فصل 10

10 PALE KINGS AND PRINCES

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all

—John Keats, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”

As the coach rattled along the Strand, Will raised a black-gloved hand and drew one of the velvet curtains back from the window, letting a splash of yellow gaslight find its way into the carriage’s dark interior. “It rather looks,” he said, “as if we might be in for rain tonight.” Tessa followed his gaze; out the window the sky was a cloudy steel gray—the usual for London, she thought. Men in hats and long dark coats hurried along the pavement on either side of the street, their shoulders hunched against a brisk wind that carried coal dust, horse manure, and all sorts of eye-stinging rubbish in its wake. Once again Tessa thought she could smell the river.

“Is that a church directly in the middle of the street?” she wondered aloud.

“It’s St. Mary le Strand,” said Will, “and there’s a long story about it, but I’m not going to tell it to you now. Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

“I was,” Tessa said, “until you started on about rain. Who cares about rain? We’re on our way to some sort of—vampire society event, and I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to behave, and so far you haven’t helped me much at all.” The corner of Will’s mouth twitched upward. “Just be careful. When we arrive at the house, you can’t look to me for help or instruction. Remember, I am your human subjugate. You keep me about you for blood—blood whenever you want it—and nothing else.” “So you’re not going to speak tonight,” Tessa said. “At all.”

“Not unless you instruct me to,” said Will.

“This evening sounds as if it might be better than I thought.”

Will seemed not to have heard her. With his right hand he was tightening one of the metal knife-bearing cuffs on his left wrist. He was staring off toward the window, as if seeing something that wasn’t visible to her. “You might be thinking of vampires as feral monsters, but these vampires are not like that. They are as cultured as they are cruel. Sharpened knives to humanity’s dull blade.” The line of his jaw was set hard in the dim light. “You will have to try to keep up. And for God’s sake, if you can’t, don’t say anything at all. They have a tortuous and opaque sense of etiquette. A serious social gaffe could mean instant death.” Tessa’s hands tightened on each other in her lap. They were cold. She could feel the cold of Camille’s skin, even through her gloves. “Are you joking? The way you were in the library, about dropping that book?” “No.” His voice was remote.

“Will, you’re frightening me.” The words came out of Tessa’s mouth before she could stop them; she tensed, expecting mockery.

Will drew his gaze away from the window and looked at her as if some realization had dawned on him. “Tess,” he said, and Tessa felt a momentary jolt; no one had ever called her Tess. Sometimes her brother had called her Tessie, but that was all. “You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” She took a breath, one she didn’t need. “And then what? We would turn the carriage around and go home?”

He put his hands out, and took hers. Camille’s hands were so small that Will’s capable dark-gloved ones seemed to swallow them up. “One for all, and all for one,” he said.

She smiled at that, weakly. “The Three Musketeers?”

His steady gaze held hers. His blue eyes were very dark, uniquely so. She had known people before with blue eyes, but they had always been light blue. Will’s were the color of the sky just on the edge of night. His long lashes veiled them as he said, “Sometimes, when I have to do something I don’t want to do, I pretend I’m a character from a book. It’s easier to know what they would do.” “Really? Who do you pretend you are? D’Artagnan?” Tessa asked, naming the only one of the Three Musketeers that she could remember.

“’It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done,’” Will quoted. “’It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’”

“Sydney Carton? But you said you hated A Tale of Two Cities!”

“I don’t really.” Will seemed unabashed by his lie.

“And Sydney Carton was a dissipated alcoholic.”

“Exactly. There was a man who was worthless, and knew he was worthless, and yet however far down he tried to sink his soul, there was always some part of him capable of great action.” Will lowered his voice. “What is it he says to Lucie Manette? That though he is weak, he can still burn?” Tessa, who had read A Tale of Two Cities more times than she could count, whispered, “’And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire.’” She hesitated. “But that was because he loved her.” “Yes,” said Will. “He loved her enough to know she was better off without him.” His hands were still on hers, the heat of them burning through her gloves. The wind was brisk outside, and had ruffled his ink black hair as they had crossed the Institute courtyard to the carriage. It made him look younger, and more vulnerable—and his eyes, too, were vulnerable, open like a door. The way he was looking at her, she would not have thought Will could, or would, look at anyone like that. If she could blush, she thought, how she would be blushing now.

