Clockwork Prince tid-2 Read online

  “Magnus,” she said, and her voice, as always, sounded like silvery bells. “Did you miss me?”

  Magnus sat up straight. The firelight played over Camille’s shining hair, her poreless white skin. She was extraordinarily beautiful. “I did not realize you would be favoring me with your presence tonight.”

  She looked at Will, asleep on the sofa. Her lips curled upward. “Clearly.”

  “You sent no message. In fact, you have sent me no messages at all since you left London.”

  “Are you reproaching me, Magnus?” Camille sounded amused. Gliding behind the sofa, she leaned over the back, looking down into Will’s face. “Will Herondale,” she said. “He is lovely, isn’t he? Is he your newest amusement?”

  Instead of answering, Magnus crossed his long legs in front of him. “Where have you been?”

  Camille leaned forward farther; if she had had breath, it would have stirred the curling dark hair on Will’s forehead. “Can I kiss him?”

  “No,” said Magnus. “Where have you been, Camille? Every night I lay here on your sofa and I waited to hear your step in the hall, and I wondered where you were. You might at least tell me.”

  She straightened, rolling her eyes. “Oh, very well. I was in Paris, having some new dresses fitted. A much-needed holiday from the dramas of London.”

  There was a long silence. Then, “You’re lying,” Magnus said.

  Her eyes widened. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because it’s the truth.” He took a crumpled letter from his pocket and threw it onto the floor between them. “You cannot track a vampire, but you can track a vampire’s subjugate. You took Walker with you. It was easy enough for me to track him to Saint Petersburg. I have informants there. They let me know that you were living there with a human lover.”

  Camille watched him, a little smile playing about her mouth. “And that made you jealous?”

  “Did you want me to be?”

  “Ça m’est égal,” said Camille, dropping into the French she used when she truly wanted to annoy him. “It’s all the same to me. He had nothing to do with you. He was a diversion while I was in Russia, nothing more.”

  “And now he is . . .”

  “Dead. So he hardly represents competition for you. You must let me have my little diversions, Magnus.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “Otherwise I shall become extremely cross.”

  “As you became cross with your human lover, and murdered him?” Magnus inquired. “What of pity? Compassion? Love? Or do you not feel that emotion?”

  “I love,” Camille said indignantly. “You and I, Magnus, who endure forever, love in such a manner as cannot be conceived of by mortals—a dark constant flame to their brief, sputtering light. What do they matter to you? Fidelity is a human concept, based upon the idea that we are here but for a short time. You cannot demand my faithfulness for eternity.”

  “How foolish of me. I thought I could. I thought I could at least expect you not to lie to me.”

  “You are being ridiculous,” she said. “A child. You expect me to have the morals of some mundane when I am not human, and neither are you. Regardless, there is precious little you can do about it. I will not be dictated to, certainly not by some half-breed.” It was the Downworlders’ own insulting term for warlocks. “You are devoted to me; you have said so yourself. Your devotion will simply have to suffer my diversions, and then we shall rub along quite pleasantly. If not, I shall drop you. I cannot imagine you want that.”

  There was a little sneer in her voice as she spoke, and it snapped something inside Magnus. He recalled the sick feeling in his throat when the letter had come from Saint Petersburg. And yet he had waited for her return, hoping she had an explanation. That she would apologize. Ask him to love her again. Now that he realized he was not worth that to her—that he never had been—a red mist passed before his eyes; he seemed to go mad momentarily, for it was the only explanation for what he did next.

  “It doesn’t matter.” He rose to his feet. “I have Will now.”

  Her mouth opened. “You can’t be serious. A Shadowhunter?”

  “You may be immortal, Camille, but your feelings are vapid and shallow. Will’s are not. He understands what it is to love.” Magnus, having delivered this insane speech with great dignity, stepped across the room and shook Will’s shoulder. “Will. William. Wake up.”

  Will’s hazy blue eyes opened. He was lying on his back, looking upward, and the first thing he saw was Camille’s face as she bent over the back of the sofa, regarding him. He jerked upright. “By the Angel—”

  “Oh, shush,” said Camille lazily, smiling just enough to show the tips of baby fangs. “I won’t hurt you, Nephilim.”

