The Infernal Devices 01 - Clockwork Angel (45 page)

“Agatha!” Sophie’s voice rose to a wail. The older woman was still, her eyes wide open but unfocused. Her hands hung limply at her sides.

Though it made her skin prickle to turn her back on the machines, Tessa bent and put her hand on Sophie’s shoulder. The other girl shook her off; she was making little whimpering noises, like a kicked dog. Tessa darted a glance behind her toward the automatons. They were still as motionless as chess pieces, but how long could that last? “Sophie, please!”

Nate was breathing in pants, his eyes fixed on the door, his face as white as chalk. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Jessamine glanced at him once, a look of surprise and disdain, before turning to Thomas. “Get her on her feet,” she said. “She’ll listen to you.”

After a single startled glance at Jessamine, Thomas bent down and, gently but firmly, pried Sophie’s hands from Agatha, raising her to her feet. She clung to him. Her hands and arms were as red as if she had come from a slaughterhouse, and her apron was nearly ripped in half and was printed with bloodied handprints. “Miss Lovelace,” he said in
a low voice, keeping Sophie close against him with the hand not holding the sword. “Take Sophie and Miss Gray to the Sanctuary—”

“No,” said a drawling voice from behind Tessa, “I don’t think so. Or rather, certainly, take the servant girl and go where you like with her. But Miss Gray will be remaining here. As will her brother.”

The voice was familiar—shockingly so. Very slowly Tessa turned.

Standing among the frozen machines as if he had simply appeared there by magic was a man. Just as ordinary-looking as Tessa had thought he was before, though his hat was gone now, and his graying head was bare under the witchlight.

Mortmain.

He was smiling. Not as he had been smiling earlier, with affable cheerfulness. His smile now was almost sickening in its glee. “Nathaniel Gray,” he said. “Excellently done. I admit that my faith in you was tested—tested sorely—but you have recovered admirably from your past missteps. I’m proud of you.”

Tessa whirled to look at her brother, but Nate seemed to have forgotten she was there—that anyone else was there. He was staring past her at Mortmain, the oddest expression—a mix of fear and worship—stamped on his face. He moved forward, pushing past Tessa; she reached to hold him back, but he shook off her reaching hand with a flick of annoyance. At last he was standing directly in front of Mortmain.

With a cry he went to his knees and clasped his hands in front of him, almost as if he were praying.

“It was only ever my desire,” he said, “to serve you, Magister.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Dark was still laughing.

“But what is it?” Jem said in bewilderment, raising his voice to be heard over her peals of laughter. “What do you mean?”

Despite her ragged appearance Mrs. Dark managed an air of triumph. “De Quincey isn’t the Magister,” she sneered. “He’s just a stupid bloodsucker, no better than the others. That you were so easily fooled proves you have no idea who the Magister is—or what you’re facing. You’re dead, little Shadowhunters. Little walking dead men.”

That was too much for Will’s temper. With a snarl he lunged toward the steps, his seraph blade outstretched. Jem called for him to stop, but it was too late. Mrs. Dark, her lips drawn back from her teeth like a hissing cobra’s, swung her arm forward and flung her sister’s severed head toward Will. With a yell of disgust he ducked aside, and she took the opportunity to charge down the steps, past Will, and through the arched doorway at the west side of the foyer, into the shadows beyond.

Mrs. Black’s head, meanwhile, bumped down several stairs and came to rest gently against the toe of Will’s boot. He looked down, and winced. One of her eyelids had drooped closed, and her tongue hung, gray and leathery, out of her mouth, for all the world as if she were leering at him.

“I may be sick,” he announced.

“There’s no time for you to be sick,” said Jem. “Come on—”

And he dashed through the archway after Mrs. Dark. Nudging the warlock’s severed head out of the way with the toe of his boot, Will followed after his friend at a run.

*   *   *

“Magister?” Tessa repeated blankly.
But that’s impossible. De Quincey is the Magister. Those creatures on the bridge, they said they served him. Nate said …
She stared at her brother. “Nate?”

Speaking aloud was a mistake. Mortmain’s gaze fell on Tessa, and he grinned. “Seize the shape-changer,” he said to the clockwork creatures. “Don’t let her go.”

“Nate!” Tessa cried, but her brother did not so much as turn to look at her, as the creatures, brought back to sudden life, lurched forward, whirring and clicking, moving toward Tessa. One of them seized her, its metal arms like a vise as they encircled her chest, crushing the breath out of her.

