Clockwork Prince tid-2

by Cassandra Clare

  As the door closed behind the two women, Jem leaned forward, his arms crossed over the foot of Tessa’s brass bed. He was looking at her, smiling a little, though crookedly, his hands hanging loose—dried blood across the knuckles, and under the nails.

  “Tessa, my Tessa,” he said in his soft voice, as lulling as his violin. “I know you cannot hear me. Brother Enoch says you’re not hurt badly. I can’t say I find that enough to comfort me. It’s rather like when Will assures me that we’re only a little bit lost somewhere. I know it means we won’t be seeing a familiar street again for hours.”

  He dropped his voice, so low that Tessa wasn’t sure if what he said next was real or part of the dream darkness rising to claim her, though she fought against it.

  “I’ve never minded it,” he went on. “Being lost, that is. I had always thought one could not be truly lost if one knew one’s own heart. But I fear I may be lost without knowing yours.” He closed his eyes as if he were bone-weary, and she saw how thin his eyelids were, like parchment paper, and how tired he looked. “Wo ai ni, Tessa,” he whispered. “Wo bu xiang shi qu ni.”

  She knew, without knowing how she knew, what the words meant.

  I love you.

  And I don’t want to lose you.

  I don’t want to lose you, either, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. Lassitude rose up instead, in a dark wave, and covered her in silence.

  Darkness.

  It was dark in the cell, and Tessa was conscious first of a feeling of great loneliness and terror. Jessamine lay in the narrow bed, her fair hair hanging in lank ropes over her shoulders. Tessa both hovered over her and felt somehow as if she were touching her mind. She could feel a great aching sense of loss. Somehow Jessamine knew that Nate was dead. Before, when Tessa had tried to touch the other girl’s mind, she had met resistance, but now she felt only a growing sadness, like the stain of a drop of black ink spreading through water.

  Jessie’s brown eyes were open, staring up into the darkness. I have nothing. The words were as clear as a bell in Tessa’s mind. I chose Nate over the Shadowhunters, and now he is dead, and Mortmain will want me dead as well, and Charlotte despises me. I have gambled and lost everything.

  As Tessa watched, Jessamine reached up and drew a small cord from her neck over her head. At the end of the cord was a gold ring with a glittering white stone—a diamond. Clasping it between her fingers, she began to use the diamond to scratch letters into the stone wall.

  JG.

  Jessamine Gray.

  There might have been more to the message, but Tessa would never find out; as Jessamine pressed down on the gemstone, it shattered, and her hand slammed against the wall, scraping her knuckles.

  Tessa did not need to touch Jessamine’s mind to know what she was thinking. Even the diamond had not been real. With a low cry Jessamine rolled over and buried her face in the rough blankets of the bed.

  When Tessa woke again, it was dark. Faint starlight streamed through the high infirmary windows, and there was a witchlight lamp lit on the table near her bed. Beside it was a cup of tisane, steam rising from it, and a small plate of biscuits. She rose to a sitting position, about to reach for the cup—and froze.

  Will was seated on the bed beside hers, wearing a loose shirt and trousers and a black dressing gown. His skin was pale in the starlight, but even the light’s dimness couldn’t wash out the blue of his eyes. “Will,” she said, startled, “what are you doing awake?” Had he been watching her sleep, she wondered? But what an odd and un-Will-like thing to do.

  “I brought you a tisane,” he said, a little stiffly. “But you sounded as if you were having a nightmare.”

  “Did I? I don’t even remember what I dreamed.” She drew the covers up over herself, though her modest nightgown more than covered her. “I thought I had been escaping into sleep—that real life was the nightmare and that sleep was where I could find peace.”

  Will picked up the mug and moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Here. Drink this.”

  She took the cup from him obediently. The tisane had a bitter but appealing taste, like the zest of a lemon. “What will it do?” she asked.

  “Calm you,” said Will.

  She looked at him, the taste of lemon in her mouth. There seemed a haze across her vision; seen through it, Will looked like something out of a dream. “How are your injuries? Are you in pain?”

