Clockwork Prince tid-2 Read online

  An argument ensued, with Jem, to Tessa’s surprise, siding with Will against the idea of her walking the streets alone. Eventually it was decided that Henry would drive the carriage to Mincing Lane, while Tessa would walk, with Cyril following her at a discreet distance, lest she lose herself in the crowded, dirty, noisy city. With a shrug she agreed; it seemed less trouble than arguing, and she didn’t mind Cyril.

  “I don’t suppose anyone’s going to point out,” said Will, “that once again we are leaving the Institute without a Shadow-hunter to protect it?”

  Charlotte rolled up the map with a flick of her wrist. “And which of us would you suggest stay home, then, instead of helping Tessa?”

  “I didn’t say anything about anyone staying home.” Will’s voice dropped. “But Cyril will be with Tessa, Sophie’s only half-trained, and Bridget . . .”

  Tessa glanced over at Sophie, who was sitting quietly in the corner of the library, but the other girl gave no sign of having heard Will. Meanwhile, Bridget’s voice was wafting faintly from the kitchen, another miserable ballad:

  “So John took out of his pocket

  A knife both long and sharp,

  And stuck it through his brother’s heart,

  And the blood came pouring down.

  Says John to William, ‘Take off thy shirt,

  And tear it from gore to gore,

  And wrap it round your bleeding heart,

  And the blood will pour no more.’”

  “By the Angel,” said Charlotte, “we really are going to have to do something about her before she drives us all to madness, aren’t we?”

  Before anyone could reply, two things happened at once: Something tapped at the window, startling Tessa so much that she took a step back, and a great, echoing noise sounded through the Institute—the sound of the summoning bell. Charlotte said something to Will—lost in the noise of the bell—and he left the room, while Charlotte crossed it, slid the window up and open, and captured something hovering outside.

  She turned away from the window, a fluttering piece of paper in her hand; it looked a bit like a white bird, edges flapping in the breeze. Her hair blew about her face too, and Tessa was reminded how young Charlotte was. “From Nate, I suppose,” said Charlotte. “His message for Jessamine.” She brought it to Tessa, who tore the creamy parchment lengthwise in her eagerness to get it open.

  Tessa glanced up. “It is from Nate,” she confirmed. “He has agreed to meet Jessie in the usual place at sundown—” She gave a little gasp as, recognizing itself somehow as having been read, the note burst into quick, heatless flames, consuming itself until it was only a film of black ash on her fingers.

  “That gives us only a little time,” said Henry. “I will go and tell Cyril to ready the carriage.” He looked to Charlotte, as if for approval, but she only nodded without meeting his eyes. With a sigh Henry left the room—nearly bumping into Will, who was on his way back in, followed by a figure in a traveling cloak. For a moment Tessa wondered in confusion if it was a Silent Brother—until the visitor drew his hood back and she saw the familiar sandy-blond curling hair and green eyes.

  “Gideon Lightwood?” she said in surprise.

  “There.” Charlotte slipped the map she was holding into her pocket. “The Institute will not be Shadowhunterless.”

  Sophie got hastily to her feet—then froze, as if, outside the atmosphere of the training room, she was not sure what to do or say in front of the eldest Lightwood brother.

  Gideon glanced around the room. As always his green eyes were calm, unruffled. Will, behind him, seemed to burn with bright energy by contrast, even when he was simply standing still. “You called on me?” Gideon said, and she realized that of course, looking at her, he was seeing Jessamine. “And I am here, though I know not why, or what for.”

  “To train Sophie, ostensibly,” said Charlotte. “And also to look after the Institute while we’re gone. We need a Shadow-hunter of age to be present, and you qualify. In fact, it was Sophie who suggested you.”

  “And how long will you be gone?”

  “Two hours, three. Not all night.”

  “All right.” Gideon began to unbutton his cloak. There was dust on his boots, and his hair looked as if he had been out in the cold wind, hatless. “My father would say it was good practice for when I run the place.”

  Will muttered something under his breath that sounded like “bloody cheek.” He looked at Charlotte, who shook her head at him minutely.