Mortmain grinned at Tessa. “Don’t be too hard on your brother, Miss Gray. He really is cleverer than I gave him credit for. It was his idea that I lure young Carstairs and Herondale out of the place with a far-fetched tale, that I might enter unmolested.”

“What’s going on?” Jessamine’s voice trembled as she looked from Nate, to Tessa, to Mortmain, and back again. “I don’t understand. Who is this, Nate? Why are you kneeling to him?”

“He is the Magister,” said Nate. “If you were wise, you would kneel too.”

Jessamine looked incredulous. “This is de Quincey?”

Nate’s eyes flashed. “De Quincey is a peon, a serf. He
answers
to the Magister. Few even know the Magister’s true identity; I am one of the chosen. The favored.”

Jessamine made a rude noise. “Chosen to kneel on the ground, are you?”

Nate’s eyes flashed, and he scrambled to his feet. He shouted something at Jessamine, but Tessa could not hear it.
The metal mannequin had tightened its grip on her to the point where she could barely breathe, and dark spots were beginning to float in front of her eyes. She was dimly aware of Mortmain shouting at the creature to loosen its grip on her, but it did not obey. She clawed at its metal arms with weakening fingers, barely aware of something fluttering at her throat, a fluttering that felt as if a bird or a butterfly were trapped beneath the collar of her dress. The chain around her neck was vibrating and twitching. She managed to look down, her vision blurred, and saw to her amazement that the little metal angel had emerged from beneath the collar of her dress; it soared upward, lifting the chain over her head. Its eyes seemed to glow as it flew upward. For the first time its metallic wings were spread, and Tessa saw that each wing was edged with something shimmering and razor-sharp. As she watched in amazement, the angel dived like a hornet, slashing with the edges of its wings at the head of the creature holding her—slicing through copper and metal, sending up a shower of red sparks.

The sparks stung Tessa’s neck like a shower of hot cinders, but she barely noticed; the creature’s arms loosened around her, and she wrenched herself away as it spun and staggered, its arms jerking blindly in front of it. She couldn’t help but be reminded somehow of a sketch she’d seen of an angry gentleman at a garden party waving off bees. Mortmain, noticing a beat too late what was going on, shouted, and the other creatures lurched into motion, surging toward Tessa. She looked around wildly, but could no longer see the tiny angel. It seemed to have vanished.

“Tessa! Get out of the way!” A cold little hand caught at her wrist. It was Jessamine, yanking her backward as Thomas,
having released Sophie, dived in front of her. Jessamine thrust Tessa behind her, toward the stairs at the back of the entryway, and moved forward with her parasol whirling. Her face was set with determination. It was Thomas who struck the first blow. Lunging forward with his sword, he sheared through the chest of a creature who was lurching toward him, hands outstretched. The machine man staggered backward, whirring loudly, red sparks spraying from its chest like blood. Jessamine laughed at the sight and laid about her with her parasol. The whirling edge of it sliced through the legs of two of the creatures, sending them toppling forward to flop on the ground like landed fish.

Mortmain looked vexed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. You—” He snapped his fingers, pointing at an automaton, one that had something that looked like a metal tube welded to its right wrist. “Get rid of her. The Shadowhunter.”

The creature raised its arm jerkily. A bolt of streaky red fire shot from the metal tube. It hit Jessamine square in the chest, knocking her backward. Her parasol skittered from her hand as she struck the ground, her body twitching, her eyes open and glassy.

Nathaniel, who had moved to stand beside Mortmain on the sidelines of the melee, laughed.

A sizzling bolt of hatred went through Tessa, shocking her with its intensity. She wanted to throw herself at Nate and rip her nails down his cheek, kick him until he screamed. It wouldn’t take much, she knew. He’d always been a coward where pain was concerned. She started forward, but the creatures, having dealt with Jessamine, had already swung back around toward her. Thomas, his hair plastered to his face
with sweat and a long bloody rent slashed across the front of his shirt, moved to place himself in front of her. He was laying about himself magnificently with the sword, with great, sweeping strokes. It was hard to believe he wasn’t slashing the creatures to ribbons—and yet they proved surprisingly dexterous. Ducking out of his way, they kept coming, their eyes fixed on Tessa. Thomas spun to look at her, his gaze wild. “Miss Gray! Now! Take Sophie!”