And then she wished she had not thought of that. For that thought led, inevitably and unpleasantly, to another: Was he looking at her now, or at Camille, who was, indeed, exquisitely beautiful? Was that the reason for his change in expression? Could he see Tessa through the disguise, or only the shell of her?

She drew back, taking her hands from his, though his were closed tightly around hers. It took her a moment to disengage them.

“Tessa—,” he began, but before he could say more, the carriage came to a jerking stop that set the velvet curtains swaying. Thomas called, “We’re here!” from the driver’s seat. Will, after taking a deep breath, swung the door open and leaped down to the pavement, lifting his hand to help her down after him.

Tessa bent her head as she exited the carriage to avoid crushing any of the roses on Camille’s hat. Though Will wore gloves, as she did, she could almost imagine she felt the pulsing of blood under his skin, even through the double layer of fabric that separated them. He was flushed, the color high in his cheeks, and she wondered if it was the cold whipping the blood into his face, or something else.

They were standing in front of a tall white house with a white-pillared entrance. It was surrounded by similar houses on either side, like rows of pale dominoes. Up a row of white steps was a pair of double doors painted black. They were ajar, and Tessa could see the glimmer of candlelight from within, shimmering like a curtain.

Tessa turned to look at Will. Behind him Thomas was seated at the front of the carriage, his hat tipped forward to hide his face. The silver-handled pistol tucked into his waistcoat pocket was entirely hidden from view.

Somewhere in the back of her head, she felt Camille laugh, and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that she was sensing the vampire woman’s amusement at her admiration of Will. There you are, Tessa thought, relieved despite her annoyance. She had begun to fear that Camille’s inner voice would never come to her.

She drew away from Will, lifting her chin. The haughty pose wasn’t natural to her—but it was to Camille. “You will address me not as Tessa but as a servant would,” she said, her lip curling. “Now come.” She jerked her head imperiously toward the steps, and started off without looking back to see if he followed.

An elegantly dressed footman awaited her at the top of the steps. “Your Ladyship,” he murmured, and as he bowed, Tessa saw the two fang punctures in his neck, just above the collar. She turned her head to see Will behind her, and was about to introduce him to the footman when Camille’s voice whispered in the back of her head, We do not introduce our human pets to each other. They are our nameless property, unless we choose to give them names.

Ugh, Tessa thought. In her disgust, she hardly noticed as the footman guided her down a long corridor and into a large marble-floored room. He bowed again and departed; Will moved to her side, and for a moment they both stood staring.

The space was lit only by candles. Dozens of gold candela-bras dotted the room, fat white candles blazing in the holders. Hands carved of marble

reached from the walls, each gripping a scarlet candle, drips of red wax blooming like roses along the sides of the carved marble.

And among the candelabras moved vampires, their faces as white as clouds, their movements graceful and liquid and strange. Tessa could see their similarities to Camille, the features they shared—the poreless skin, the jewel-colored eyes, the pale cheeks splotched with artificial rouge. Some looked more human than others; many were dressed in the fashions of bygone ages—knee breeches and cravats, skirts as full as Marie Antoinette’s or gathered into trains at the back, lace cuffs and linen frills. Tessa’s gaze scanned the room frantically, searching for a familiar fair-haired figure, but Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. Instead she found herself trying not to stare at a tall skeletal woman, dressed in the heavily wigged and powdered fashion of a hundred years ago. Her face was stark and dreadful, whiter than the white powder dusting her hair. Her name was Lady Delilah, Camille’s voice whispered in Tessa’s mind. Lady Delilah held a slight figure by the hand, and Tessa’s mind recoiled—a child, in this place?—but when the figure turned, she saw that it was a vampire as well, sunken dark eyes like pits in its rounded childish face. It smiled at Tessa, showing bared fangs.

“We must look for Magnus Bane,” Will said under his breath. “He is meant to guide us through this mess. I shall point him out if I see him.”

She was about to tell Will that Camille would recognize Magnus for her, when she caught sight of a slender man with a shock of fair hair, wearing a black swallowtail coat. Tessa felt her heart leap—and then fall in bitter disappointment as he turned. It was not Nathaniel. This man was a vampire, with a pale, angular face. His hair was not yellow like Nate’s but was almost colorless under the candlelight. He dropped Tessa a wink and began to move toward her, pushing through the crowd. There were not only vampires among them, Tessa saw, but human subjugates as well. They carried gleaming serving trays, and on the trays were sets of empty glasses. Beside the glasses lay an array of silver utensils, all sharp-pointed. Knives, of course, and thin tools like the awls shoemakers used to punch holes in leather.