  He shook his head. “Once all the metal was out, they were able to use an iratze on me,” he said. “The wounds are not completely healed, but they are healing. By tomorrow they will be scars.”

  “I am jealous.” She took another sip of the tisane. It was beginning to make her feel light-headed. She touched the bandage across her forehead. “I believe it will be a good while before this comes off.”

  “In the meantime you can enjoy looking like a pirate.”

  She laughed, but it was shaky. Will was close enough to her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. He was furnace-hot. “Do you have a fever?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  “The iratze raises our body temperatures. It’s part of the healing process.”

  “Oh,” she said. Having him so close to her was sending little shivers through her nerves, but she felt too light-headed to draw away.

  “I am sorry about your brother,” he said softly, his breath stirring her hair.

  “You couldn’t be.” She spoke bitterly. “I know you think he deserved what he got. He probably did.”

  “My sister died. She died, and there was nothing I could do about it,” he said, and there was raw grief in his voice. “I am sorry about your brother.”

  She looked up at him. His eyes, wide and blue, that perfect face, the bow-shape of his mouth, turned down at the corners in concern. Concern for her. Her skin felt hot and tight, her head light and airy, as if she were floating. “Will,” she whispered. “Will, I feel very odd.”

  Will leaned across her to put the mug down on the table, and his shoulder brushed hers. “Do you want me to get Charlotte?”

  She shook her head. She was dreaming. She was nearly sure of it now; she had the same feeling of being in her body and yet not in it as she had had when she was dreaming of Jessamine. The knowledge that it was a dream made her bolder. Will was still leaning forward, his arm extended; she curled against him, her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She felt him jerk with surprise.

  “Did I hurt you?” she whispered, belatedly remembering his back.

  “I don’t care,” he said fervently. “I don’t care.” His arms went around her, and he held her; she rested her cheek against the warm juncture of his neck and shoulder. She heard the echo of his pulse and smelled the scent of him, blood and sweat and soap and magic. It was not like it had been on the balcony, all fire and desire. He held her carefully, laying his cheek against her hair. He was shaking, even as his chest rose and fell, even as he hesitantly slid his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face . . .

  “Will,” Tessa said. “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter what you do. We’re dreaming, you know.”

  “Tess?” Will sounded alarmed. His arms tightened about her. She felt warm and soft and dizzy. If only Will really were like this, she thought, not just in dreams. The bed rolled under her like a boat set adrift on the sea. She closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

  The night air was cold, the fog thick and yellowish-green under the intermittent pools of gaslight as Will made his way down King’s Road. The address Magnus had given him was on Cheyne Walk, down near the Chelsea Embankment, and Will could already smell the familiar scent of the river, silt and water and dirt and rot.

  He had been trying to keep his heart from beating its way out of his chest ever since he had found Magnus’s note, neatly folded on a tray on the table beside his bed. It had said nothing beyond a curtly scrawled address: 16 Cheyne Walk. Will was familiar with the Walk and the area around it. Chelsea, near the river, was a popular haunt for artists a
nd literary types, and the windows of the public houses he passed glowed with welcoming yellow light.

  He drew his coat around him as he turned a corner, making his way south. His back and legs still ached from the injuries he had sustained, despite the iratzes; he was sore, as if he’d been stung by dozens of bees. And yet he hardly felt it. His mind was full of possibilities. What had Magnus discovered? Surely he would not summon Will if there were no reason? And his body was full of Tessa, the feel and scent of her. Strangely, what pierced his heart and mind most sharply was not the memory of her lips under his at the ball, but the way she had leaned into him tonight, her head on his shoulder, her breath soft against his neck, as if she trusted him utterly. He would have given everything he had in the world and everything he would ever have, just to lie beside her in the narrow infirmary bed and hold her while she slept. Pulling away from her had been like pulling his own skin off, but he’d had to do it.

  The way he always had to. The way he always had to deny himself what he wanted.

