Clockwork Angel tid-1

by Cassandra Clare

  Tessa wasn't sure she believed any of this, but as Jessamine was patently uninterested in giving up her place by Nathaniel's side, and it hardly seemed worth a battle, she turned with a disgusted sigh and left the room.

  The door to the drawing room, when she reached it, was slightly ajar; she could hear raised voices from the other side. She hesitated, her hand half-lifted to knock—then she heard the sound of her own name and she froze.

  "This isn't the London Hospital. Tessa's brother shouldn't be here!" It was Will's voice, raised to a shout. "He's not a Downworlder, just a stupid, venal mundane who found himself mixed up in something he couldn't manage—"

  Charlotte replied, "He can't be treated by mundane doctors. Not for what's wrong with him. Be reasonable, Will."

  "He already knows about Downworld." The voice was Jem's: calm, logical. "In fact, he may know quite a bit of important information that we don't know. Mortmain claimed Nathaniel was working for de Quincey; he might have information about de Quincey's plans, the automatons, the whole Magister business—all of it. De Quincey wanted him dead, after all. Perhaps it was because he knew something he shouldn't."

  There was a long silence. Then, "We can call in the Silent Brothers again, then," said Will. "They can claw through his mind, see what they find. We needn't wait for him to wake up."

  "You know that sort of process is delicate with mundanes," protested Charlotte. "Brother Enoch has already said that the fever has driven Mr. Gray into hallucinations. It's impossible for him to sort through what in the boy's mind is the truth and what is feverish delirium. Not without damaging his mind, possibly permanently."

  "I doubt it was that much of a mind to begin with." Tessa heard Will's tone of disgust even through the door and felt her stomach tighten with rage.

  "You know nothing about the man." Jem spoke more coldly than Tessa had ever heard him speak before. "I can't imagine what's driving this mood of yours, Will, but it does you no credit."

  "I know what it is," Charlotte said.

  "You do?" Will sounded appalled.

  "You're as upset as I am about how last night went. We had only two fatalities, true, but de Quincey's escape doesn't reflect well on us. It was my plan. I pushed it on the Enclave, and now they will blame me for anything that went wrong. Not to mention that Camille has had to go into hiding since we've no idea where de Quincey is, and by now he probably has a blood price on her head. And Magnus Bane, of course, is furious with us that Camille has vanished. So our best informant and our best warlock are lost to us at the moment."

  "But we did stop de Quincey from murdering Tessa's brother and who knows how many more mundanes," Jem said. "That should count for something. Benedict Lightwood didn't want to believe in de Quincey's betrayal at first; now he has no choice. He knows you were right."

  "That," said Charlotte, "is likely only going to make him angrier."

  "Perhaps," said Will. "And perhaps if you hadn't insisted on tying the success of my plan to the functionality of one of Henry's ridiculous inventions, we wouldn't be having this conversation now. You can dance around it all you like, but the reason everything went wrong last night is because the Phosphor didn't work. Nothing Henry invents ever works. If you'd just admit your husband's a useless fool, we'd all be a lot better off."

  "Will." Jem's voice held cold fury.

  "No. James, don't." Charlotte's voice shook; there was a sort of thump, as if she'd sat herself down very suddenly in a chair. "Will," she said, "Henry is a good, kind man and he loves you."

  "Don't be maudlin, Charlotte." Will's voice held only scorn.

  "He's known you since you were a boy. He cares for you like you were his own younger brother. As do I. All I've ever done is love you, Will—"

  "Yes," said Will, "and I wish you wouldn't."

  Charlotte made a pained noise, like a kicked puppy. "I know you don't mean that."

  "I mean everything I say," said Will. "Especially when I tell you that we're better off sifting through Nathaniel Gray's mind now rather than later. If you're too sentimental to do it—"

  Charlotte began to interrupt, but it didn't matter. This was too much for Tessa. She hurled the door open and stalked inside. The inside of the room was lit by a roaring fire, in contrast to the squares of dark gray glass that let in what there was of the cloudy twilight. Charlotte sat behind the large desk, Jem in a chair beside her. Will, on the other hand, was leaning against the fireplace mantel; he was flushed with obvious anger, his eyes blazing, his shirt collar askew. His eyes met Tessa's for a moment of pure astonishment. Any hope she had entertained that he might have magically forgotten what had happened in the attic the night before vanished. He flushed at the sight of her, his fathomless blue eyes darkening—and looked away, as if he couldn't stand to hold her gaze.