As Tessa stared in confusion, one of the subjugates was stopped by the woman in the white powdered wig. She snapped her fingers imperiously, and the darkling—a pale boy in a gray jacket and trousers—turned his head to the side obediently. After plucking a thin awl from the tray with her skinny fingers, the vampire drew the sharp tip across the skin of the boy’s throat, just below his jaw. The glasses rattled on the tray as his hand shook, but he didn’t drop the tray, not even when the woman lifted a glass and pressed it against his throat so that the blood ran down into it in a thin stream.

Tessa’s stomach tightened with a sudden mixture of revulsion—and hunger; she could not deny the hunger, even though it belonged to Camille and not her. Stronger than the thirst, though, was her horror. She watched as the vampire woman lifted the glass to her lips, the human boy beside her standing gray-faced and trembling as she drank.

She wanted to reach for Will’s hand, but a vampire baroness would never hold the hand of her human subjugate. She straightened her spine, and beckoned Will to her side with a quick snap of her fingers. He looked up in surprise, then moved to join her, clearly fighting to hide his annoyance. But hide it he must. “Now, don’t go wandering off, William,” she said with a meaningful glance. “I don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

Will’s jaw set. “I’m getting the oddest feeling that you’re enjoying this,” he said under his breath.

“Nothing odd about it.” Feeling unbelievably bold, Tessa chucked him under the chin with the tip of her lace fan. “Simply behave yourself.”

“They are so hard to train, aren’t they?” The man with the colorless hair emerged out of the crowd, inclining his head toward Tessa. “Human subjugates, that is,” he added, mistaking her startled expression for confusion. “And then once you have them properly trained, they die of something or other. Delicate creatures, humans. All the longevity of butterflies.” He smiled. The smile showed teeth. His skin had the bluish paleness of hardened ice. His hair was nearly white and hung arrow-straight to his shoulders, just brushing the collar of his elegant dark coat. His waistcoat was gray silk, figured with a pattern of twisting silver symbols. He looked like a Russian prince out of a book. “It’s good to see you, Lady Belcourt,” he said, and there was an accent to his voice too, not French—more Slavic. “Did I catch a glimpse of a new carriage through the window?” This is de Quincey, Camille’s voice breathed in Tessa’s mind. Images rose up suddenly in her brain, like a fountain turned on, pouring forth visions instead of water. She saw herself dancing with de Quincey, her hands on his shoulders; she stood by a black stream under the white sky of a northern night, watching as he fed on something pale and sprawled in the grass; she sat motionless at a long table of other vampires, de Quincey at the head of it, as he shouted and screamed at her and brought his fist down so hard that the marble top of the table shivered into cracks. He was shouting at her, something about a werewolf and a relationship she would live to regret. Then she was sitting alone in a room, in the dark, and weeping, and de Quincey came in and knelt by her chair and took her hand, wanting to comfort her, though he had been the one to cause her pain. Vampires can weep? Tessa thought first, and then, They have known each other a long time, Alexei de Quincey and Camille Belcourt. They were friends once, and he thinks they are friends still.

“Indeed, Alexei,” she said, and as she said it, she knew this was the name she had been trying to recall at the dinner table the other night—the foreign name the Dark Sisters had spoken. Alexei. “I wanted something a bit . . . roomier.” She held her hand out, and stood still while he kissed it, his lips cold on her skin.

De Quincey’s eyes slid past Tessa to Will, and he licked his lips. “And a new subjugate as well, I see. This one is quite fetching.” He reached out a thin pale hand, and drew his forefinger down the side of Will’s cheek to his jaw. “Such unusual coloring,” he mused. “And these eyes.” “Thank you,” said Tessa, in the manner of one being complimented on an especially tasteful choice of wallpaper. She watched nervously as de Quincey moved even closer to Will, who looked pale and strained. She wondered if he was having trouble holding himself back when surely every one of his nerves was screaming Enemy! Enemy!