  But maybe—after tonight—

  He cut the thought off before it bloomed in his mind. Better not to think about it; better not to hope and be disappointed. He looked around. He was on Cheyne Walk now, with its fine houses with their Georgian fronts. He stopped in front of number 16. It was tall, with a wrought iron fence about it and a prominent bay window. Set into the fence was an ornately worked gate; it was open, and he slipped inside and made his way up to the front door, where he rang the bell.

  To his great surprise it was opened not by a footman but by Woolsey Scott, his blond hair in tangles to his shoulders. He wore a dark green dressing gown of Chinese brocade over a pair of dark trousers and a bare chest. A gold-rimmed monocle perched in one eye. He carried a pipe in his left hand, and as he examined Will at his leisure, he exhaled, sending out a cloud of sweet-smelling, cough-inducing smoke. “Finally broken down and admitted you’re in love with me, have you?” he inquired of Will. “I do enjoy these surprise midnight declarations.” He leaned against the door frame and waved a languid ringed hand. “Go along, have at it.”

  For once Will was speechless. It was not a position he found himself in often, and he was forced to admit that he did not like it.

  “Oh, leave him be, Woolsey,” said a familiar voice from inside the house—Magnus, hurrying along the corridor. He was fastening his shirt cuffs as he came forward, and his hair was a thicket of mussed black tangles. “I told you Will would be coming by.”

  Will looked from Magnus to Woolsey. Magnus was barefoot; so was the werewolf. Woolsey had a glimmering gold chain around his neck. From it hung a pendant that said Beati Bellicosi, “Blessed Are the Warriors.” Beneath it was an imprint of a wolf’s paw. Scott noticed Will staring at it and grinned. “Like what you see?” he inquired.

  “Woolsey,” said Magnus.

  “Your note to me did have something to do with demon summoning, didn’t it?” Will asked, looking at Magnus. “This isn’t you . . . calling in your favor, is it?”

  Magnus shook his rumpled head. “No. This is business, nothing else. Woolsey’s been kind enough to let me lodge with him while I decide what to do next.”

  “I say we go to Rome,” said Scott. “I adore Rome.”

  “All well and fine, but first I need the use of a room. Preferably one with little or nothing in it.”

  Scott removed his monocle and stared at Magnus. “And you’re going to do what in this room?” His tone was more than suggestive.

  “Summon the demon Marbas,” said Magnus, flashing a grin.

  Scott choked on his pipe smoke. “I suppose we all have our ideas about what constitutes an enjoyable evening . . .”

  “Woolsey.” Magnus ran his hands through his rough black hair. “I hate to bring this up, but you do owe me. Hamburg? 1863?”

  Scott threw his hands up. “Oh, very well. You may utilize my brother’s room. No one’s used it since he died. Enjoy. I’ll be in the drawing room with a glass of sherry and some rather naughty woodcuts I had imported from Romania.”

  With that, he turned and padded off down the hall. Magnus gestured Will inside, and he entered gladly, the warmth of the house enveloping him like a blanket. Since there was no footman, he slid off his blue wool frock coat and draped it over his arm as Magnus watched him with a curious gaze. “Will,” he said. “I see you wasted no time after you got my note. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “You know what this means to me,” said Will. “Did you really think I’d delay?”

  Magnus’s eyes searched his face. “You are prepared,” he said. “For this to fail? For the demon to be the incorrect one? For the summoning not to work?”

  For a long moment Will could not move. He could see his own face in the mirror that hung by the door. He was horrified to see how raw he looked—as if there were no longer any wall between the world and his own heart’s desires. “No,” he said. “I am not prepared.”

  Magnus shook his head. “Will . . .” He sighed. “Come with me.”

  He turned with catlike grace and made his way down the hall and up the curving wooden steps. Will followed, up through the shadowed staircase, the thick Persian stair runner muffling his footsteps. Niches set back in the walls contained polished marble statues of entwined bodies. Will looked away from them hastily, and then back. It wasn’t as if Magnus seemed to be paying attention to what Will was doing, and he’d honestly never imagined two people could get themselves into a position like that, much less make it look artistic.