  “It may be that the Institute will be yours one day,” she said to Gideon quite mildly. “In any case, we’re grateful for your assistance. The Institute is the responsibility of all Shadowhunters, after all. These are our dwelling places—our Idris away from home.”

  Gideon turned to Sophie. “Are you ready to train?”

  She nodded. They left the room together in a group, Gideon and Sophie turning right to make their way to the training room, the rest of them heading for the stairs. Bridget’s mournful yowl was even louder out here, and Tessa heard Gideon say something to Sophie about it, and Sophie’s soft voice in response, before they were too far away for her to hear them anymore.

  It seemed natural to fall into step beside Jem as they went downstairs and through the nave of the cathedral. She was walking close enough to him that though they did not speak, she could feel the warmth of him against her side, the brush of his bare hand against hers as they stepped outside. Sunset was coming. The sky had begun to take on the bronze sheen that came just before twilight. Cyril was waiting on the front stairs, looking so much like Thomas that it hurt one’s heart to look at him. He was carrying a long, thin dagger, which he handed off to Will without a word; Will took it and put it through his belt.

  Charlotte turned and put her hand against Tessa’s cheek. “We shall see you at the warehouse,” she said. “You will be perfectly safe, Tessa. And thank you, for doing this for us.” Charlotte dropped her hand and went down the steps, Henry following her, and Will just after. Jem hesitated, just for a moment, and Tessa—remembering a night like this one, when he had run up the steps to bid her good-bye—pressed her fingers lightly against his wrist.

  “Mizpah,” she said.

  She heard him suck in his breath. The Shadowhunters were getting into the carriage; he turned and kissed her quickly on the cheek, before spinning and running down the steps after the others; none of them seemed to have noticed, but Tessa put her hand to her face as Jem climbed, last, into the carriage and Henry made his way up to the driver’s seat. The gates of the Institute swung open, and the carriage clattered out into the darkening afternoon.

  “Shall we go, then, miss?” Cyril inquired. Despite how much he looked like Thomas, Tessa thought, he had a less diffident demeanor. He looked her directly in the eye when he spoke, and the corners of his mouth always seemed to be about to crinkle into a smile. She wondered if there was always one calmer and one more high-strung brother, like Gabriel and Gideon.

  “Yes, I think we—” Tessa stopped suddenly, one foot about to descend the steps. It was ridiculous, she knew, and yet—she had taken off the clockwork angel to dress herself in Jessamine’s clothes. She had not put it back on. She couldn’t wear it—Nate would recognize it immediately—but she had meant to put it into her pocket for luck, and she had forgotten. She hesitated now. It was more than silly superstition; twice now the angel had literally saved her life.

  She turned. “I have forgotten something. Wait here for me, Cyril. I’ll be only a moment.”

  The door to the Institute was still open; she charged back through it and up the stairs, through the halls and into the corridor that led to Jessamine’s room—where she froze.

  Jessamine’s hall was the same hall that led to the steps to the training room. She had seen Sophie and Gideon disappear down it minutes ago. Only, they had not disappeared; they were still there. The light was low, and they were only shadows in the dimness, but Tessa could see them plainly: Sophie, standing against the wall, and Gid
eon pressing her hand.

  Tessa took a step backward, her heart jerking inside her chest. Neither of them saw her. They seemed entirely concentrated on each other. Gideon leaned in then, murmuring something to Sophie; gently he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Tessa’s stomach tensed, and she turned and crept away, as soundlessly as she could.

  The sky had turned a shade darker when she came back out onto the steps. Cyril was there, whistling off-key; he broke off abruptly when he saw Tessa’s expression. “Is everything all right, miss? Did you get what you wanted?”

  Tessa thought of Gideon moving Sophie’s hair away from her face. She remembered Will’s hands gentle on her waist and the softness of Jem’s kiss on her cheek, and felt as if her mind were whirling. Who was she to tell Sophie to be careful, even silently, when she was so lost herself?

  “Yes,” she lied. “I got what I wanted. Thank you, Cyril.”

  The warehouse was a great limestone building surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. The windows had been boarded over, and a stout iron padlock held closed the front gates, over which the blackening name of Mortmain and Co. could barely be seen below layers of soot.

