Will loved to gallop—flat to the horse’s back, with the wind in his hair, and Balios’s hooves eating up the road underneath him. Now that he was gone from London, he felt both a tearing pain and a strange freedom. It was odd to feel both at once, but he could not help it. Near Colney there were ponds; he had stopped to water Balios there before journeying on.
Now, almost thirty miles north of London, he could not help recalling coming through this way on his way to the Institute years ago. He had brought one of his father’s horses part of the way from Wales, but had sold it in Staffordshire when he’d realized he did not have money for the toll roads. He knew now that he had gotten a very bad price, and it had been a struggle to say good-bye to Hengroen, the horse that he had grown up riding, and even more of a struggle to trudge the remaining miles to London on foot. By the time he’d reached the Institute, his feet had been bleeding, and his hands, too, where he had fallen on the road and scraped them.
He looked down at his hands now, with the memory of those hands laid over them. Thin hands with long fingers—all the Herondales had them. Jem had always said it was a shame he didn’t have a bit of musical talent, as his hands were made to span a piano. The thought of Jem was like the stab of a needle; Will pushed the memory away and turned back to Balios. He had stopped here not just to water the horse but to feed him a handful of oats—good for speed and endurance—and let him rest. He had often heard of cavalry riding their horses until they died, but desperate as he was to get to Tessa, he could not imagine doing something so cruel.
There was a deal of traffic; carts on the road, dray horses with brewery wagons, dairy vans, even the odd horse-drawn omnibus. Really, did all these people have to be out and about in the middle of a Wednesday, cluttering up the roads? At least there were no highwaymen; railways, toll roads, and proper police had put an end to highway robbers decades ago. Will would have hated to have to waste time killing anybody.
He had skirted Saint Albans, not bothering to stop for lunch in his hurry to catch up to Watling Street—the ancient Roman road that now split at Wroxeter, with one half crossing up to Scotland and the other cutting through England to the port of Holyhead in Wales. There were ghosts on the road—Will caught whispers of old Anglo-Saxon on the winds, calling the road Wæcelinga Stræt and speaking of the last stand of the troops of Boadicea, who had been defeated by the Romans along this road so many years ago.
Now, with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the countryside—it was three o’clock and the sky was beginning to darken, which meant that Will would soon have to consider the nightfall, and finding an inn to stop at, rest his horse, and sleep—he could not help remembering when he had told Tessa that Boadicea proved that women could be warriors too. He had not told her then that he had read her letters, that he already loved the warrior soul in her, hidden behind those quiet gray eyes.
He remembered a dream he had had, blue skies and Tessa sitting down beside him on a green hill. You will always come first in my heart. A fierce rage blossomed in his soul. How dare Mortmain touch her. She was one of them. She did not belong to Will—she was too much herself to belong to anyone, even Jem—but she belonged with them, and silently he cursed the Consul for not seeing it.
He would find her. He would find her and bring her back home, and even if she never loved him, it would be all right, he would have done this for her, for himself. He spun back toward Balios, who looked at him balefully. Will swung himself up into the saddle.
“Come on, old boy,” he said. “The sun’s going down, and we ought to make Hockliffe by nightfall, for it looks liable to rain.” He dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and Balios, as if he had understood his rider’s words, took off like a shot.
“He has gone off to Wales alone?” Charlotte demanded. “How could you have let him do something so—so stupid?”
Magnus shrugged. “It is not my responsibility now, nor will it ever be my responsibility, to manage wayward Shadowhunters. In fact, I am not sure why I am to blame. I spent the night in the library waiting for Will to come and talk to me, which he never did. Eventually I fell asleep in the Rabies and Lycanthropy section. Woolsey bites on occasion, and I’m concerned.”
No one really responded to this information, although Charlotte looked more upset than ever. It had been a quiet breakfast as it was, with quite a few of them missing from the table. Will’s absence had not been surprising. They had assumed Will was at his parabatai’s side. So it had not been until Cyril had burst in, breathless and agitated, to report that Balios was gone from his stall, that the alarm had been raised.
