The Infernal Devices 01 - Clockwork Angel (25 page)

Gabriel sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t have to give him anything.”

“So Will and your warlock girl enter the house, endure de Quincey’s party until they observe some contravention of the Law, and then signal to the rest of us—how?” inquired Lilian.

“With Henry’s invention,” Charlotte said. There was a slight—only very slight—tremble to her voice as she said it. “The Phosphor. It will send up a flare of extremely bright witchlight, illuminating all the windows in de Quincey’s house, just for a moment. That will be the signal.”

“Oh, good Lord, not one of Henry’s inventions again,” said George.

“There were some complications with the Phosphor at first, but Henry demonstrated it for me last night,” Charlotte protested. “It works perfectly.”

Frederick snorted. “Remember the last time Henry offered us the use of one of his inventions? We were all cleaning fish guts off our gear for days.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be used near water—,” Charlotte began, still in the same quavering voice, but the others had
already begun talking over her, chattering excitedly about Henry’s failed inventions and the dreadful consequences thereof, while Charlotte lapsed into silence.
Poor Charlotte,
Tessa thought. Charlotte, whose sense of her own authority was so important, and so dearly bought.

“Bastards, talking over her like that,” muttered Will. Tessa looked at him in astonishment. He was staring intently down at the scene before him, his fists tight at his sides. So he was fond of Charlotte, she thought, and she was surprised how pleased she was to realize it. Perhaps it meant Will actually did have feelings after all.

Not that it had anything to do with her, whether he did or not, of course. She looked hastily away from Will, at Jem, who seemed equally out of countenance. He was biting his lip. “Where is Henry? Shouldn’t he have arrived by now?”

As if in answer, the door to the storage room banged open with a crash, and the three of them spun around to see Henry standing wild-eyed and wild-haired in the doorway. He was clutching something in his hand—the copper tube with the black button on the side that had nearly caused Will to break his arm falling off the sideboard in the dining room.

Will eyed it fearfully. “Get that blasted object away from me.”

Henry, who was red-faced and sweating, stared at them all in horror. “Hell,” he said. “I was looking for the library. The Enclave—”

“Is meeting,” said Jem. “Yes, we know. It’s a flight down from here, Henry. Third door on the right. And you’d better go. Charlotte’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” Henry wailed. “Blast, blast, blast. I was just trying to get the Phosphor right, is all.”

“Henry,” Jem said, “Charlotte
needs
you.”

“Right.” Henry turned as if to dart out of the room, then swung around and stared at them, a look of confusion passing over his freckled face, as if he had only now had cause to wonder why Will, Tessa, and Jem might be crouching together in a mostly disused storage room. “What are you three doing in here, anyway?”

Will tilted his head to the side and smiled at Henry. “Charades,” he said. “Massive game.”

“Ah. Right, then,” said Henry, and dashed out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

“Charades.” Jem snorted in disgust, then leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, as Callida’s voice drifted up from below. “Honestly, Charlotte,” she was saying, “when will you admit that Henry hasn’t anything to do with running this place, and that you’re doing it all by yourself? Perhaps with help from James Carstairs and Will Herondale, but neither of them is any older than seventeen. How much help can they be?”

Charlotte made a murmured noise of deprecation.

“It’s too much for one person, especially someone your age,” said Benedict. “You’re only twenty-three years old. If you’d like to step down—”

Only twenty-three! Tessa was astonished. She’d thought Charlotte was much older, probably because she exuded such an air of competence.

“Consul Wayland assigned the running of the Institute to me and my husband five years ago,” Charlotte replied sharply, apparently having found her voice again. “If you have some issue with his choice, you should take it up with him. In the meantime I shall direct the Institute as I see fit.”

“I hope that means that plans such as the one you’re suggesting are still up for a vote?” said Benedict Lightwood. “Or are you governing by fiat now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lightwood, of course it’s up for a vote,” said Lilian crossly, without giving Charlotte a chance to answer. “All in favor of moving on de Quincey, say aye.”