  Magnus hauled Will to his feet. “The lady of the house,” he said, “has returned.”

  “I see that.” Will was flushed, the collar of his shirt dark with sweat. “Delightful,” he said to no one in particular, and Magnus wasn’t sure whether he meant he was delighted to see Camille, delighted with the effects of the painkilling spell Magnus had used on him—certainly a possibility—or simply rambling.

  “And therefore,” said Magnus, squeezing Will’s arm with a meaning pressure, “we must go.”

  Will blinked at him. “Go where?”

  “Don’t worry about that right now, my love.”

  Will blinked again. “Pardon?” He glanced around, as if he half-expected people to be watching. “I—where’s my coat?”

  “Ruined with blood,” said Magnus. “Archer disposed of it.” He nodded toward Camille. “Will’s been hunting demons all night. So brave.”

  Camille’s expression was a mixture of amazement and annoyance.

  “I am brave,” Will said. He looked pleased with himself. The painkilling tonics had enlarged his pupils, and his eyes looked very dark.

  “Yes, you are,” Magnus said, and kissed him. It wasn’t the most dramatic kiss, but Will flailed his free arm as if a bee had landed on him; Magnus had to hope Camille would assume this was passion. When they broke apart, Will looked stunned. So did Camille, for that matter.

  “Now,” Magnus said, hoping that Will would recollect that he was indebted to him. “We must go.”

  “I—but—” Will swung sideways. “The tooth!” He dashed across the room, retrieved it, and tucked it into Magnus’s waistcoat pocket. Then, with a wink at Camille that, Magnus thought, God alone knew how she would interpret, he sauntered out of the room.

  “Camille,” Magnus began.

  She had her arms crossed over her chest and was looking at him venomously. “Carrying on with Shadowhunters behind my back,” she said icily, and with no apparent regard for the hypocrisy of her position. “And in my own house! Really, Magnus.” She pointed toward the door. “Please leave my residence and do not return. I trust I shall not have to ask you twice.”

  Magnus was only too pleased to oblige. A few moments later he had joined Will on the pavement outside the house, shrugging on his coat—all he now owned in the world besides what was in his pockets—and fastening the buttons against the chilly air. It would not be long, Magnus thought, before the first gray flush of morning lightened the sky.

  “Did you just kiss me?” Will inquired.

  Magnus made a split-second decision. “No.”

  “I thought—”

  “On occasion the aftereffects of the painkilling spells can result in hallucinations of the most bizarre sort.”

  “Oh,” Will said. “How peculiar.” He looked back at Camille’s house. Magnus could see the window of the drawing room, the red velvet curtains drawn tight. “What are we going to do now? About summoning the demon? Have we somewhere to go?”

  “I’ve got somewhere to go,” said Magnus, saying a prayer of silent thanks for Will’s single-minded fixation on demon summoning. “I have a friend I can stop with. You go along back to the Institute. I’ll get to work on your blasted demon tooth as soon as I possibly can. I’ll send a message to
you when I know anything.”

  Will nodded slowly, then looked up at the black sky. “The stars,” he said. “I have never seen them so bright. The wind has blown off the fog, I think.”

  Magnus thought of the joy on Will’s face as he had stood bleeding in Camille’s living room, clutching the demon tooth in his hand. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the stars that have changed.

  “A Shadowhunter?” Tessa gasped. “That’s not possible.” She whirled around and looked at Charlotte, whose face mirrored her own shock. “It isn’t possible, is it? Will told me that the offspring of Shadowhunters and demons are stillborn.”

  Charlotte was shaking her head. “No. No, it isn’t possible.”

  “But if Jessamine has to tell the truth—” Tessa’s voice wavered.

  “She has to tell the truth as she believes it,” said Charlotte. “If your brother lied to her but she believed him, she will speak it as if it were the truth.”

  “Nate would never lie to me,” Jessamine spat.

  “If Tessa’s mother was a Shadowhunter,” said Charlotte coldly, “then Nate is also a Shadowhunter. Shadowhunter blood breeds true. Did he ever mention that to you? That he was a Shadowhunter?”