A search of the Institute turned up Magnus Bane asleep in a corner of the library. Charlotte had shaken him awake. On being asked where he thought Will might be, Magnus had replied quite candidly that he expected that Will had already left for Wales, with the object of discovering Tessa’s whereabouts and bringing her back to the Institute, whether by stealth or main force. This information, much to his surprise, had thrown Charlotte into a panic, and she had convened a meeting in the library, at which all the Shadowhunters of the Institute, save Jem, were commanded to appear—even Gideon, who had arrived limping and leaning heavily on a stick.
“Does anyone know when Will left?” Charlotte demanded, standing at the head of a long table around which the rest of them were seated.
Cecily, her hands folded demurely before her, suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the carpet.
“That is a very fine gem you’re wearing, Cecily,” Charlotte noted, narrowing her eyes at the ruby about the girl’s throat. “I don’t recall you having that necklace yesterday. In fact, I recall Will wearing it. When did he give it to you?”
Cecily crossed her arms over her chest. “I will say nothing. Will’s decisions are his own, and we already tried to explain to the Consul what needed to be done. Since the Clave will not help, Will took matters into his own hands. I don’t know why you expected anything different.”
“I did not think he would leave Jem,” said Charlotte, and then she looked shocked that she had said it. “I . . . I cannot even imagine how we will tell him when he wakes.”
“Jem knows—” Cecily began indignantly, but she was interrupted, to her surprise, by Gabriel.
“Of course he knows,” he said. “Will is only doing his duty as a parabatai. He is doing what Jem would be doing if he could. He has gone in Jem’s place. It is only what a parabatai should do.”
“You are defending Will?” Gideon said. “After the way you’ve always treated him? After telling Jem on dozens of occasions that he had dismal taste in parabatai?”
“Will may be a reprehensible person, but at least this demonstrates that he is not a reprehensible Shadowhunter,” said Gabriel, and then, catching Cecily’s look, he added, “He might not be that reprehensible a person, either. In entirety.”
“A very magnanimous statement, Gideon,” said Magnus.
“I’m Gabriel.”
Magnus waved a hand. “All Lightwoods look the same to me—”
“Ahem,” Gideon interrupted, before Gabriel could pick up something and throw it at Magnus. “Regardless of Will’s personal qualities and failings or anyone’s inability to tell one Lightwood from another, the question remains: Do we go after Will?”
“If Will had wanted help, he wouldn’t have ridden off in the middle of the night without telling anyone,” said Cecily.
“Yes,” said Gideon, “because Will is well known for his carefully thought-out and prudent decision making.”
“He did steal our fastest horse,” Henry pointed out. “That bespeaks forethought, of a sort.”
“We cannot allow Will to ride off to battle Mortmain alone. He’ll be slaughtered,” Gideon said. “If he really did leave in the midst of the night, we might yet be able to overtake him on the road—”
“Fastest horse,” reminded Henry, and Magnus snorted under his breath.
“Actually, it is not an inevitable slaughter,” Gabriel said.
“We could all ride off after Will, certainly, but the fact is that such a force, sent against the Magister, would be more noticeable than one boy on horseback. Will’s best hope is remaining undetected. After all, he is not riding off to war. He is going to save Tessa. Stealth and secrecy best behoove such a mission—”
Charlotte slammed her hand down on the table with such force that the sound reverberated through the room. “All of you be silent,” she said, in such a commanding tone that even Magnus looked alarmed. “Gabriel, Gideon, you are both correct. It is better for Will if we do not follow him, and we cannot allow one of our own to perish. It is also true that the Magister is beyond our reach; the Council will meet to decide on that matter. There is nothing we can do about that now. Therefore we must bend all our energies to saving Jem. He is dying, but not dead. Part of Will’s strength relies on him, and he is one of our own. He has finally given us permission to seek a cure for him, and therefore we must do that.”