To Tessa’s surprise, there was a chorus of ayes, and not a single nay. The discussion had been contentious enough that she’d been certain at least one of the Shadowhunters would try to back out. Jem caught her startled look and smiled. “They’re always like this,” he murmured. “They like to jockey for power, but none of them would vote no on an issue like this. They’d be branded a coward for doing so.”

“Very well,” said Benedict. “Tomorrow night it is, then. Is everyone sufficiently prepared? Are there—”

The door to the library banged open, and Henry charged in—looking, if possible, even more wild-eyed and wild-haired than before. “I’m here!” he announced. “Not too late, am I?”

Charlotte covered her face with her hands.

“Henry,” said Benedict Lightwood dryly. “How pleasant to see you. Your wife was just briefing us on your newest invention. The Phosphor, is it?”

“Yes!” Henry held the Phosphor up proudly. “This is it. And I can promise it works as advertised. See?”

“Now, there’s no need for a demonstration,” Benedict began hastily, but it was too late. Henry had already pressed the button. There was a bright flash, and the lights in the library winked out suddenly, leaving Tessa staring at an unlit black square in the floor. Gasps rose up from below. There was a shriek, and something crashed to the ground and shattered. Rising above
it all was the sound of Benedict Lightwood, swearing fluently.

Will looked up and grinned. “Bit awkward for Henry, of course,” he remarked cheerfully, “and yet, somehow quite satisfying, don’t you think?”

Tessa couldn’t help but agree, on both counts.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all

—John Keats, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”

As the coach rattled along the Strand, Will raised a black-gloved hand and drew one of the velvet curtains back from the window, letting a splash of yellow gaslight find its way into the carriage’s dark interior. “It rather looks,” he said, “as if we might be in for rain tonight.”

Tessa followed his gaze; out the window the sky was a cloudy steel gray—the usual for London, she thought. Men in hats and long dark coats hurried along the pavement on either side of the street, their shoulders hunched against a brisk wind that carried coal dust, horse manure, and all sorts of eye-stinging rubbish in its wake. Once again Tessa thought she could smell the river.

“Is that a
church
directly in the middle of the street?” she wondered aloud.

“It’s St. Mary le Strand,” said Will, “and there’s a long story about it, but I’m not going to tell it to you now. Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

“I was,” Tessa said, “until you started on about rain. Who cares about rain? We’re on our way to some sort of—vampire society event, and I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to behave, and so far you haven’t helped me much at all.”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitched upward. “Just be careful. When we arrive at the house, you can’t look to me for help or instruction. Remember, I am your human subjugate. You keep me about you for blood—blood whenever you want it—and nothing else.”

“So you’re not going to speak tonight,” Tessa said. “At all.”

“Not unless you instruct me to,” said Will.

“This evening sounds as if it might be better than I thought.”

Will seemed not to have heard her. With his right hand he was tightening one of the metal knife-bearing cuffs on his left wrist. He was staring off toward the window, as if seeing something that wasn’t visible to her. “You might be thinking of vampires as feral monsters, but these vampires are not like that. They are as cultured as they are cruel. Sharpened knives to humanity’s dull blade.” The line of his jaw was set hard in the dim light. “You will have to try to keep up. And for God’s sake, if you can’t, don’t say anything at all. They have a tortuous and opaque sense of etiquette. A serious social gaffe could mean instant death.”

Tessa’s hands tightened on each other in her lap. They were cold. She could feel the cold of Camille’s skin, even through her
gloves. “Are you joking? The way you were in the library, about dropping that book?”

“No.” His voice was remote.

“Will, you’re frightening me.” The words came out of Tessa’s mouth before she could stop them; she tensed, expecting mockery.

