Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(105)
Author: Cassandra Clare

She stared at him. “I don’t want it.”

He moved toward her again. Tessa retreated until the back of her skirts brushed the low wall of the fountain. “Take the watch, Miss Gray.”

Tessa shook her head.

“Take it,” he said. “Or I will recall my clockwork servants and have them crush the throats of your two friends until they are dead. I need only go to the door and call to them. It is your choice.”

Bile rose in the back of Tessa’s throat. She stared at the watch he held out to her, dangling on its gold chain. It was clearly unwound. The hands had long ago stopped spinning, the time seemingly frozen at midnight. The initials J. T. S. were carved on the back in elegant script.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why do you want me to take it?”

“Because I want you to Change,” Mortmain said.

Tessa’s head jerked up. She stared at him incredulously. “What?”

“This watch used to belong to someone,” he said. “Someone I very much want to meet again.” His voice was even, but there was a sort of undercurrent beneath it, an eager hunger that terrified Tessa more than any rage might have. “I know the Dark Sisters taught you. I know you know your power. You are the only one in the world who can do what you do. I know this because I made you.”

“You made me?” Tessa stared. “You’re not saying—you can’t be my father—”

“Your father?” Mortmain laughed shortly. “I am a human, not a Downworlder. There is no demon in me, nor do I consort with demons. There is no blood shared between the two of us, Miss Gray. And yet if it were not for me, you would not exist.”

“I don’t understand,” Tessa whispered.

“You don’t need to understand.” Mortmain’s temper was visibly fraying. “You need to do as I tell you. And I am telling you to Change. Now.”

It was like standing in front of the Dark Sisters again, frightened and alert, her heart pounding, being told to access a part of herself that terrified her. Being told to lose herself in that darkness, that nothingness between self and other. Perhaps it would be easy to do as he told her—to reach out and take the watch as commanded, to abandon herself in someone else’s skin as she had done before, with no will or choice of her own.

She looked down, away from Mortmain’s searing gaze, and saw something glittering on the fountain wall just behind her. A splash of water, she thought for a moment—but no. It was something else. She spoke then, almost without meaning to.

“No,” she said.

Mortmain’s eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

“I said no.” Tessa felt as if she were outside herself somehow, watching herself face down Mortmain as if she were watching a stranger. “I won’t do it. Not unless you tell me what you mean when you say you made me. Why am I like this? Why is it that you need my power so badly? What do you plan to force me to do for you? You are doing more than just building an army of monsters. I can see that. I’m not a fool like my brother.”

Mortmain slid the watch back into his pocket. His face was an ugly mask of rage. “No,” he said. “You are not a fool like your brother. He is a fool and a coward. You are a fool who has some courage. Though it will do you little good. And it is your friends who will suffer for it. While you watch.” He turned on his heel then and strode toward the door.

Tessa bent down and seized up the object that had glittered behind her. It was the knife Jessamine had put there, the blade gleaming in the Sanctuary witchlight. “Stop,” she cried. “Mr. Mortmain. Stop.”

He turned then, and saw her holding the knife. A look of disgusted amusement spread across his face. “Really, Miss Gray,” he said. “Do you honestly think you can harm me with that? Did you think I came entirely unarmed?” He moved his jacket aside slightly, and she saw the butt of a pistol, gleaming at his belt.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t think I can hurt you.” She turned the knife around then, so that the hilt was away from her, the blade pointing directly at her own chest. “But if you take one more step toward that door, I promise you, I’ll put this knife through my heart.”

Repairing the mess Will had made of the carriage harnesses took Jem longer than he would have liked, and the moon was worryingly high in the sky by the time he rattled through the gates of the Institute and pulled Xanthos up at the foot of the steps.

Balios, untethered, was standing by the newel post at the foot of the stairs, looking exhausted. Will must have ridden like the devil, Jem thought, but at least he had arrived safely. It was a small bit of reassurance, considering that the doors of the Institute stood wide, sending a dart of horror through him. It was a sight that seemed so wrong that it was like looking at a face missing eyes or a sky with no stars. It was something that simply should not be.

Jem raised his voice. “Will?” he called. “Will, can you hear me?” When there was no answer, he leaped down from the driver’s seat of the carriage and reached up to pull his jade-headed cane down after him. He held it lightly, balancing the weight. His wrists had begun to ache, which concerned him. Usually withdrawal from the demon powder began as pain in his joints, a dull ache that spread slowly until his whole body burned like fire. But he could not afford that pain now. There was Will to think about, and Tessa. He could not rid himself of the image of her on the steps, looking down at him as he spoke the ancient words. She had looked so worried, and the thought that she might have been worried about him had given him an unexpected pleasure.

He turned to start up the steps, and paused. Someone was already coming down them. More than one person—a crowd. They were backlit by the light of the Institute, and for a moment he blinked at them, seeing only silhouettes. A few seemed strangely misshapen.

“Jem!” The voice was high, desperate. Familiar.

Jessamine.

Galvanized, Jem darted up the stairs, and then paused. In front of him stood Nathaniel Gray, his clothes torn and spotted with blood. A makeshift bandage was wound around his head and was soaked with blood by his right temple. His expression was grim.

On either side of him moved clockwork automatons, like obedient servants. One flanked his right side, one his left. Behind were two more. One held a struggling Jessamine; the other a limp, half-insensible Sophie.

“Jem!” Jessamine shrieked. “Nate’s a liar. He was helping Mortmain all this time—Mortmain’s the Magister, not de Quincey—”