“But—,” Gabriel began.
“Silence,” Charlotte said. “I am the head of the Institute; you will remember who saved you from your father and show me respect.”
“That’s putting Gideon in his place, all right,” Magnus said with satisfaction.
Charlotte turned on him with blazing eyes. “And you, too, Warlock; Will may have summoned you here, but you remain on my sufferance. It is my understanding that, as you told me this morning, you promised Will that you would do all you could to help find a cure for Jem while Will was gone. You will be telling Gabriel and Cecily where the shop is from which they might procure the ingredients you need. Gideon, since you are wounded, you will remain in the library and seek out whatever books Magnus requires; if you need help, myself or Sophie will provide it. Henry, perhaps Magnus can use your crypt as a laboratory, unless there is a project you are engaged in that would forbid it?” She looked at Henry with her eyebrows raised.
“There is,” Henry said a bit hesitantly, “but it might also be turned to helping Jem, and I would welcome Mr. Bane’s assistance. In return he can certainly make use of any of my scientific implements.”
Magnus looked at him curiously. “What are you working on, exactly?”
“Well, you know that we do not perform magic, Mr. Bane,” said Henry, looking delighted that anyone was taking an interest in his experiments, “but I am at work on a device a bit like the scientific version of a transportation spell. It would open a doorway into anyplace you wanted—”
“Including perhaps a storeroom full of yin fen in China?” Magnus said, with his eyes aglint. “That sounds very interesting, very interesting indeed.”
“No, it doesn’t,” muttered Gabriel.
Charlotte fixed him with a dagger gaze. “Mr. Lightwood, enough. I believe you have all been assigned your tasks. Go forth and perform them. I wish to hear no more from any of you until you bring me back a report of some progress made. I will be with Jem.” And with that, she swept from the room.
“What a very satisfying response,” said Mrs. Black.
Tessa glared. She was crouched in her corner of the carriage, as far as she could get from the horrible sight of the creature that had once been Mrs. Black. She had screamed at the first sight of her, and hastily clapped a hand over her mouth; but it was too late. Mrs. Black had been plainly delighted by her terrified reaction.
“You were beheaded,” Tessa said. “How is it that you live? Like that?”
“Magic,” said Mrs. Black. “It was your brother who suggested to Mortmain that in my current form I could be of use to him. It was your brother who spilled the blood that made my continued existence possible. Lives for my life.”
She grinned horribly, and Tessa thought of her brother, dying in her arms. You don’t know everything I’ve done, Tessie. She swallowed back bile. After her brother was dead, she had tried to Change into him, to glean any information about Mortmain she could from his memories, but they had been only a gray swirl of anger and bitterness and ambition: she had found nothing solid within them. A fresh surge of hate welled in her for Mortmain, who had found her brother’s weaknesses and exploited them. Mortmain, who held Jem’s yin fen in a cruel attempt to make the Shadowhunters dance to his tune. Even Mrs. Black, in a way, was a prisoner of his manipulations.
“You are doing Mortmain’s bidding because you think he will give you a body,” Tessa said now. “Not that—that thing you have, but some sort of real, human body.”
“Human.” Mrs. Black snorted. “I expect better than human. But better than this as well, something that will allow me to pass undetected among mundanes and practice my craft again. As for the Magister, I know he will have the power to do it, because of you. He will soon be all-powerful, and you will help him get there.”
“You are a fool to trust him to reward you.”
Mrs. Black’s gray lips wobbled with mirth. “Oh, but he will. He has sworn it, and I have done everything I promised. Here I am delivering his perfect bride—trained by me! By Azazel, I remember when you stepped off the boat from America. You seemed so purely mortal, so entirely useless, I despaired of ever training you to be any sort of use at all. But with enough brutality anything can be shaped. You will serve nicely now.”
“Not all that is mortal is useless.”
A snort. “You say that because of your association with the Nephilim. You have been with them rather than your own kind for far too long.”
