Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(96)
Author: Cassandra Clare

“This can’t be right,” Jem whispered. “It’s as if no one’s been here in fifty years.”

Barely had he finished speaking when a sound rose on the night air, a sound that lifted the hairs on Will’s neck and made the Marks on his shoulders burn. It was singing—but not pleasant singing. It was a voice capable of reaching notes no human voice could reach. Overhead, the chandelier’s crystal pendants rattled like wineglasses set to vibrating at the touch of a finger.

“Someone’s here,” Will muttered back. Without another word he and Jem turned so that their backs were to each other. Jem faced the open front doorway; Will, the vast curving stairs.

Something appeared at the head of the stairs. At first Will saw only an alternating pattern of black and white, a shadow that moved. As it drifted downward, the singing sound grew louder, and the hairs on Will’s neck prickled more. Sweat dampened the hair at his temples and ran down the small of his back, despite the chill air.

She was halfway down the stairs before he recognized her—Mrs. Dark, her long, bony body clad in a sort of nun’s habit, a shapeless dark robe that fell from her neck to her feet. A lightless lantern swung from one clawed hand. She was alone—though not quite, Will realized as she paused on the landing, for the thing she was clutching in her hand was not a lantern after all. It was her sister’s severed head.

“By the Angel,” Will whispered. “Jem, look.”

Jem looked, and swore too. Mrs. Black’s head dangled from a plait of gray hair, which Mrs. Dark clutched as if it were a priceless artifact. The head’s eyes were open, and perfectly white, like boiled eggs. Its mouth hung open too, a line of dried black blood threading from one corner of the lips.

Mrs. Dark stopped her song and giggled, like a schoolgirl. “Naughty, naughty,” she said. “Breaking into my house like this. Bad little Shadowhunters.”

“I thought,” Jem said under his breath, “that the other sister was alive.”

“Maybe this one brought her sister back to life and then chopped her head off again?” Will muttered. “Seems a lot of work for no real gain, but then …”

“Murdering Nephilim,” Mrs. Dark snarled, fixing her gaze on Will. “Not content with killing my sister once, are you? You must return and prevent me even from giving her a second life. Do you know—have you any idea—what it’s like to be entirely alone?”

“More than you can ever imagine,” Will said tightly, and saw Jem glance at him sideways, puzzled. Stupid, Will thought. I shouldn’t say such things.

Mrs. Dark swayed on her feet. “You are mortal. You are alone for a moment of time, a single breath of the universe. I am alone forever.” She clutched the head to her tightly. “What difference does it make to you? Surely there are darker crimes in London that more urgently require the attention of the Shadowhunters than my poor attempts to bring back my sister.”

Will’s gaze met Jem’s. The other boy shrugged. Clearly he was as confused as Will was. “It’s true that necromancy is against the Law,” Jem said, “but so is binding demon energies. And that does require our attention, quite urgently.”

Mrs. Dark stared at them. “Binding demon energies?”

“There is no point in pretending. We know your plans exactly,” said Will. “We know of the automatons, the binding spell, your service to the Magister—whom the rest of our Enclave is, right now, tracking to his hiding place. By tonight’s end he will be utterly erased. There is no one for you to call on, nowhere for you to hide.”

At that, Mrs. Dark paled markedly. “The Magister?” she whispered. “You have found the Magister? But how …”

“That’s right,” Will said. “De Quincey escaped us once, but not this time. We know where he is, and—”

But his words were drowned out—by laughter. Mrs. Dark was bent over the staircase railing, howling with mirth. Will and Jem stared in confusion as she straightened up. Blackish tears of hilarity streaked her face. “De Quincey, the Magister!” she cried. “That poncing, preening vampire! Oh, what a joke! You fools, you stupid little fools!”

18

THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,

One task more declin’d, one more foot-path untrod,

One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

—Robert Browning, “The Lost Leader”

Tessa staggered back from the door. Behind her, Sophie was frozen, kneeling over Agatha, her hands pressed to the older woman’s chest. Blood soaked through the pitiful cloth bandage under her fingers; Agatha had gone a horrible putty color and was making a noise like a teakettle boiling. When she saw the clockwork automatons, her eyes widened and she tried to push Sophie away with her bloody hands, but Sophie, still screaming, clung tenaciously to the older woman, refusing to move.

“Sophie!” There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Thomas burst into the entryway, his face very white. In his hand he gripped the massive sword Tessa had seen him holding earlier. With him was Jessamine, parasol in hand. Behind her was Nathaniel, looking absolutely terrified. “What on earth—?”

Thomas broke off, staring from Sophie, Tessa, and Agatha to the door and back again. The automatons had come to a halt. They stood in a line just inside the doorway, as still as puppets whose strings were no longer being pulled. Their blank faces stared straight ahead.

“Agatha!” Sophie’s voice rose to a wail. The older woman was still, her eyes wide open but unfocused. Her hands hung limply at her sides.

Though it made her skin prickle to turn her back on the machines, Tessa bent and put her hand on Sophie’s shoulder. The other girl shook her off; she was making little whimpering noises, like a kicked dog. Tessa darted a glance behind her toward the automatons. They were still as motionless as chess pieces, but how long could that last? “Sophie, please!”

Nate was breathing in pants, his eyes fixed on the door, his face as white as chalk. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Jessamine glanced at him once, a look of surprise and disdain, before turning to Thomas. “Get her on her feet,” she said. “She’ll listen to you.”

After a single startled glance at Jessamine, Thomas bent down and, gently but firmly, pried Sophie’s hands from Agatha, raising her to her feet. She clung to him. Her hands and arms were as red as if she had come from a slaughterhouse, and her apron was nearly ripped in half and was printed with bloodied handprints. “Miss Lovelace,” he said in a low voice, keeping Sophie close against him with the hand not holding the sword. “Take Sophie and Miss Gray to the Sanctuary—”