  They reached the second landing, and Magnus padded off down the corridor, opening doors as he went and muttering to himself. Finally finding the correct room, he threw the door open and gestured for Will to follow him.

  The bedroom of Woolsey Scott’s dead brother was dark and cold, and the air smelled of dust. Automatically Will fumbled for his witchlight, but Magnus waved a dismissing hand at him, blue fire sparking from his fingertips. A fire roared up suddenly in the grate, lighting the room. It was furnished, though everything had been draped with white cloths—the bed, the wardrobe and dressers. As Magnus stalked through the room, rolling up his shirtsleeves and gesturing with his hands, the furniture began to slide back from the center of the room. The bed swung around and lay flat against the wall; the chairs and bureaus and washstand flew into the corners of the room.

  Will whistled. Magnus grinned. “Easily impressed,” Magnus said, though he sounded slightly out of breath. He knelt down in the now denuded center of the room and hastily drew a pentagram. In each point of the occult symbol, he scrawled a rune, though none were runes Will knew from the Gray Book. Magnus raised his arms and held them out over the star; he began to chant, and gashes opened up in his wrists, spilling blood into the pentagram’s center. Will tensed as the blood struck the floor and began to burn with an eerie blue glow. Magnus backed out of the pentagram, still chanting, reached into his pocket, and produced the demon’s tooth. As Will watched, Magnus tossed it into the now flaming center of the star.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then, out of the burning heart of the fire, a dark shape began to take form. Magnus had stopped chanting; he stood, his narrowed eyes focused on the pentagram and what was happening within it, the gashes on his arms closing swiftly. There was little sound in the room, just the crackle of the fire and Will’s harsh breathing, loud in his own ears, as the dark shape grew in size—coalesced, and, finally, took a solid, recognizable shape.

  It was the blue demon from the party, no longer dressed in evening wear. Its body was covered in overlapping blue scales, and a long yellowish tail with a stinger on the end switched back and forth behind it. The demon looked from Magnus to Will, its scarlet eyes narrowed.

  “Who summons the demon Marbas?” it demanded in a voice that sounded as if its words were echoing from the bottom of a well.

  Magnus jerked his chin toward the pentagram. The message was clear: This was Will’s business now.

  Will took a step forward. “You don’t rem
ember me?”

  “I remember you,” the demon growled. “You chased me through the grounds of the Lightwood country house. You tore out one of my teeth.” It opened its mouth, showing the gap. “I tasted your blood.” Its voice was a hiss. “When I escape this pentagram, I will taste it again, Nephilim.”

  “No.” Will stood his ground. “I’m asking you if you remember me.”

  The demon was silent. Its eyes, dancing with fire, were unreadable.

  “Five years ago,” said Will. “A box. A Pyxis. I opened it, and you emerged. We were in my father’s library. You attacked, but my sister fended you off with a seraph blade. Do you recollect me now?”

  There was a long, long silence. Magnus kept his cat’s eyes fixed on the demon. There was an implied threat in them, one that Will couldn’t read. “Speak the truth,” Magnus said finally. “Or it will go badly for you, Marbas.”

  The demon’s head swung toward Will. “You,” it said reluctantly. “You are that boy. Edmund Herondale’s son.”

  Will sucked in a breath. He felt suddenly light-headed, as if he were going to pass out. He dug his nails into his palms, hard, gashing the skin, letting the pain clear his head. “You remember.”

  “I had been trapped for twenty years in that thing,” Marbas snarled. “Of course I remember being freed. Imagine it, if you can, idiot mortal, years of blackness, darkness, no light or movement—and then the break, the opening. And the face of the man who imprisoned you hovering just above your gaze.”

  “I am not the man who imprisoned you—”

  “No. That was your father. But you look just like him to my eyes.” The demon smirked. “I remember your sister. Brave girl, fending me off with that blade she could hardly use.”