  The Shadowhunters left the carriage drawn up to the curb, with a glamour on it to prevent it from being stolen or molested by passing mundanes, at least until Cyril arrived to wait with it. A closer inspection of the padlock showed Will that it had been oiled recently and opened; a rune took care of the lack of a key, and he and the others slipped inside, closing the gate behind them.

  Another rune unlocked the front door, leading them into a suite of offices. Only one was still furnished, with a desk, a green-shaded lamp, and a floral sofa with a high carved back. “Doubtless where Jessamine and Nate accomplished the majority of their courtship,” Will observed cheerfully.

  Jem made a noise of disgust and poked at the couch with his cane. Charlotte was bending over the desk, hastily going through the drawers.

  “I didn’t realize you’d taken up such a strong anti-courtship stance,” Will observed to Jem.

  “Not on principle. The thought of Nate Gray touching anyone—” Jem made a face. “And Jessamine is so convinced he loves her. If you could see her, I think even you might pity her, Will.”

  “I would not,” said Will. “Unrequited love is a ridiculous state, and it makes those in it behave ridiculously.” He tugged at the bandage on his arm as if it were paining him. “Charlotte? The desk?”

  “Nothing.” She slid the drawers shut. “Some papers listing the prices of tea and the times of tea auctions, but other than that, nothing but dead spiders.”

  “How romantic,” murmured Will. He ducked behind Jem, who had already wandered ahead into the adjacent office, using his cane to sweep away cobwebs as he went. The next few rooms were empty, and the last opened out onto what had once been a warehouse floor. It was a great shadowy cavernous space, its ceiling disappearing up into darkness. Rickety wooden steps led up to a second-floor gallery. Burlap bags were propped against the walls on the first floor, looking for all the world, in the shadows, like slumped bodies. Will raised his witchlight rune-stone in one hand, sending out spokes of light through the room as Henry went to investigate one of the sacks. He was back in a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Broken bits of loose-leaf tea,” he said. “Orange pekoe, from the looks of it.”

  But Jem was shaking his head, glancing about. “I am perfectly willing to accept that this was an active tea-trading office at one point, but it’s clearly been shuttered for years, ever since Mortmain decided to interest himself in mechanisms instead. And yet the floor is clear of dust.” He took Will’s wrist, guiding the beam of witchlight over the smooth wooden floor. “There has been activity here—more than simply Jessamine and Nate’s meeting in a disused office.”

  “There are more offices that way,” said Henry, pointing to the far end of the room. “Charlotte and I will search them. Will, Jem, you examine the second floor.”

  It was a rare and novel thrill when Henry gave orders; Will looked at Jem and grinned, and commenced making his way up the rickety wooden stairs. The steps creaked under the pressure, and under Jem’s slighter weight behind Will. The witchlight stone in Will’s hand threw sharp patterns of light against the wall as he reached the top step.

  He found himself on a gallery, a platform where perhaps trunks of tea had been stored, or a foreman had watched the floor below. It was empty now, save for a single figure, lying on the ground. The body of a man, slim and youthful, and as Will came closer, his heart began to pound crazily, because he had seen this before—had had this vision before—the limp body, the silver hair and dark clothes, the closed bruised-looking eyes, fringed with silver lashes.

  “Will?” It was Jem, behind him. He looked from Will’s silent, stunned face to the body on the floor and pushed past him to kneel down. He took the man by the wrist just as Charlotte reached the top of the steps. Will looked at her in surprise for a moment; her face was sheened with sweat and she looked slightly ill. Jem said, “He has a pulse. Will?”

  Will came closer, and knelt down beside his friend. At this distance it was easy to see that the man on the floor was not Jem. He was older, and Caucasian; he had a growth of silver stubble on his chin and cheeks, and his features were broader and less defined. Will’s heartbeat slowed as the man’s eyes fluttered open.

  They were silver discs, like Jem’s. And in that moment Will recognized him. He smelled the sweet-sour tang of burning warlock drugs, felt the heat of them in his veins, and knew that he had seen this man before, and knew where.

