The Infernal Devices 01 - Clockwork Angel (31 page)

But then there were other times, like this, when he looked at Jem and saw no mark of illness on him, and wondered what it would be like in a world where Jem was not dying. And that did not bear thinking about either. It was a terrible black place in himself that the fear came from, a dark voice he could only silence with anger, risk, and pain.

“Will.” Jem’s voice cut into Will’s unpleasant reverie. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said in the past five minutes?”

“Not really.”

“We needn’t talk about Tessa if you don’t want to, you know.”

“It’s not Tessa.” This was true. Will hadn’t been thinking about Tessa. He was getting good at not thinking about her, really; all it took was determination and practice. “One of the vampires had a human servant who rushed me. I killed him,” said Will. “Without even thinking about it. He was just a stupid human boy, and I killed him.”

“He was a darkling,” said Jem. “He was Turning. It would have been a matter of time.”

“He was just a boy,” Will said again. He turned his face toward the window, though the brightness of the witchlight in the carriage meant that all he could see was his own face, reflected back at him. “I’m going to get drunk when we get home,” he added. “I think I’m going to have to.”

“No, you won’t,” said Jem. “You know exactly what will happen when we get home.”

Because he was right, Will scowled.

Ahead of Will and Jem, in the first carriage, Tessa sat on the velvet bench seat across from Henry and Charlotte; they were talking in murmurs about the night and how it had gone.
Tessa let the words wash over her, barely caring. Only two Shadowhunters had been killed, but de Quincey’s escape was a disaster, and Charlotte was worried that the Enclave would be angry with her. Henry made soothing noises, but Charlotte seemed inconsolable. Tessa would have felt bad for her, if she’d had the energy to feel much at all.

Nathaniel lay across Tessa, his head in her lap. She bent over him, stroking his filthy matted hair with her gloved fingers. “Nate,” she said, so softly that she hoped Charlotte couldn’t hear her. “It’s all right now. Everything’s all right.”

Nathaniel’s lashes fluttered and his eyes opened. His hand came up—the fingernails broken, his joints swollen and twisted—and he took tight hold of her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Don’t go,” he said thickly. His eyes fluttered shut again; he was clearly drifting in and out of consciousness, if he was really conscious at all. “Tessie—stay.”

No one else ever called her that; she shut her eyes, willing the tears back. She did not want Charlotte—or any Shadowhunter—to see her cry.

I dare not always touch her, lest the kiss

Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss,

Brief bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin;

Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.

—Algernon Charles Swinburne, “Laus Veneris”

When they reached the Institute, Sophie and Agatha were waiting at the open doors with lanterns. Tessa stumbled with tiredness as she left the carriage, and was surprised—and grateful—when Sophie came to help her up the steps. Charlotte and Henry half-carried Nathaniel. Behind them the carriage with Will and Jem in it rattled through the gates, Thomas’s voice carrying on the cool night air as he called out a greeting.

Jessamine, not to Tessa’s surprise, was nowhere to be seen.

They installed Nathaniel in a bedroom much like Tessa’s—the
same dark heavy wood furniture, the same grand bed and wardrobe. As Charlotte and Agatha settled Nathaniel into the bed, Tessa sank into the chair beside it, half-feverish with worry and exhaustion. Voices—soft sickroom voices—swirled around her. She heard Charlotte say something about the Silent Brothers, and Henry answered in a subdued voice. At some point Sophie appeared at her elbow and urged her to drink something hot and sweet-sour that brought energy slowly flooding back into her veins. Soon enough she was able to sit up and look around her a bit, and she realized to her surprise that except for herself and her brother, the room was empty. Everyone had gone.

She glanced down at Nathaniel. He lay corpse-still, his face lividly bruised, his matted hair tangled against the pillows. Tessa could not help but recall with a pang the beautifully dressed brother of her memories, his fair hair always so carefully brushed and arranged, shoes and cuffs spotless. This Nathaniel did not look like someone who had ever spun his sister around the living room in a dance, humming to himself under his breath for the sheer joy of being alive.