De Quincey trailed his finger from Will’s jaw to his throat, to the point at his collarbone where his pulse beat. “There,” he said, and this time when he smiled, his white fangs were visible. They were sharp and fine at the points, like needles. His eyelids drooped, languorous and heavy, and his voice when he spoke was thick. “You wouldn’t mind, Camille, would you, if I just had a little bite. . . .” Tessa’s vision went white. She saw de Quincey again, the front of his white shirt scarlet with blood—and she saw a body hanging upside down from a tree at the dark stream’s edge, pale fingers dangling in the black water. . . .

Her hand whipped out, faster than she’d ever imagined she could have moved, and caught de Quincey’s wrist. “My darling, no,” she said, a wheedling tone in her voice. “I’d so like to keep him to myself for just a little while. You know how your appetite runs away with you sometimes.” She lowered her eyelids.

De Quincey chuckled. “For you, Camille, I will exercise my restraint.” He drew his wrist away, and for a moment, under the flirtatious poise, Tessa thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, quickly masked. “In honor of our long acquaintance.” “Thank you, Alexei.”

“Have you given any further thought, my dear,” he said, “to my offer of a membership in the Pandemonium Club? I know the mundanes bore you, but they are a source of funds, nothing more. Those of us on the board are on the verge of some very . . . exciting discoveries. Power beyond your wildest dreams, Camille.” Tessa waited, but Camille’s inner voice was silent. Why? She fought down panic and managed to smile at de Quincey. “My dreams,” she said, and hoped he would think the hoarseness in her voice was from amusement and not fear, “may be more wild already than you imagine.” Beside her, she could tell that Will had shot her a surprised look; he quickly schooled his features to blandness, though, and glanced away. De Quincey, his eyes gleaming, only smiled.

“I ask only that you consider my offer, Camille. And now I must attend to my other guests. I trust I will see you at the ceremony?”

Dazed, she simply nodded. “Of course.”

De Quincey bowed, turned, and vanished into the crowd. Tessa let her breath out. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it.

“Don’t,” said Will softly at her side. “Vampires don’t need to breathe, remember.”

“My God, Will.” Tessa realized she was shaking. “He would have bitten you.”

Will’s eyes were dark with rage. “I would have killed him first.”

A voice spoke at Tessa’s elbow. “And then you would both be dead.”

She whirled and saw that a tall man had appeared just behind her, as soundlessly as if he had drifted there like smoke. He wore an elaborate brocade jacket, like something out of the previous century, with a riot of white lace at his collar and cuffs. Below the long jacket Tessa glimpsed knee breeches, and high buckled shoes. His hair was like rough black silk, so dark it had a bluish sheen to it; his skin was brown, the cast of his features like Jem’s. She wondered if perhaps, like Jem, he was of foreign extraction. In one ear he sported a silver loop from which dangled a diamond pendant the size of a finger, which sparkled brilliantly under the lights, and there were diamonds set into the head of his silver walking stick. He seemed to gleam all over, like witchlight. Tessa stared; she had never seen anyone dressed in such a mad fashion.

“This is Magnus,” said Will quietly, sounding relieved. “Magnus Bane.”

“My darling Camille,” Magnus said, bending to kiss her gloved hand. “We have been parted too long.”

The moment he touched her, Camille’s memories came rushing up in a flood—memories of Magnus holding her, kissing her, touching her in a distinctly intimate and personal manner. Tessa jerked her hand back with a squeak. And now you reappear, she thought resentfully in Camille’s direction.

“I see,” he murmured, straightening. His eyes, when he raised them to Tessa’s, nearly made her lose her composure: They were gold-green with slit pupils, the eyes of a cat set in a distinctly human face. They were full of shimmering amusement. Unlike Will, whose eyes held a trace of sadness even when he was amused, Magnus’s eyes were full of a surprising joy. They darted sideways, and he jerked his chin toward the far side of the room, indicating that Tessa should follow him. “Come along, then. There’s a private room where we can talk.” In a daze Tessa followed him, Will at her side. Was she imagining it, or did the white faces of the vampires turn to follow her as she passed? A redheaded female vampire in an elaborate blue dress glared at her as she went; Camille’s voice whispered that the woman was jealous of de Quincey’s regard for her. Tessa was grateful when Magnus finally reached a door—so cleverly set into the paneled wall that she didn’t realize it was a door until the warlock had produced a key. He slid the door open with a soft click. Will and Tessa followed him inside.