Tessa hesitated. She did not want to run. She wanted to stand her ground. But Sophie was huddling, transfixed behind her, her eyes full of terror.

“Sophie!” Thomas cried, and Tessa could hear what was in his voice, and knew she had been right about his feelings for Sophie. “The Sanctuary!
Go!
”

“No!” Mortmain shouted, turning to the clockwork creature that had attacked Jessamine. As it raised its arm, Tessa caught hold of Sophie’s wrist and began to drag her toward the stairs. A bolt of red fire hit the wall beside them, scorching the stone. Tessa shrieked but didn’t slow, yanking Sophie up the spiral staircase, the smell of smoke and death following them as they ran.

Will dashed through the archway that separated the foyer from the room beyond—and came up short. Jem was already there, staring around him in bewilderment. Though there were no exits from the room other than the one they had just come through, Mrs. Dark was nowhere to be seen.

The room, though, was far from empty. It had most likely been a dining room once, and huge portraits adorned the walls, though they had been ripped and slashed to unrecognizability.
A great crystal chandelier hung overhead, fronded with strings of gray cobweb that drifted in the disturbed air like ancient lace curtains. It had probably once hung over a grand table. Now it swung over a bare marble floor that had been painted with a series of necromantic patterns—a five-pointed star inside a circle inside a square. Inside the pentagram stood a repulsive stone statue, the figure of some hideous demon, with twisted limbs and clawed hands. Horns rose from its head.

All around the room were scattered the remains of dark magic—bones and feathers and strips of skin, pools of blood that seemed to bubble like black champagne. There were empty cages lying on their sides, and a low table on which was spread an array of bloody knives and stone bowls filled with unpleasant dark liquids.

In all the gaps between the pentagram’s five points were runes and squiggles that hurt Will’s eyes when he looked at them. They were the opposite of the runes in the Gray Book, which seemed to speak of glory and peace. These were necromantic symbols that spoke of ruin and death.

“Jem,” Will said, “these are not the preparations for a binding spell. This is the work of necromancy.”

“She was trying to bring back her sister, isn’t that what she said?”

“Yes, but she was doing nothing else.” A dreadful dark suspicion had begun to blossom in the back of Will’s mind.

Jem did not reply; his attention seemed to be fixed on something across the room. “There’s a cat,” he said in a low whisper, pointing. “In one of those cages over there.”

Will glanced where his friend pointed. Indeed, a bristling
gray cat was huddled in one of the locked animal cages along the wall. “And?”

“It’s still alive.”

“It’s a cat, James. We have bigger things to worry about—”

But Jem was already walking away. He reached the animal’s cage and scooped it up, holding the cage at eye level. The cat looked to be a gray Persian, with a squashed-in face and yellow eyes that regarded Jem malevolently. Suddenly it arched its back and hissed loudly, its eyes fixed on the pentagram. Jem looked up—and stared.

“Will,”
he said in a warning tone. “Look.”

The statue in the middle of the pentagram had moved. Instead of crouching, it had straightened until it was standing upright. Its eyes burned with a sulfuric glow. It was only when its triple row of mouths smiled that Will realized it was not stone after all, just a creature of hard gray stonelike skin. A demon.

Will ducked back and flung Israfel reflexively, not really expecting the gesture to do much good. It didn’t. As it sailed near the pentagram, the blade bounced off an invisible wall and clattered to the marble floor. The demon in the pentagram cackled. “You attack me here?” it demanded in a high, thin voice. “You could bring the host of Heaven against me and they could do nothing! No angelic power can breach this circle!”

“Mrs. Dark,” Will said between his teeth.

“So you recognize me now, do you? No one ever claimed you Shadowhunters were clever.” The demon bared its greenish fangs. “This is my true form. An ugly surprise for you, I suppose.”

“I daresay it’s an improvement,” said Will. “You weren’t much to look at before, and at least the horns are dramatic.”

“What are you, then?” Jem demanded, setting the cage, the cat still in it, down on the floor at his feet. “I thought you and your sister were warlocks.”

“My sister was a warlock,” hissed the creature that had been Mrs. Dark. “I am a full-blood demon—
Eidolon
. A shape-changer. Like your precious Tessa. But unlike her I cannot
become
what I transform into. I cannot touch the minds of the living or the dead. So the Magister did not want me.” Thin hurt was in the creature’s voice. “He enlisted me to train her. His precious little protégée. My sister as well. We know the ways of the Change. We were able to force it on her. But she was never grateful.”