  Jessamine looked revolted. “Nate isn’t a Shadowhunter!” she cried. “I would have known! I would never have married—” She broke off, biting down on her lip.

  “Well, it’s one or the other, Jessamine,” said Charlotte. “Either you married a Shadowhunter, a truly supreme irony, or, more likely, you married a liar who used and discarded you. He must have known you’d be caught eventually. And what did he think would happen to you then?”

  “Nothing.” Jessamine looked shaken. “He said you were weak. That you would not punish me. That you could not bring yourself to truly harm me.”

  “He was wrong,” said Charlotte. “You are a traitor to the Clave. So is Benedict Lightwood. When the Consul hears of all this—”

  Jessamine laughed, a thin, broken sound. “Tell him,” she said. “That’s exactly what Mortmain wants.” She sputtered. “D-don’t bother asking me why. I don’t know. But I know he wants it. So tattle all you like, Charlotte. It will only put you in his power.”

  Charlotte gripped the footboard of the bed, her hands whitening. “Where is Mortmain?”

  Jessamine shuddered, shaking her head, her hair whipping back and forth. “No . . .”

  “Where is Mortmain?”

  “H-he,” she gasped. “He—” Jessamine’s face was almost purple, her eyes bugging out of her head. She was clutching the Sword so tightly that blood welled around her fingers. Tessa looked at Charlotte in horror. “Idris,” Jessamine gasped at last, and slumped back against the pillow.

  Charlotte’s face froze. “Idris?” she echoed. “Mortmain is in Idris, our homeland?”

  Jessamine’s eyelids fluttered. “No. He is not there.”

  “Jessamine!” Charlotte looked as if she were going to leap on the girl and shake her till her teeth rattled. “How can he be in Idris and not be? Save yourself, you stupid girl. Tell us where he is!”

  “Stop!” Jessamine cried out. “Stop, it hurts. . . .”

  Charlotte gave her a long, hard look. Then she went to the door of the room; when she returned, it was with Brother Enoch in tow. She crossed her arms over her chest and indicated Jessamine with a jerk of her chin. “There is something wrong, Brother. I asked her where Mortmain was; she said Idris. When I asked again, she denied it.” Her voice hardened. “Jessamine! Has Mortmain breached the wards of Idris?”

  Jessamine made a choking sound; her breath wheezed in and out of her chest. “No, he has not. . . . I swear . . . Charlotte, please . . .”

  Charlotte. Brother Enoch spoke firmly, his words echoing in Tessa’s mind. Enough. There is some sort of block in the girl’s mind, something placed there by Mortmain. He taunts us with the idea of Idris, yet she confesses he is not there. These blocks are strong. Continue to question her in this manner, and her heart may well fail her.

  Charlotte sagged back. “Then what . . .”

  Let me take her to the Silent City. We have our ways of seeking out the secrets locked in the mind, secrets even the girl herself may not be aware she knows.

  Brother Enoch withdrew the Sword from Jessamine’s grasp. She seemed barely to notice. Her gaze was on Charlotte, her eyes wide and panicked. “The City of Bones?” she whispered. “Where the dead lie? No! I will not go there! I cannot bear that place!”

  “Then tell us where Mortmain is,” said Charlotte, her voice like ice.

  Jessamine only began to sob. Charlotte ignored her. Brother Enoch lifted the girl to her feet; Jessamine struggled, but the Silent Brother held her in an iron grip, his other hand on the hilt of the Mortal Sword.

  “Charlotte!” Jessamine shrieked piteously. “Charlotte, please, not the Silent City! Lock me in the crypt, give me to the Council, but please do not send me alone to that—that graveyard! I shall die of fear!”

  “You should have thought of that before you betrayed us,” said Charlotte. “Brother Enoch, take her, please.”

  Jessamine was still shrieking as the Silent Brother lifted her and threw her over his shoulder. As Tessa stared, wide-eyed, he strode from the room carrying her. Her cries and gasps echoed down the corridor long after the door closed behind them—and then were cut off suddenly.

  “Jessamine—,” Tessa began.

