Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(36)
Author: Cassandra Clare

The look of confusion didn’t leave Henry’s face as he joined his wife before Mortmain’s desk, and drew something from his jacket pocket. It was a dark metal oblong, with a series of peculiar-looking dials across the face of it. Charlotte took it and brandished it at Mortmain.

“This is a Summoner,” she told him. “It will allow me to summon the Clave. Inside of three minutes they will surround your house. Nephilim will drag you from this room, screaming and kicking. They will perform upon you the most exquisite tortures until you are forced to speak. Do you know what happens to a man when demon blood is dripped into his eyes?”

Mortmain gave her a ghastly look, but said nothing.

“Please don’t test me, Mr. Mortmain.” The device in Charlotte’s hand was slippery with sweat, but her voice was even. “I would hate to watch you die.”

“Good Lord, man, tell her!” Henry burst out. “Really, there’s no need for this, Mr. Mortmain. You’re only making it harder on yourself.”

Mortmain covered his face with his hands. He had always wanted to meet real Shadowhunters, Charlotte thought, looking at him. And now he had.

“De Quincey,” he said. “I don’t know his first name. Just de Quincey.”

By the Angel. Charlotte exhaled slowly, lowering the device to her side. “De Quincey? It can’t be …”

“You know who he is?” Mortmain’s voice was dull. “Well, I suppose you would.”

“He’s the head of a powerful London vampire clan,” Charlotte said almost reluctantly, “a very influential Downworlder, and an ally of the Clave. I can’t imagine that he would—”

“He’s the head of the club,” said Mortmain. He looked exhausted, and a little gray. “Everyone else answers to him.”

“The head of the club. Has he a title?”

Mortmain looked faintly surprised to be asked. “The Magister.”

With a hand that shook only slightly, Charlotte slipped the device she had been holding into her sleeve. “Thank you, Mr. Mortmain. You’ve been most helpful.”

Mortmain looked at her with a sort of drained resentment. “De Quincey will find out that I’ve told you. He’ll have me killed.”

“The Clave will see that he does not. And we will keep your name out of this. He shall never know you spoke to us.”

“You would do that?” Mortmain said softly. “For what was it—a foolish mundane?”

“I have hopes for you, Mr. Mortmain. You seem to have realized your own folly. The Clave will be watching you—not only for your own protection, but to see that you stay away from the Pandemonium Club and organizations like it. For your own sake, I hope you will regard our meeting as a warning.”

Mortmain nodded. Charlotte moved to the door, Henry behind her; she already had it open and was standing on the threshold when Mortmain spoke again. “They were only cogs,” he said softly. “Only gears. Harmless.”

It was Henry, to Charlotte’s surprise, who replied, without turning, “Inanimate objects are harmless indeed, Mr. Mortmain. But one cannot always say the same of the men who use them.”

Mortmain was silent as the two Shadowhunters left the room. A few moments later they were out in the square, breathing fresh air—as fresh as the air of London ever was. It might be thick with coal smoke and dust, Charlotte thought, but at least it was free of the fear and desperation that had hung like a haze in Mortmain’s study.

Drawing the device from her sleeve, Charlotte offered it to her husband. “I suppose I ought to ask you,” she said as he received it with a grave expression, “what is that object, Henry?”

“Something I’ve been working on.” Henry looked at it fondly. “A device that can sense demon energies. I was going to call it a Sensor. I haven’t got it working yet, but when I do!”

“I’m sure it will be splendid.”

Henry transferred his fond expression from the device to his wife, a rare occurrence. “What pure genius, Charlotte. Pretending you could summon the Clave on the spot, just to frighten that man! But how did you know I’d have a device you could put to your uses?”

“Well, you did, darling,” said Charlotte. “Didn’t you?”

Henry looked sheepish. “You are as terrifying as you are wonderful, my dear.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

The ride back to the Institute was a silent one; Jessamine stared out the window of the cab at the snarling London traffic and refused to say a word. She held her parasol across her lap, seemingly indifferent to the fact that the blood on its edges was staining her taffeta jacket. When they reached the churchyard, she let Thomas help her down from the carriage before reaching to grip Tessa’s hand.

Surprised at the contact, Tessa could only stare. Jessamine’s fingers in hers were icy. “Come along,” Jessamine snapped impatiently, and pulled her companion toward the Institute doors, leaving Thomas staring after them.

Tessa let the other girl draw her up the stairs, into the Institute proper, and down a long corridor, this one almost identical to the one outside Tessa’s bedroom. Jessamine located a door, pushed Tessa through it, and followed, shutting the door behind them. “I want to show you something,” she said.

Tessa looked around. It was another of the large bedrooms of which the Institute seemed to have an infinite number. Jessamine’s, though, had been decorated somewhat to her taste. Above the wooden wainscoting the walls were papered in rose silk, and the coverlet on the bed was printed with flowers. There was a white vanity table too, its surface covered with an expensive-looking dressing table set: a ring stand, a bottle of flower water, and a silver-backed hairbrush and mirror.

“Your room is lovely,” Tessa said, more in hopes of calming Jessamine’s evident hysteria than because she meant it.

“It’s much too small,” Jessamine said. “But come—over here.” And flinging the bloodied parasol down onto her bed, she marched across the room to a corner by the window. Tessa followed with some puzzlement. There was nothing in the corner but a high table, and on the table was a dollhouse. Not the sort of two-room cardboard Dolly’s Playhouse that Tessa had had as a child. This was a beautiful miniature reproduction of a real London town house, and when Jessamine touched it, Tessa saw that the front of it swung open on tiny hinges.

Tessa caught her breath. There were beautiful tiny rooms perfectly decorated with miniature furniture, everything built to scale, from the little wooden chairs with needlepoint cushions to the cast-iron stove in the kitchen. There were small dolls, too, with china heads, and real little oil paintings on the walls.