The room was a library, obviously rarely used; though volumes lined the walls, they were grimed with dust, as were the velvet curtains that hung across the windows. When the door shut behind them, the light in the room dimmed; before Tessa could say anything, Magnus snapped his fingers and twin fires leaped up in the fireplaces on either side of the room. The flames of the fire were blue, and the fire itself had a strong scent, like burning joss sticks.

“Oh!” Tessa could not stop a small exclamation of surprise from passing her lips.

With a grin Magnus flung himself onto the great marble-topped table in the center of the room, and lay down on his side, his head propped on his hand. “Have you never seen a warlock do magic before?”

Will gave an exaggerated sigh. “Please refrain from teasing her, Magnus. I expect Camille told you she knows very little of the Shadow World.”

“Indeed,” Magnus said unrepentantly, “but it’s hard to believe, considering what she can do.” His eyes were on Tessa. “I saw your face when I kissed your

hand. You knew who I was immediately, didn’t you? You know what Camille knows. There are some warlocks and demons who can shift—take on any shape. But I have never heard of one who could do what you do.”

“It cannot be said for certain that I’m a warlock,” Tessa said. “Charlotte says I’m not marked like a warlock would be marked.”

“Oh, you’re a warlock. Depend on it. Just because you don’t have bat ears . . .” Magnus saw Tessa frown, and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you don’t want to be a warlock, do you? You despise the idea.”

“I just never thought . . . ,” Tessa said in a whisper. “That I was anything other than human.”

Magnus’s tone was not unsympathetic. “Poor thing. Now that you know the truth, you can never go back.”

“Leave her alone, Magnus.” Will’s tone was sharp. “I must search the room. If you won’t help, at least try not to torment Tessa while I do it.” He moved toward the big oak desk in the corner of the room and began rummaging among the papers atop it.

Magnus glanced toward Tessa and winked. “I think he’s jealous,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Tessa shook her head and moved toward the nearest bookshelf. There was a book propped open on the middle shelf as if to display it. The pages were covered with bright, intricate figures, some parts of the illustrations gleaming as if they had been painted onto the parchment with gold. Tessa exclaimed in surprise. “It’s a Bible.” “Does that astonish you?” Magnus inquired.

“I thought vampires couldn’t touch holy things.”

“It depends on the vampire—how long they’ve been alive, what kind of faith they have. De Quincey actually collects old Bibles. He says there’s hardly another book out there with so much blood on the pages.”

Tessa glanced toward the closed door. The faint swell of voices on the other side was audible. “Won’t we excite some sort of comment, hiding in here like this? The others—the vampires—I’m sure they were staring at us as we came in.” “They were staring at Will.” In some ways Magnus’s smile was as unnerving as a vampire’s, even though he didn’t have fangs. “Will looks wrong.”

Tessa glanced over at Will, who was rummaging through the desk drawers with gloved hands. “I find that hard to credit coming from someone dressed as you are,” Will said.

Magnus ignored this. “Will doesn’t behave like the other human subjugates. He doesn’t stare at his mistress with blind adoration, for instance.”

“It’s that monstrous hat of hers,” said Will. “Puts me off.”

“Human subjugates are never ‘put off,’” said Magnus. “They adore their vampire masters, whatever they wear. Of course, the guests were also staring because they know of my relationship with Camille, and are wondering what we might be doing here in the library . . . alone.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Tessa.

Tessa thought back to her visions. “De Quincey . . . He said something to Camille about regretting her relationship with a werewolf. He made it sound as if it were a crime she committed.”

Magnus, who was now lying on his back and twirling his walking stick over his head, shrugged. “To him it would be. Vampires and werewolves despise each other. They claim it has something to do with the fact that the two races of demons that spawned them were involved in a blood feud, but if you ask me, it’s simply that they’re both predators, and predators always resent incursions into their territory. Not that vampires are all that fond of the fey, or my kind either, but de Quincey rather likes me. He thinks we’re friends. In fact, I suspect he’d like to be more than friends.” Magnus grinned, to Tessa’s confusion. “But I despise him, though he doesn’t know it.” “Then, why spend time with him at all?” asked Will, who had moved to a tall secretary between two of the windows and was examining its contents. “Why come to his house?”