Will drew his gaze away from the window and looked at her as if some realization had dawned on him. “Tess,” he said, and Tessa felt a momentary jolt; no one had ever called her Tess. Sometimes her brother had called her Tessie, but that was all. “You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

She took a breath, one she didn’t need. “And then what? We would turn the carriage around and go home?”

He put his hands out, and took hers. Camille’s hands were so small that Will’s capable dark-gloved ones seemed to swallow them up. “One for all, and all for one,” he said.

She smiled at that, weakly. “
The Three Musketeers
?”

His steady gaze held hers. His blue eyes were very dark, uniquely so. She had known people before with blue eyes, but they had always been light blue. Will’s were the color of the sky just on the edge of night. His long lashes veiled them as he said, “Sometimes, when I have to do something I don’t want to do, I pretend I’m a character from a book. It’s easier to know what
they
would do.”

“Really? Who do you pretend you are? D’Artagnan?” Tessa asked, naming the only one of the Three Musketeers that she could remember.

“‘
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done
,’” Will quoted. “‘
It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known
.’”

“Sydney Carton? But you said you hated
A Tale of Two Cities
!”

“I don’t really.” Will seemed unabashed by his lie.

“And Sydney Carton was a dissipated alcoholic.”

“Exactly. There was a man who was worthless, and knew he was worthless, and yet however far down he tried to sink his soul, there was always some part of him capable of great action.” Will lowered his voice. “What is it he says to Lucie Manette? That though he is weak, he can still burn?”

Tessa, who had read
A Tale of Two Cities
more times than she could count, whispered, “‘
And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire
.’” She hesitated. “But that was because he loved her.”

“Yes,” said Will. “He loved her enough to know she was better off without him.” His hands were still on hers, the heat of them burning through her gloves. The wind was brisk outside, and had ruffled his ink black hair as they had crossed the Institute courtyard to the carriage. It made him look younger, and more vulnerable—and his eyes, too, were vulnerable, open like a door. The way he was looking at her, she would not have thought Will could, or would, look at anyone like that. If she could blush, she thought, how she would be blushing now.

And then she wished she had not thought of that. For that thought led, inevitably and unpleasantly, to another: Was he looking at her now, or at Camille, who was, indeed, exquisitely beautiful? Was that the reason for his change in expression? Could he see Tessa through the disguise, or only the shell of her?

She drew back, taking her hands from his, though his were closed tightly around hers. It took her a moment to disengage them.

“Tessa—,” he began, but before he could say more, the carriage came to a jerking stop that set the velvet curtains swaying. Thomas called, “We’re here!” from the driver’s seat. Will, after taking a deep breath, swung the door open and leaped down to the pavement, lifting his hand to help her down after him.

Tessa bent her head as she exited the carriage to avoid crushing any of the roses on Camille’s hat. Though Will wore gloves, as she did, she could almost imagine she felt the pulsing of blood under his skin, even through the double layer of fabric that separated them. He was flushed, the color high in his cheeks, and she wondered if it was the cold whipping the blood into his face, or something else.

They were standing in front of a tall white house with a white-pillared entrance. It was surrounded by similar houses on either side, like rows of pale dominoes. Up a row of white steps was a pair of double doors painted black. They were ajar, and Tessa could see the glimmer of candlelight from within, shimmering like a curtain.

Tessa turned to look at Will. Behind him Thomas was seated at the front of the carriage, his hat tipped forward to hide his face. The silver-handled pistol tucked into his waistcoat pocket was entirely hidden from view.

Somewhere in the back of her head, she felt Camille laugh, and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that she was sensing the vampire woman’s amusement at her admiration of Will.
There you are,
Tessa thought, relieved despite her
annoyance. She had begun to fear that Camille’s inner voice would never come to her.

She drew away from Will, lifting her chin. The haughty pose wasn’t natural to her—but it was to Camille. “You will address me not as Tessa but as a servant would,” she said, her lip curling. “Now come.” She jerked her head imperiously toward the steps, and started off without looking back to see if he followed.