  "I suppose you've been eavesdropping, then?" he asked. "And now you're here to give me a piece of your mind about your precious brother?"

  "At least I have a mind to give you a piece of, which Nathaniel won't, if you have your way." Tessa turned to Charlotte. "I won't let Brother Enoch go pawing through Nate's mind. He's sick enough already; it would probably kill him."

  Charlotte shook her head. She looked exhausted, her face gray, her eyelids drooping. Tessa wondered if she'd slept at all. "Most assuredly, we will allow him to heal before we think about questioning him."

  "What if he's ill for weeks? Or months?" Will said. "We might not have that much time."

  "Why not? What's so urgent you want to risk my brother's life on it?" Tessa snapped.

  Will's eyes were slivers of blue glass. "All you've ever cared about is finding your brother. And now you've found him. Good for you. But that was never our goal. You do realize that, don't you? We don't usually go quite this far out of our way for the sake of one delinquent mundane."

  "What Will is trying to say," Jem interjected, "though failing at civility, is—" He broke off, and sighed. "De Quincey said that your brother was someone he had trusted. And now de Quincey is gone, and we have no idea where he's hiding. The notes we found in his office hint that de Quincey believed there would soon be a war between Downworlders and Shadowhunters, a war those clockwork creatures he was working on doubtless figured into prominently. You can see why we want to know where he is, and what else your brother might know."

  "Maybe you want to know those things," Tessa said, "but it's not my fight. I'm not a Shadowhunter."

  "Indeed," said Will. "Don't think we don't know that."

  "Be quiet, Will." Charlotte's tone held more than its usual asperity. She turned from him to Tessa, her brown eyes beseeching. "We trust you, Tessa. You need to trust us, too."

  "No," Tessa said. "No, I don't." She could feel Will's gaze on her and was suddenly filled with a startling rage. How dare he be cold to her, angry at her? What had she done to deserve it? She'd let him kiss her. That was all. Somehow, it was as if that alone had erased everything else she had done that evening—as if now that she'd kissed Will, it no longer mattered that she had also been brave. "You wanted to use me—just like the Dark Sisters did—and the moment you had a chance to, the moment Lady Belcourt came along and you needed what I could do, you wanted me to do it. Never mind how dangerous it was! You behave as if I have some responsibility to your world, your laws and your Accords, but it's your world, and you're the ones meant to govern it. It's not my fault if you're doing a rotten job!"

  Tessa saw Charlotte whiten and sit back. She felt a sharp twinge in her chest. It wasn't Charlotte she had meant to hurt. Still, she went on. She couldn't help herself, the words coming out in a flood, "All your talk about Downworlders and how you don't hate them. That's all nothing, isn't it? Just words. You don't mean them. And as for mundanes, have you ever thought maybe you'd be better at protecting them if you didn't despise them all so much?" She looked at Will. He was pale, his eyes blazing. He looked—she wasn't sure she could describe his expression. Horrified, she thought, but not at her; the horror ran deeper than that.

&nbs
p; "Tessa," Charlotte protested, but Tessa was already fumbling for the door. She turned at the last moment, on the threshold, to see them all staring at her.

  "Stay away from my brother," she snapped. "And don't follow me."

  * * *

  Anger, Tessa thought, was satisfying in its own way, when you gave in to it. There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out.

  Of course, the aftermath was less pleasant. Once you'd told everyone you hated them and not to come after you, where exactly did you go? If she went back to her own room, it was as much as saying she was just having a tantrum that would wear off. She couldn't go to Nate and bring her black mood into his sickroom, and lurking anywhere else meant risking being found sulking by Sophie or Agatha.