“Politics,” said Magnus with another shrug. “He is the head of the clan; for Camille not to come to his parties when invited would be construed as an insult. And for me to allow her to go alone would be . . . careless. De Quincey is dangerous, and no less to those of his own kind. Especially those who have displeased him in the past.” “Then you should—,” Will began, and broke off, his voice altering. “I’ve found something.” He paused. “Perhaps you should have a look at this, Magnus.” Will came over to the table and set down on it what looked like a long sheet of rolled paper. He gestured for Tessa to join him, and unrolled the paper across the table’s surface. “There was little of interest in the desk,” he said, “but I did find this, hidden in a false drawer in the cabinet. Magnus, what do you think?”

Tessa, who had moved to stand beside Will at the table, gazed down at the paper. It was covered with a rough blueprint drawing of a human skeleton made up of pistons, cogs, and plates of hammered metal. The skull had a hinged jaw, open sockets for eyes, and a mouth that ended just behind the teeth. There was a panel in the chest too, just like Miranda’s. All along the left side of the page were scrawled what looked like notes, in a language Tessa could not decipher. The letters were utterly unfamiliar.

“Blueprint for an automaton,” said Magnus, cocking his head to the side. “An artificial human being. Humans have always been fascinated by the creatures—I suppose because they are humanoid but cannot die or be hurt. Have you ever read The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices?” “I’ve never even heard of it,” said Will. “Are there any bleak moors in it, shrouded in mysterious mists? Ghostly brides wandering the halls of ruined castles? A handsome fellow rushing to the rescue of a beauteous yet penniless maiden?” “No,” said Magnus. “There’s a rather racy bit about cogs halfway through, but really most of it is rather dry.”

“Then Tessa won’t have read it, either,” said Will.

Tessa glared at him, but said nothing; she hadn’t read it, and she wasn’t in the mood to let Will get to her.

“Well, then,” said Magnus. “It was written by an Arab scholar, two centuries before Leonardo da Vinci, and described how machines could be built that would mimic the actions of human beings. Now, there is nothing alarming about that in and of itself. But it is this”—Magnus’s long finger brushed gently across the writing on the left side of the page—“that concerns me.” Will leaned closer. His sleeve brushed Tessa’s arm. “Yes, that was what I wanted to ask you about. Is it a spell?”

Magnus nodded. “A binding spell. Meant to infuse demonic energy into an inanimate object, thus giving that object a sort of life. I’ve seen the spell used. Before the Accords vampires liked to amuse themselves by creating little demonic mechanisms like music boxes that would play only at night, mechanical horses that could ride only after sundown, that sort of silliness.” He tapped thoughtfully on the head of his walking stick. “One of the great problems of creating convincing automatons, of course, has always been their appearance. No other material quite gives the semblance of human flesh.” “But what if one were to use it—human flesh, I mean?” Tessa asked.

Magnus paused delicately. “The problem there, for human designers, is, ah, obvious. Preserving the flesh destroys its appearance. One would have to use magic. And then magic again, to bind the demon energy to the mechanical body.” “And what would that achieve?” Will asked, an edge to his voice.

“Automatons have been built that can write poems, draw landscapes—but only those they are directed to create. They have no individual creativity or imagination. Animated by a demon energy, however, an automaton would have a measure of thought and will. But any bound spirit is enslaved. It would inevitably be entirely obedient to whoever had done the binding.” “A clockwork army,” Will said, and there was a sort of bitter humor in his voice. “Born of neither Heaven nor Hell.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Magnus said. “Demon energies are hardly an easy item to come by. One must summon demons up, then bind them, and you know what a difficult process that is. Obtaining enough demon energies to create an army would be well-nigh impossible and extraordinarily risky. Even for an evil-minded bastard like de Quincey.” “I see.” And with that, Will rolled up the paper and slipped it into his jacket. “Much obliged for your help, Magnus.”

Magnus looked faintly puzzled, but his response was courteous: “Of course.”

“I gather you wouldn’t be sorry to see de Quincey gone and another vampire in his place,” said Will. “Have you actually observed him breaking the Law?”

“Once. I was invited here to witness one of his ‘ceremonies.’ As it turned out—” Magnus looked uncharacteristically grim. “Well, let me show you.”

He turned and moved toward the bookshelf that Tessa had been examining earlier, gesturing for them to join him. Will followed, Tessa beside him.

