Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(97)
Author: Cassandra Clare

“No,” said a drawling voice from behind Tessa, “I don’t think so. Or rather, certainly, take the servant girl and go where you like with her. But Miss Gray will be remaining here. As will her brother.”

The voice was familiar—shockingly so. Very slowly Tessa turned.

Standing among the frozen machines as if he had simply appeared there by magic was a man. Just as ordinary-looking as Tessa had thought he was before, though his hat was gone now, and his graying head was bare under the witchlight.

Mortmain.

He was smiling. Not as he had been smiling earlier, with affable cheerfulness. His smile now was almost sickening in its glee. “Nathaniel Gray,” he said. “Excellently done. I admit that my faith in you was tested—tested sorely—but you have recovered admirably from your past missteps. I’m proud of you.”

Tessa whirled to look at her brother, but Nate seemed to have forgotten she was there—that anyone else was there. He was staring past her at Mortmain, the oddest expression—a mix of fear and worship—stamped on his face. He moved forward, pushing past Tessa; she reached to hold him back, but he shook off her reaching hand with a flick of annoyance. At last he was standing directly in front of Mortmain.

With a cry he went to his knees and clasped his hands in front of him, almost as if he were praying.

“It was only ever my desire,” he said, “to serve you, Magister.”

* * *

Mrs. Dark was still laughing.

“But what is it?” Jem said in bewilderment, raising his voice to be heard over her peals of laughter. “What do you mean?”

Despite her ragged appearance Mrs. Dark managed an air of triumph. “De Quincey isn’t the Magister,” she sneered. “He’s just a stupid bloodsucker, no better than the others. That you were so easily fooled proves you have no idea who the Magister is—or what you’re facing. You’re dead, little Shadowhunters. Little walking dead men.”

That was too much for Will’s temper. With a snarl he lunged toward the steps, his seraph blade outstretched. Jem called for him to stop, but it was too late. Mrs. Dark, her lips drawn back from her teeth like a hissing cobra’s, swung her arm forward and flung her sister’s severed head toward Will. With a yell of disgust he ducked aside, and she took the opportunity to charge down the steps, past Will, and through the arched doorway at the west side of the foyer, into the shadows beyond.

Mrs. Black’s head, meanwhile, bumped down several stairs and came to rest gently against the toe of Will’s boot. He looked down, and winced. One of her eyelids had drooped closed, and her tongue hung, gray and leathery, out of her mouth, for all the world as if she were leering at him.

“I may be sick,” he announced.

“There’s no time for you to be sick,” said Jem. “Come on—”

And he dashed through the archway after Mrs. Dark. Nudging the warlock’s severed head out of the way with the toe of his boot, Will followed after his friend at a run.

* * *

“Magister?” Tessa repeated blankly. But that’s impossible. De Quincey is the Magister. Those creatures on the bridge, they said they served him. Nate said … She stared at her brother. “Nate?”

Speaking aloud was a mistake. Mortmain’s gaze fell on Tessa, and he grinned. “Seize the shape-changer,” he said to the clockwork creatures. “Don’t let her go.”

“Nate!” Tessa cried, but her brother did not so much as turn to look at her, as the creatures, brought back to sudden life, lurched forward, whirring and clicking, moving toward Tessa. One of them seized her, its metal arms like a vise as they encircled her chest, crushing the breath out of her.

Mortmain grinned at Tessa. “Don’t be too hard on your brother, Miss Gray. He really is cleverer than I gave him credit for. It was his idea that I lure young Carstairs and Herondale out of the place with a far-fetched tale, that I might enter unmolested.”

“What’s going on?” Jessamine’s voice trembled as she looked from Nate, to Tessa, to Mortmain, and back again. “I don’t understand. Who is this, Nate? Why are you kneeling to him?”

“He is the Magister,” said Nate. “If you were wise, you would kneel too.”

Jessamine looked incredulous. “This is de Quincey?”

Nate’s eyes flashed. “De Quincey is a peon, a serf. He answers to the Magister. Few even know the Magister’s true identity; I am one of the chosen. The favored.”

Jessamine made a rude noise. “Chosen to kneel on the ground, are you?”

Nate’s eyes flashed, and he scrambled to his feet. He shouted something at Jessamine, but Tessa could not hear it. The metal mannequin had tightened its grip on her to the point where she could barely breathe, and dark spots were beginning to float in front of her eyes. She was dimly aware of Mortmain shouting at the creature to loosen its grip on her, but it did not obey. She clawed at its metal arms with weakening fingers, barely aware of something fluttering at her throat, a fluttering that felt as if a bird or a butterfly were trapped beneath the collar of her dress. The chain around her neck was vibrating and twitching. She managed to look down, her vision blurred, and saw to her amazement that the little metal angel had emerged from beneath the collar of her dress; it soared upward, lifting the chain over her head. Its eyes seemed to glow as it flew upward. For the first time its metallic wings were spread, and Tessa saw that each wing was edged with something shimmering and razor-sharp. As she watched in amazement, the angel dived like a hornet, slashing with the edges of its wings at the head of the creature holding her—slicing through copper and metal, sending up a shower of red sparks.

The sparks stung Tessa’s neck like a shower of hot cinders, but she barely noticed; the creature’s arms loosened around her, and she wrenched herself away as it spun and staggered, its arms jerking blindly in front of it. She couldn’t help but be reminded somehow of a sketch she’d seen of an angry gentleman at a garden party waving off bees. Mortmain, noticing a beat too late what was going on, shouted, and the other creatures lurched into motion, surging toward Tessa. She looked around wildly, but could no longer see the tiny angel. It seemed to have vanished.

“Tessa! Get out of the way!” A cold little hand caught at her wrist. It was Jessamine, yanking her backward as Thomas, having released Sophie, dived in front of her. Jessamine thrust Tessa behind her, toward the stairs at the back of the entryway, and moved forward with her parasol whirling. Her face was set with determination. It was Thomas who struck the first blow. Lunging forward with his sword, he sheared through the chest of a creature who was lurching toward him, hands outstretched. The machine man staggered backward, whirring loudly, red sparks spraying from its chest like blood. Jessamine laughed at the sight and laid about her with her parasol. The whirling edge of it sliced through the legs of two of the creatures, sending them toppling forward to flop on the ground like landed fish.