Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(76)
Author: Cassandra Clare

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jem said again, just as he had outside the Institute. “The railway bridge, it’s hideous. But it means people rarely come here to admire the view. I enjoy the solitude, and just the look of the river, silent under the moon.”

They walked to the center of the bridge, where Tessa leaned against a granite parapet and looked down. The Thames was black in the moonlight. The expanse of London stretched away on either bank, the great dome of St. Paul’s looming up behind them like a white ghost, and everything shrouded in the softening fog that laid a gently blurring veil over the harsh lines of the city.

Tessa glanced down at the river. The smell of salt and dirt and rot came off the water, mixing with the fog. Still there was something portentous about London’s river, as if it carried the weight of the past in its currents. A bit of old poetry came into her head. “‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,’” she said, half under her breath. Normally she would never have quoted poetry aloud in front of anyone, but there was something about Jem that made her feel that whatever she did, he wouldn’t pass judgment on her.

“I’ve heard that bit of rhyme before,” was all he said. “Will’s quoted it at me. What is it?”

“Spenser. ‘Prothalamion.’” Tessa frowned. “Will does seem to have an odd affinity for poetry for someone so … so …”

“Will reads constantly, and has an excellent memory,” said Jem. “There is very little he does not remember.” There was something in his voice that lent weight to his assertion beyond the mere statement of fact.

“You like Will, don’t you?” said Tessa. “I mean, you’re fond of him.”

“I love him as if he were my brother,” said Jem matter-of-factly.

“You can say that,” Tessa said. “However horrid he is to everyone else, he loves you. He’s kind to you. What did you ever do, to make him treat you so differently from all the rest?”

Jem leaned sideways against the parapet, his gaze on her but still faraway. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the jade top of his cane. Taking advantage of his clear distraction, Tessa let herself stare at him, marveling a little at his strange beauty in the moonlight. He was all silver and ashes, not like Will’s strong colors of blue and black and gold.

Finally he said, “I don’t know, really. I used to think it was because we were both without parents, and therefore he felt we were the same—”

“I’m an orphan,” Tessa pointed out. “So is Jessamine. He doesn’t think he is like us.”

“No. He doesn’t.” Jem’s eyes were guarded, as if there were something he wasn’t saying.

“I don’t understand him,” Tessa said. “He can be kind one moment and absolutely awful the next. I cannot decide if he is kind or cruel, loving or hateful—”

“Does it matter?” Jem said. “Is it required that you make such a decision?”

“The other night,” she went on, “in your room, when Will came in. He said he had been drinking all night, but then, later, when you—later he seemed to become instantly sober. I’ve seen my brother drunk. I know it doesn’t vanish like that in an instant; even my aunt throwing a pail of cold water in Nate’s face wouldn’t have roused him from stupor, not if he were truly intoxicated. And Will didn’t smell of alcohol, or seem ill the next morning. But why would he lie and say he was drunk if he wasn’t?”

Jem looked resigned. “And there you have the essential mystery of Will Herondale. I used to wonder the same thing myself. How anyone could drink as much as he claimed and survive, much less fight as well as he does. So one night I followed him.”

“You followed him?”

Jem grinned crookedly. “Yes. He went out, claiming an assignation or some such, and I followed him. If I’d known what to expect, I would have worn sturdier shoes. All night he walked through the city, from St. Paul’s to Spitalfields Market to Whitechapel High Street. He went down to the river and wandered about the docks. Never did he stop to speak to a single soul. It was like following a ghost. The next morning he was ready with some ribald tale of false adventures, and I never demanded the truth. If he wishes to lie to me, then he must have a reason.”

“He lies to you, and yet you trust him?”

“Yes,” Jem said. “I trust him.”

“But—”

“He lies consistently. He always invents the story that will make him look the worst.”

“Then, has he told you what happened to his parents? Either the truth or lies?”

“Not entirely. Bits and pieces,” Jem said after a long pause. “I know that his father left the Nephilim. Before Will was ever born. He fell in love with a mundane girl, and when the Council refused to make her a Shadowhunter, he left the Clave and moved with her to a very remote part of Wales, where they thought they wouldn’t be interfered with. The Clave was furious.”

“Will’s mother was a mundane? You mean he is only half a Shadowhunter?”

“Nephilim blood is dominant,” said Jem. “That’s why there are three rules for those who leave the Clave. First, you must sever contact with any and all Shadowhunters you have ever known, even your own family. They can never speak to you again, nor can you speak to them. Second, you cannot call upon the Clave for help, no matter what your danger. And the third …”

“What’s the third?”

“Even should you leave the Clave,” said Jem, “they can still lay claim to your children.”

A little shiver went through Tessa. Jem was still staring out at the river, as if he could see Will in its silvered surface. “Every six years,” he said, “until the child is eighteen, a representative of the Clave comes to your family and asks the child if they would like to leave their family and join the Nephilim.”

“I can’t imagine anyone would,” Tessa said, appalled. “I mean, you’d never be able to speak to your family again, would you?”

Jem shook his head.

“And Will agreed to that? He joined the Shadowhunters regardless?”

“He refused. Twice, he refused. Then, one day—Will was twelve or so—there was a knock on the Institute door and Charlotte answered it. She would have been eighteen then, I think. Will was standing there on the steps. She told me he was covered in road dust and dirt as if he’d been sleeping in hedgerows. He said, ‘I am a Shadowhunter. One of you. You have to let me in. I have nowhere else to go.’”