Magnus snapped his fingers again, and as blue sparks flew, the illustrated Bible slid to the side, revealing a small hole that had been cut into the wood at the back of the shelf. As Tessa leaned forward in surprise, she saw that it offered a view into an elegant music room. At least, that was what she thought at first, seeing the chairs set up in rows facing the back of the room; it made a sort of theater. Rows of lit candelabras were set up for illumination. Red satin floor-length curtains blocked off the back walls, and the floor was slightly raised, creating a sort of makeshift stage. There was nothing on it but a single chair with a high wooden back.

Steel manacles were attached to the arms of the chair, glittering like insect carapaces in the candlelight. The wood of the chair was blotched, here and there, with dark red stains. The legs of the chair, Tessa saw, were nailed to the floor.

“This is where they have their little . . . performances,” said Magnus, an undertone of distaste in his voice. “They bring out the human and lock him—or her—to the chair. Then they take turns draining their victim slowly, while the crowd watches and applauds.” “And they enjoy that?” Will said. The disgust in his voice was more than an undertone. “The mundanes’ pain? Their fear?”

“Not all the Night Children are like this,” Magnus said quietly. “These are the worst of them.”

“And the victims,” said Will, “where do they find them?”

“Criminals, mostly,” said Magnus. “Drunkards, addicts, whores. The forgotten and lost. Those who will not be missed.” He looked squarely at Will. “Would you like to elaborate on your plan?”

“We begin when we see the Law being broken,” said Will. “The moment a vampire moves to harm a human, I will signal the Enclave. They’ll attack.”

“Really,” Magnus said. “How will they get in?”

“Don’t worry about that.” Will was unfazed. “Your job is to take Tessa at that point and get her safely out of here. Thomas is waiting outside with the carriage. Bundle yourselves into it and he’ll take you back to the Institute.” “Seems a waste of my talents, assigning me to look after one moderately sized girl,” Magnus observed. “Surely you could use me—”

“This is a Shadowhunter affair,” said Will. “We make the Law, and we uphold the Law. The assistance you’ve given us so far has been invaluable, but we require no more from you.”

Magnus met Tessa’s eyes over Will’s shoulder; his look was wry. “The proud isolation of the Nephilim. They have use for you when they have use for you, but they cannot bring themselves to share a victory with Downworlders.” Tessa turned to Will. “You’re sending me away as well, before the fighting starts?”

“I must,” said Will. “It would be best for Camille not to be seen to be cooperating with Shadowhunters.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Tessa. “De Quincey will know I—she—brought you here. He’ll know she lied about where she found you. Does she think that after this, the rest of the clan won’t know she’s a traitor?”

Somewhere in the back of her head, Camille’s soft laughter purred. She did not sound afraid.

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, their 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 a woman in a 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.”

Something in Tessa rebelled at the idea of being sent away. “Will, no, I’m all right here—”

Will’s voice was quiet, but his eyes blazed. “We’ve been over this. Go, or I won’t summon the Enclave. Go, or that man will die.”

“Come.” It was Magnus, his hand on her elbow, guiding her to stand. Reluctantly she allowed the warlock to draw her to her feet, and then toward the doors. Tessa glanced around anxiously to see if anyone noticed their departure, but no one was looking at them. All attention was riveted on de Quincey and the prisoner, and many vampires were already on their feet, hissing and cheering and making inhuman hungry sounds.

Among the seething crowd, Will was still seated, leaning forward like a hunting dog yearning to be released from the leash. His left hand slid into his waistcoat pocket, and emerged with something copper held between his fingers.

The Phosphor.

Magnus swung the door open behind them. “Hurry.”

Tessa hesitated, looking back at the stage. De Quincey was standing behind the prisoner now. His grinning mouth was smeared with blood. He reached out and took hold of the prisoner’s hood.

Will rose to his feet, the Phosphor held aloft. Magnus swore and pulled at Tessa’s arm. She half-turned as if to go with him, then froze as de Quincey whipped off the black hood to reveal the prisoner beneath.

His face was swollen and bruised with beatings. One of his eyes was black and swelled shut. His blond hair was pasted to his skull with blood and sweat. But none of that mattered; Tessa would have known him anyway, anywhere. She knew now why his cry of pain had sounded so familiar to her.

It was Nathaniel.