  “She is quite all right. He has probably put a Rune of Quietude on her. That is all. There is nothing to worry about,” said Charlotte, and she sat down on the edge of the bed. She looked down at her own hands, wonderingly, as if they did not belong to her. “Henry . . .”

  “Shall I rouse him for you, Mrs. Branwell?” Sophie asked gently.

  “He is in the crypt, working. . . . I could not bear to get him.” Charlotte’s voice was distant. “Jessamine has been with us since she was a little girl. It would have been too much for him, too much. He does not have it in him to be cruel.”

  “Charlotte.” Tessa touched her shoulder gently. “Charlotte, you are not cruel either.”

  “I do what I must. There is nothing to worry about,” Charlotte said again, and burst into tears.

  Chapter 14

  THE SILENT CITY

  She howl’d aloud, “I am on fire within.

  There comes no murmur of reply.

  What is it that will take away my sin,

  And save me lest I die?”

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Palace of Art”

  “Jessamine,” Henry said again, for what must have been the fifth or sixth time. “I still can’t believe it. Our Jessamine?”

  Every time he said it, Tessa noticed, Charlotte’s mouth grew a little tighter. “Yes,” she said again. “Jessamine. She has been spying on us and reporting our every move to Nate, who has been passing the information to Mortmain. Must I say it again?”

  Henry blinked at her. “I’m sorry, darling. I have been listening. It is only that—” He sighed. “I knew she was unhappy here. But I did not think Jessamine hated us.”

  “I don’t think she did—or does.” This was Jem, who was standing near the fire in the drawing room, one arm upon the mantel. They had not gathered for breakfast as they usually did; there had been no formal announcement as to why, but Tessa guessed that the idea of going on with breakfast, with Jessamine’s place empty, as if nothing had happened, had been too dreadful for Charlotte to bear.

  Charlotte had wept for only a short time that night before she had regained her composure; she had waved away Sophie’s and Tessa’s attempts to help with cold cloths or tea, shaking her head stiffly and saying over and over that she should not allow herself to break down like this, that now was the time for planning, for strategy. She had marched to Tessa’s room, with Sophie and Tessa hurrying at her heels, and pried feverishly at the floorboards until she’d turned up a small chapbook, like a family Bible, bound in white leather and wrapped in velvet. She had slipped it into her pocket with a determined expre
ssion, waving away Tessa’s questions, and risen to her feet. The sky outside the windows had already begun to brighten with the wan light of dawn. Looking exhausted, she had told Sophie to instruct Bridget to serve a simple cold breakfast in the drawing room, and to let Cyril know so that the menfolk might be informed. Then she had left.

  With Sophie’s help Tessa had finally and gratefully fought her way free of Jessamine’s dress; she had bathed, and put on her yellow dress, the one Jessamine had bought her. She thought the color might brighten her mood, but she still felt wan and tired.

  She found the same look reflected on Jem’s face when she came into the drawing room. His eyes were shadowed, and he looked quickly away from her. It hurt. It also made her think of the night before, with Will, on the balcony. But that had been different, she told herself. That had been a result of warlock powders, a temporary madness. Nothing like what had happened between her and Jem.

  “I don’t think she hates us,” Jem said again now, correcting his use of the past tense. “She has always been someone so full of wanting. She has always been so desperate.”

  “It is my fault,” Charlotte said softly. “I should not have tried to force being a Shadowhunter upon her when it was something she so clearly despised.”

  “No. No!” Henry hurried to reassure his wife. “You were never anything but kind to her. You did everything you could. There are some mechanisms that are so—so broken that they cannot be repaired.”

  “Jessamine is not a watch, Henry,” Charlotte said, her tone remote. Tessa wondered if she were still angry with Henry for not seeing Woolsey Scott with her, or if she were simply angry at the world. “Perhaps I should just parcel up the Institute with a bow and give it to Benedict Lightwood. This is the second time that we have had a spy under our roof and not known about it until significant damage was done. Clearly I am incompetent.”

  “In a way it was really just the one spy,” Henry began, but fell silent as Charlotte gave him a look that could have melted glass.