“What kind? I have no kind. Jessamine said my mother was a Shadowhunter—”
“She was a Shadowhunter,” said Mrs. Black. “But your father was not.”
Tessa’s heart skipped a beat. “He was a demon?”
“He was no angel.” Mrs. Black smirked. “The Magister will explain it all to you, in time—what you are, and why you live, and what you were created for.” She settled back with a creak of automated joints. “I have to say that I was almost impressed when you ran off with that Shadowhunter boy, you know. It showed you had spirit. In fact, it turned out to the Magister’s benefit that you have spent so much time with the Nephilim. You are acquainted with Downworld now, and you have shown yourself equal to it. You have been forced to use your gift in arduous circumstances. Tests that I might have created for you would not have been as challenging and would not have yielded the same learning and confidence. I can see the difference in you. You will make a fine bride for the Magister.”
Tessa made a sound of disbelief. “Why? I am being forced to marry him. What difference does it make if I have spirit or learning? What could he possibly care?”
“Oh, you are to be more than his bride, Miss Gray. You are to be the ruin of the Nephilim. That is why you were created. And the more knowledge of them you have, the more your sympathies lie with them, the more effective a weapon you will be to raze them to the ground.”
Tessa felt as if the air had been knocked out of her. “I don’t care what Mortmain does. I will not cooperate in harming the Shadowhunters. I would die or be tortured first.”
“It does not matter what you want. You will find that there is no resistance you could mount against his will that would matter. Besides, there is nothing you need do to destroy the Nephilim other than be what you are. And be married to Mortmain, which requires no action on your part.”
“I’m engaged to someone else,” spat Tessa. “James Carstairs.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Black. “I’m afraid the Magister’s claim supersedes his. Besides, James Carstairs will be dead by Tuesday. Mortmain has bought up all the yin fen in England and blocked any new shipments. Perhaps you should have thought of this sort of thing before you fell in love with an addict. Although I did think it would be the blue-eyed one,” she mused. “Don’t girls usually fall in love with their rescuers?”
Tessa felt the cloak of the surreal begin to descend. She could not believe that she was here, trapped in this carriage with Mrs. Black, and that the warlock woman seemed content to discuss Tessa’s romantic tribulations. She turned toward the window. The moon was up,
and she could see that they were riding along a narrow road—there were shadows about the carriage, and below, a rocky ravine fell away into darkness. “There are all sorts of ways of being rescued.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Black, with a glint of teeth as she smiled. “You can be assured that no one will be coming to rescue you now.”
You are to be the ruin of the Nephilim.
“Then I will have to rescue myself,” Tessa said. Mrs. Black’s eyebrows drew together in puzzlement as she turned her head toward Tessa with a whir and a click. But Tessa was already gathering herself, gathering all her energy in her legs and body in the way that she had been taught, so that when she launched herself across the carriage at the door, it was with all the force she possessed.
She heard the lock on the door break and Mrs. Black scream, a high whine of rage. A metal arm raked Tessa’s back, seizing the collar of her dress, which tore away, and Tessa was falling, slamming down onto the rocks by the side of the road, falling and sliding and tumbling into the ravine as the carriage hurtled away down the road, Mrs. Black screaming at the driver to stop. Wind rushed into Tessa’s ears as she fell, her arms and hands windmilling wildly against the empty space all around her, and any hopes that the ravine was shallow or that the fall would be survivable were gone. As she fell, she glimpsed a narrow stream glinting far below her, twisting among jagged rocks, and she knew she would break against the ground like fragile china when she struck.
She closed her eyes and willed that the end be quick.
Will stood at the top of a high green hill and looked out over the sea. The sky and sea were both so intensely blue that they seemed to merge one into the other, so that there was no fixed point upon the horizon. Gulls and terns wheeled and shrieked above him, and the salt wind blew through his hair. It was as warm as summer, and his jacket lay discarded on the grass; he was in shirtsleeves and braces, and his hands were brown and tanned by the sun.
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