  In the end she took the narrow, winding stairs that led down through the Institute. She made her way through the witch-lit nave and came out onto the broad front steps of the church, where she sank down on the top stair and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the unexpectedly cold breeze. It must have rained sometime during the day, for the steps were damp, and the black stone of the courtyard shone like a mirror. The moon was out, darting in between racing scuds of cloud, and the huge iron gate gleamed blackly in the fitful light. We are dust and shadows.

  "I know what you're thinking." The voice that came from the doorway behind Tessa was soft enough that it could almost have been part of the wind that rattled the leaves on the tree branches.

  Tessa turned. Jem stood in the arch of the doorway, the white witchlight behind him lighting his hair so that it shone like metal. His face, though, was hidden in shadow. He held his cane in his right hand; the dragon's eyes gleamed watchfully at Tessa.

  "I don't think you do."

  "You're thinking, If they call this damp nastiness summer, what must winter be like? You'd be surprised. Winter's actually much the same." He moved away from the door and sat down on the step beside Tessa, though not too close. "It's spring that's really lovely."

  "Is it?" Tessa said, without much real interest.

  "No. It's actually quite foggy and wet as well." He looked sideways at her. "I know you said not to follow you. But I was rather hoping you just meant Will."

  "I did." Tessa twisted round to look up at him. "I shouldn't have shouted like that."

  "No, you were quite right to say what you did," said Jem. "We Shadowhunters have been what we are for so long, and are so insular, that we often forget to look at any situation from someone else's point of view. It is only ever about whether something is good for the Nephilim or bad for the Nephilim. Sometimes I think we forget to ask whether it is good or bad for the world."

  "I never meant to hurt Charlotte."

  "Charlotte is very sensitive about the way the Institute is run. As a woman, she must fight to be heard, and even then her decisions are second-guessed. You heard Benedict Lightwood at the Enclave meeting. She feels she has no freedom to make a mistake."

  "Do any of us? Do any of you? Everything is life and death to you." Tessa took a long breath of the foggy air. It tasted of city, metal and ashes and horses and river water. "I just—I feel sometimes as if I can't bear it. Any of it. I wish I'd never learned what I was. I wish Nate had stayed home and none of this had ever happened!"

  "Sometimes," Jem said, "our lives can change so fast that the change outpaces our minds and hearts. It's those times, I think, when our lives have altered but we still long for the time before everything was altered—that is when we feel the greatest pain. I can tell you, though, from experience, you grow accustomed to it. You learn to live your new life, and you can't imagine, or even really remember, how things were before."

  "You're saying I'll get used to being a warlock, or whatever it is that I am."

  "You've always been what you are. That's not new. What you'll get used to is knowing it."

  Tessa took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I didn't mean what I said upstairs," she said. "I don't think the Nephilim are as dreadful as all that."

  "I know you didn't mean it. If you had, you wouldn't be here. You'd be at your brother's side, guarding him against our dire intentions."

  "Will didn't really mean what he said, either, did he," Tessa said after a moment. "He wouldn't hurt Nate."

  "Ah." Jem looked out toward the gate, his gray eyes thoughtful. "You're correct. But I'm surprised you know it. I know it. But I have had years to understand Will. To know when he means what he says and when he doesn't."

  "So you don't ever get angry at him?"

  Jem laughed out loud. "I would hardly say that. Sometimes I want to strangle him."

  "How on earth do you prevent yourself?"

  "I go to my favorite place in London," said Jem, "and I stand and look at the water, and I think about the continuity of life, and how the river rolls on, oblivious of the petty upsets in our lives."

  Tessa was fascinated. "Does that work?"

  "Not really, but after that I think about how I could kill him while he slept if I really wanted to, and then I feel better."

  Tessa giggled. "So where is it, then? This favorite place of yours?"

  For a moment Jem looked pensive. Then he bounded to his feet, and held out the hand that did not clasp the cane. "Come along, and I'll show you."

  "Is it far?"

  "Not at all." He smiled. He had a lovely smile, Tessa thought—and a contagious one. She couldn't help smiling back, for what felt like the first time in ages.

  Tessa let herself be pulled to her feet. Jem's hand was warm and strong, surprisingly reassuring. She glanced back at the Institute once, hesitated, and let him draw her through the iron gate and out into the shadows of the city.