  “You’re a werewolf,” he said. “One of the packless ones, buying yin fen off the ifrits down the Chapel. Aren’t you?”

  The werewolf’s eyes roamed over them both, and fastened on Jem. His lids narrowed, and his hand shot out, grabbing Jem by the lapels. “You,” he wheezed. “You’re one of us. ’ave you got any of it on you—any of the stuff—”

  Jem recoiled. Will seized the werewolf by the wrist and yanked his hand free. It wasn’t difficult; there was very little strength in his nerveless fingers. “Don’t touch him.” Will heard his own voice as if from a distance, clipped and cold. “He doesn’t have any of your filthy powder. It doesn’t work on us Nephilim like it does on you.”

  “Will.” There was a plea in Jem’s voice: Be kinder.

  “You work for Mortmain,” said Will. “Tell us what you do for him. Tell us where he is.”

  The werewolf laughed. Blood splashed up over his lips and dribbled down his chin. Some of it splattered onto Jem’s gear. “As if—I’d know—where the Magister was,” he wheezed. “Bloody fools, the pair of you. Bloody useless Nephilim. If I ’ad—me strength—I’d chop yer into bloody rags—”

  “But you don’t.” Will was remorseless. “And maybe we do have some yin fen.”

  “You don’t. You think—I don’t know?” The werewolf’s eyes wandered. “When ’e gave it to me first, I saw things—such things as yer can’t imagine—the great crystal city—the towers of Heaven—” Another spasming cough racked him. More blood splattered. It had a silvery sheen to it, like mercury. Will exchanged a look with Jem. The crystal city. He couldn’t help thinking of Alicante, though he had never been there. “I thought I were going ter live forever—work all night, all day, never get tired. Then we started dying off, one by one. The drug, it kills ya, but ’e never said. I came back here to see if maybe there was still any of it stashed somewhere. But there’s none. No point leavin’. I’m dyin’ now. Might as well die ’ere as anywhere.”

  “He knew what he was doing when he gave you that drug,” said Jem. “He knew it would kill you. He doesn’t deserve your secrecy. Tell us what he was doing—what he was keeping you working on all night and day.”

  “Putting those things together—those metal men. They don’t ’arf give you the willies, but the money were good and the drugs were better—”

  “And a great deal of good that money will do you now,” said Jem
, his voice uncharacteristically bitter. “How often did he make you take it? The silver powder?”

  “Six, seven times a day.”

  “No wonder they’re running out of it down the Chapel,” Will muttered. “Mortmain’s controlling the supply.”

  “You’re not supposed to take it like that,” said Jem. “The more you take, the faster you die.”

  The werewolf fixed his gaze on Jem. His eyes were shot through with red veins. “And you,” he said. “ ’Ow much longer ’ave you got left?”

  Will turned his head. Charlotte was motionless behind him at the top of the stairs, staring. He raised a hand to gesture her over. “Charlotte, if we can get him downstairs, perhaps the Silent Brothers can do something to help him. If you could—”

  But Charlotte, to Will’s surprise, had turned a pale shade of green. She clapped her hand over her mouth and dashed downstairs.

  “Charlotte!” Will hissed; he didn’t dare shout. “Oh, bloody hell. All right, Jem. You take his legs, I’ll take his shoulders—”

  “There’s no point, Will.” Jem’s voice was soft. “He’s dead.”

  Will turned back. Indeed, the silver eyes were wide open, glassy, fixed on the ceiling; the chest had ceased to rise and fall. Jem reached to close his eyelids, but Will caught his friend by the wrist.

  “Don’t.”

  “I wasn’t going to give him the blessing, Will. Just close his eyes.”

  “He doesn’t deserve that. He was working with the Magister!” Will’s whisper was rising to a shout.

  “He is like me,” said Jem simply. “An addict.”

  Will looked at him over their joined hands. “He is not like you. And you will not die like that.”

  Jem’s lips parted in surprise. “Will . . .”

  They both heard the sound of a door opening, and a voice calling out Jessamine’s name. Will released Jem’s wrist, and both of them dropped flat to the ground, inching to the edge of the gallery to see what was happening on the warehouse floor.