Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(59)
Author: Cassandra Clare

Will and Magnus exchanged a look. “She does not expect,” said Magnus, “that a single vampire who is here tonight will survive the evening to accuse her.”

“The dead can tell no tales,” said Will softly. The flickering light in the room painted his face in alternating shades of black and gold; the line of his jaw was hard. He looked toward the peephole, eyes narrowing. “Look.”

The three of them jostled to get close to the peephole, through which they saw the pocket doors at one end of the music room slide open. Through them was the large candlelit drawing room; vampires began to stream through the doors, taking their places in the seats before the “stage.”

“It’s time,” Magnus said softly, and slid the peephole closed.

* * *

The music room was nearly full. Tessa, arm in arm with Magnus, watched as Will threaded his way through the crowd, looking for three seats together. He was keeping his head bowed, his eyes on the floor, but even so—

“They’re still looking at him,” she said to Magnus under her breath. “At Will, I mean.”

“Of course they are,” said Magnus. His eyes reflected light like a cat’s as they surveyed the room. “Look at him. The face of a bad angel and eyes like the night sky in Hell. He’s very pretty, and vampires like that. I can’t say I mind either.” Magnus grinned. “Black hair and blue eyes are my favorite combination.”

Tessa reached up to pat Camille’s pale blond curls.

Magnus shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Tessa was spared answering; Will had found a set of chairs together, and was beckoning them over with a gloved hand. She tried not to pay attention to the way the vampires were looking at him as she let Magnus lead her toward the seats. It was true that he was beautiful, but what did they care? Will was just food to them, wasn’t he?

She sat down with Magnus on one side of her and Will on the other, her silk taffeta skirts rustling like leaves in a stiff wind. The room was cool, not like a room crowded with human beings, who would have been giving off body heat. Will’s sleeve slid up his arm as he reached to pat the pocket of his waistcoat, and she saw that his arm was dotted with goose bumps. She wondered if the human companions of vampires were always cold.

A rustle of whispers went through the room, and Tessa tore her eyes from Will. The light of the candelabras did not reach the far recesses of the room; portions of the “stage”—the back of the room—were blotched with shadows, and even Tessa’s vampire eyes could not discern what was moving within the darkness until de Quincey appeared suddenly from the shadows.

The audience was silent. Then de Quincey grinned. It was a manic grin, showing fangs, and it transformed his face. He looked wild and savage now, wolflike. A murmur of hushed appreciation went through the room, the way a human audience might show appreciation for an actor with a particularly good stage presence.

“Good evening,” said de Quincey. “Welcome, friends. Those of you who have joined me here”—and he smiled directly at Tessa, who was too nervous to do anything but stare back—“are proud sons and daughters of the Night Children. We do not bend our necks beneath the oppressive yoke called the Law. We do not answer to Nephilim. Nor shall we abandon our ancient customs at their whim.”

It was impossible not to notice the effect de Quincey’s speech was having on Will. He was as taut as a bow, his hands clenched in his lap, the veins standing out in his neck.

“We have a prisoner,” de Quincey went on. “His crime is betraying the Night Children.” He swept his gaze across the audience of waiting vampires. “And what is the punishment for such treason?”

“It is death!” cried a voice, the vampire woman Delilah. She was straining forward in her seat, a terrible eagerness on her face.

The other vampires took up her cry. “Death! Death!”

More shadowy forms slipped between the curtains that formed the makeshift stage. Two male vampires, holding between them the struggling form of a human man. A black hood concealed the man’s features. All Tessa could see was that he was slender, probably young—and filthy, his fine clothes torn and ragged. His bare feet left bloody smears on the boards as the men dragged him forward and flung him into the chair. A faint gasp of sympathy escaped Tessa’s throat; she felt Will tense beside her.

The man continued to thrash feebly, like an insect on the end of a pin, as the vampires strapped his wrists and ankles to the chair, and then stepped back. De Quincey grinned; his fangs were out. They shone like ivory pins as he surveyed the crowd. Tessa could sense the vampires’ restlessness—and more than their restlessness, their hunger. No longer did they resemble a well-bred audience of human theatergoers. They were as avid as lions scenting prey, lurching forward in their chairs, theirs eyes wide and glowing, their mouths open.

“When can you summon the Enclave?” Tessa said to Will in an urgent whisper.

Will’s voice was tight. “When he draws blood. We must see him do it.”

“Will—”

“Tessa.” He whispered her real name, his fingers gripping hers. “Be quiet.”

Reluctantly Tessa returned her attention to the stage, where de Quincey was approaching the shackled prisoner. He paused by the chair—reached out—and his thin pale fingers brushed the man’s shoulder, as light as a spider’s touch. The prisoner convulsed, jerking in desperate terror as the vampire’s hand slid from his shoulder to his neck. De Quincey laid two white fingers to the man’s pulse point, as if he were a doctor checking a patient’s heartbeat.

De Quincey wore a silver ring on one finger, Tessa saw, one side of which sharpened to a needle point that protruded when he tightened his hand into a fist. There was a flash of silver, and the prisoner screamed—the first sound he had made. There was something familiar about the sound.

A thin line of red appeared on the prisoner’s throat, like a loop of red wire. Blood welled and spilled down into the hollow of his collarbone. The prisoner thrashed and struggled as de Quincey, his face now a rictus mask of hunger, reached to touch two fingers to the red liquid. He lifted the stained fingertips to his mouth. The crowd was hissing and moaning, barely able to stay in their seats. Tessa glanced toward the woman in the white-plumed hat. Her mouth was open, her chin wet with drool.

“Will,” Tessa murmured. “Will, please.”

Will glanced past her, at Magnus. “Magnus. Take her out of here.”