She leaned forward, meaning to look more closely at his face, and saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she saw it was only herself, reflected in the mirror on the far wall. In Camille’s dress, she looked to her own eyes like a child playing dress-up. She was too slight for the sophisticated style of it. She looked like a child—a silly child. No wonder Will had—

“Tessie?” Nathaniel’s voice, weak and frail, broke her instantly out of her thoughts of Will. “Tessie, don’t leave me. I think I’m ill.”

“Nate.” She reached for his hand, seized it between her gloved palms. “You’re all right. You’ll be all right. They’ve sent for doctors… .”

“Who are ‘they’?” His voice was a thin cry. “Where are we? I don’t know this place.”

“This is the Institute. You’ll be safe here.”

Nathaniel blinked. There were dark rings, almost black, around each of his eyes, and his lips were crusted with what looked like dried blood. His eyes wandered from side to side, not fixing on anything. “Shadowhunters.” He sighed the word on an exhale of breath. “I didn’t think they really existed… . The Magister,” Nathaniel whispered suddenly, and Tessa’s nerves jumped. “He said they were the Law. He said they were to be feared. But there is no law in this world. There is no punishment—just killing or being killed.” His voice rose. “Tessie, I’m so sorry—about everything—”

“The Magister. Do you mean de Quincey?” Tessa demanded, but Nate made a choking sound then, and stared behind her with a look of terrible fear. Releasing his hand, Tessa turned to see what he was staring at.

Charlotte had come into the room almost noiselessly. She was still wearing her men’s clothes, though she had thrown an old-fashioned long cloak on over them, with a double clasp at the throat. She looked very small, in part because Brother Enoch stood beside her, casting a vast shadow across the floor. He wore the same parchment robes he had before, though now his staff was black, its head carved in the shape of dark wings. His hood was up, casting his face in shadow.

“Tessa,” Charlotte said. “You remember Brother Enoch. He is here to help Nathaniel.”

With an animal howl of terror, Nate caught at Tessa’s wrist. She looked down at him in bewilderment. “Nathaniel? What’s wrong?”

“De Quincey told me about them,” Nathaniel gasped. “The Gregori—the Silent Brothers. They can kill a man with a thought.” He shuddered. “Tessa.” His voice was a whisper. “Look at his
face
.”

Tessa looked. While she had been talking to her brother, Brother Enoch had soundlessly drawn back his hood. The smooth pits of his eyes reflected the witchlight, the glare unforgiving on the red, scarred stitching around his mouth.

Charlotte took a step forward. “If Brother Enoch might examine Mr. Gray—”

“No!” Tessa cried. Wrenching her arm from Nate’s grasp, she put herself between her brother and the other two occupants of the room. “Don’t touch him.”

Charlotte paused, looking troubled. “The Silent Brothers are our best healers. Without Brother Enoch, Nathaniel …” Her voice trailed off. “Well, there isn’t much we can do for him.”

Miss Gray.

It took her a moment to realize that the word, her name, hadn’t been spoken out loud. Instead, like a snatch of a half-forgotten song, it had echoed inside her own head—but not in the voice of her own thoughts. This thought was alien, inimical—
other.
Brother Enoch’s voice. It was the way he had spoken to her as he had left the room on her first day at the Institute.

It is interesting, Miss Gray,
Brother Enoch went on,
that you are a Downworlder, and yet your brother is not. How did such a thing come to pass?

Tessa went still. “You—you can tell that just by looking at him?”

“Tessie!” Nathaniel pushed himself upright against the pillows, his pale face flushed. “What are you doing, talking to the Gregori? He’s dangerous!”

“It’s all right, Nate,” Tessa said, not taking her eyes off Brother Enoch. She knew she ought to be frightened, but what she really felt was a stab of disappointment. “You mean there’s nothing unusual about Nate?” she asked, in a low voice. “Nothing supernatural?”

Nothing at all,
said the Silent Brother.

Tessa hadn’t realized how much she was half-hoping that her brother was like her until this moment. Disappointment sharpened her voice. “I don’t suppose, since you know so much, that you know what I am? Am I a warlock?”

I cannot tell you. There is that about you that marks you as one of Lilith’s Children. Yet there is no demon’s sign on you.

