmain sounded almost pitying. "No idea that she was being unfaithful to your father."

  Tessa's stomach lurched. This was nothing she hadn't thought might be possible, nothing she hadn't wondered about. Still, to hear it spoken aloud was something else. "If the man I thought was my father, was not my father, and my true father was a demon," she said, "then why am I not marked like a warlock is marked?"

  Mortmain's eyes sparkled with malevolence. "Indeed, why are you not? Perhaps because your mother had no idea what she was, any more than you do."

  "What do you mean? My mother was human!"

  Mortmain shook his head. "Miss Gray, you continue to ask the wrong questions. What you must understand is that much was planned so that you would someday come to be. The planning began even before me—and I carried it forward, knowing I was overseeing the creation of something unique in the world. Something unique that would belong to me. I knew that I would one day marry you, and you would be mine forever."

  Tessa looked at him in horror. "But why? You don't love me. You don't know me. You didn't even know what I looked like! I could have been hideous!"