  14

  BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE

  Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew

  Wanted to know what the River knew,

  For they were young and the Thames was old,

  And this is the tale that the River told.

  —Rudyard Kipling, "The River's Tale"

  Stepping through the Institute's iron gate, Tessa felt a bit like Sleeping Beauty leaving her castle behind its wall of thorns. The Institute was in the center of a square, and streets left the square in each cardinal direction, plunging into narrow labyrinths between houses. Still with his hand courteously on her elbow, Jem led Tessa down a narrow passage. The sky overhead was like steel. The ground was still damp from the rain earlier in the day, and the sides of the buildings that seemed to press in on either side were streaked with damp and stained with black residues of dust.

  Jem talked as they went, not saying much of import but keeping up a soothing chatter, telling her what he had thought of London when he had first come here, how everything had seemed to him a uniform shade of gray—even the people! He had been unable to believe it could rain so much in one place, and so unceasingly. The damp had seemed to come up from the floors and into his bones, so that he'd thought he would eventually sprout mold, in the manner of a tree. "You do get used to it," he said as they came out from the narrow passage and into the broadness of Fleet Street. "Even if sometimes you feel as if you ought to be able to be wrung out like a washrag."

  Remembering the chaos of the street during the day, Tessa was comforted to see how much quieter it was in the evening, the thronging crowds reduced to the occasional figure striding along the pavement, head down, keeping to the shadows. There were still carriages and even single riders in the road, though none seemed to notice Tessa and Jem. A glamour at work? Tessa wondered, but didn't ask. She was enjoying just listening to Jem talk. This was the oldest part of the city, he told her, where London had been born. The shops that lined the street were closed, their blinds drawn, but advertisements still blared from every surface, advertisements for everything from Pears soap to hair tonic to announcements urging people to attend a lecture on spiritualism. As Tessa walked, she caught glimpses of the spires of the Institute between the buildings, and couldn't help but wonder if anyone else could see them. Sh
e remembered the parrot woman with the green skin and feathers. Was the Institute really hidden in plain sight? Curiosity getting the better of her, she asked Jem as much.

  "Let me show you something," he said. "Stop here." He took Tessa by the elbow and turned her so that she was facing across the street. He pointed. "What do you see there?"

  She squinted across the street; they were near the intersection of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. There seemed nothing remarkable about where they stood. "The front of a bank. What else is there to see?"

  "Now let your mind wander a bit," he said, still in the same soft voice. "Look at something else, the way you might avoid looking directly at a cat so as not to frighten it. Glance at the bank again, out of the corner of your eye. Now look at it, directly, and very fast!"

  Tessa did as directed—and stared. The bank was gone; in its place was a half-timbered tavern, with great diamond-paned windows. The light within the windows was tinted with a reddish glow, and through the open front door more red light poured out onto the pavement. Through the glass dark shadows moved—not the familiar shadows of men and women, but shapes too tall and thin, too oddly elongated or many-limbed to be human. Bursts of laughter interrupted a high, sweet, thin music, haunting and seductive. A sign hanging over the door showed a man reaching to tweak the nose of a horned demon. Lettered below the image were the words the devil tavern.

  This is where Will was the other night. Tessa looked toward Jem. He was staring at the tavern, his hand light on her arm, his breathing slow and soft. She could see the red light of the pub reflected in his silvery eyes like sunset on water. "Is this your favorite place?" she asked.

  The intensity went out of his gaze; he looked at her, and laughed. "Lord, no," he said. "Just something I wanted you to see."

  Someone came out the tavern door then, a man in a long black overcoat, an elegant watered silk hat placed firmly on his head. As he glanced up the street, Tessa saw that his skin was an inky dark blue, his hair and beard as white as ice. He moved east toward the Strand as Tessa watched, wondering if he would garner curious stares, but his passage was no more noted by passersby than that of a ghost would be. In fact, the mundanes who passed in front of the Devil Tavern seemed barely to notice it at all, even when several spindly, chittering figures exited and nearly knocked over a tired-looking man wheeling an empty cart. He paused to look around for a moment, puzzled, then shrugged and went on.