“I did notice that,” Charlotte said, and Tessa realized that she could hear Brother Enoch’s voice as well. “I thought perhaps she wasn’t a warlock. Some humans are born with some slight power, like the Sight. Or she could have faerie blood—”

She isn’t human. She is something else. I will study on it. Perhaps there is something in the archives to guide me.
Eyeless as he was, Brother Enoch seemed to be searching Tessa’s face with his gaze.
There is a power I sense you have. A power no other warlock does.

“The Changing, you mean,” said Tessa.

No. I do not mean that.

“Then what?” Tessa was astonished. “What could I—?” She broke off at a noise from Nathaniel. Turning, she saw that he had fought free of his blankets and was lying half-off the bed,
as if he’d attempted to get up; his face was sweaty and deathly white. Guilt stabbed at her. She’d been caught up in what Brother Enoch had been saying and had forgotten her brother.

She darted to the bed, and with Charlotte’s assistance she wrestled Nate back onto the pillows, pulling the blanket up around him. He seemed much worse than he had been moments before. As Tessa tucked the blanket around him, he caught at her wrist again, his eyes wild. “Does he know?” he demanded. “Does he know where I am?”

“Who do you mean? De Quincey?”

“Tessie.” He squeezed her wrist tightly, pulling her down to hiss a whisper into her ear. “You must forgive me. He told me you would be the queen of them all. He said they were going to kill me. I don’t want to die, Tessie. I don’t
want
to die.”

“Of course not,” she soothed, but he didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes, fixed on her face, went suddenly wide, and he screamed.

“Keep it away from me! Keep it away from me!” he howled. He pushed at her, thrashing his head back and forth on the pillows. “Dear God, don’t let it touch me!”

Frightened, Tessa snatched her hand back, turning to Charlotte—but Charlotte had moved away from the bed, and Brother Enoch stood in her place, his eyeless face immobile.
You must let me help your brother. Or he will likely die,
he said.

“What is he raving about?” Tessa demanded wretchedly. “What’s wrong with him?”

The vampires gave him a drug, to keep him calm while they fed. If he is not cured, the drug will drive him mad and then kill him. Already he has begun to hallucinate.

“It’s not my fault!” Nathaniel shrieked. “I had no choice! It’s not my fault!” He turned his face toward Tessa; she saw to
her horror that his eyes had gone entirely black, like an insect’s eyes. She gasped, backing away.

“Help him. Please help him.” She caught at Brother Enoch’s sleeve, and immediately regretted it; the arm beneath the sleeve was as hard as marble, and freezing to the touch. She dropped her hand in horror, but the Silent Brother did not seem to even notice her presence. He had stepped past her, and now put his scarred fingers against Nathaniel’s forehead. Nathaniel sank back against the pillows, his eyes closing.

You must leave.
Brother Enoch spoke without turning from the bed.
Your presence will only slow his healing.

“But Nate asked me to stay—”

Go.
The voice in Tessa’s mind was icy.

Tessa looked at her brother; he was still against the pillows, his face gone slack. She turned toward Charlotte, meaning to protest, but Charlotte met her glance with a small shake of the head. Her eyes were sympathetic, but unyielding. “As soon as your brother’s condition changes, I will find you. I promise.”

Tessa looked at Brother Enoch. He had opened the pouch at his waist and was setting objects down on the bedside table, slowly and methodically. Glass vials of powder and liquid, bunches of dried plants, sticks of some black substance like soft coal. “If anything happens to Nate,” Tessa said, “I shall never forgive you. Never.”

It was like speaking to a statue. Brother Enoch did not respond to her with so much as a twitch.

Tessa fled from the room.

After the dimness of Nate’s sickroom, the brightness of the sconces in the corridor stung Tessa’s eyes. She leaned against
the wall by the door, willing her tears back. It was the second time that evening she had nearly cried, and she was annoyed with herself. Clenching her right hand into a fist, she slammed it against the wall behind her, hard, sending a shock wave of pain up her arm.
That
cleared the tears, and her head.

“That looked like it hurt.”

Tessa turned. Jem had come up behind her in the corridor, as silent as a cat. He had changed out of his gear. He wore loose dark trousers tied at the waist, and a white shirt only a few shades lighter than his skin. His fine bright hair was damp, curling against his temples and the nape of his neck.

“It did.” Tessa cradled her hand against her chest. The glove she wore had softened the blow, but her knuckles still ached.