فصل 18

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—” “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.

Mortmain looked vexed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. You—” He snapped his fingers, pointing at an automaton, one that had something that looked like a metal tube welded to its right wrist. “Get rid of her. The Shadowhunter.” The creature raised its arm jerkily. A bolt of streaky red fire shot from the metal tube. It hit Jessamine square in the chest, knocking her backward. Her parasol skittered from her hand as she struck the ground, her body twitching, her eyes open and glassy.

Nathaniel, who had moved to stand beside Mortmain on the sidelines of the melee, laughed.

A sizzling bolt of hatred went through Tessa, shocking her with its intensity. She wanted to throw herself at Nate and rip her nails down his cheek, kick him until he screamed. It wouldn’t take much, she knew. He’d always been a coward where pain was concerned. She started forward, but the creatures, having dealt with Jessamine, had already swung back around toward her. Thomas, his hair plastered to his face with sweat and a long bloody rent slashed across the front of his shirt, moved to place himself in front of her. He was laying about himself magnificently with the sword, with great, sweeping strokes. It was hard to believe he wasn’t slashing the creatures to ribbons—and yet they proved surprisingly dexterous. Ducking out of his way, they kept coming, their eyes fixed on Tessa. Thomas spun to look at her, his gaze wild. “Miss Gray! Now! Take Sophie!” Tessa hesitated. She did not want to run. She wanted to stand her ground. But Sophie was huddling, transfixed behind her, her eyes full of terror.

“Sophie!” Thomas cried, and Tessa could hear what was in his voice, and knew she had been right about his feelings for Sophie. “The Sanctuary! Go!”

“No!” Mortmain shouted, turning to the clockwork creature that had attacked Jessamine. As it raised its arm, Tessa caught hold of Sophie’s wrist and began to drag her toward the stairs. A bolt of red fire hit the wall beside them, scorching the stone. Tessa shrieked but didn’t slow, yanking Sophie up the spiral staircase, the smell of smoke and death following them as they ran.

Will dashed through the archway that separated the foyer from the room beyond—and came up short. Jem was already there, staring around him in bewilderment. Though there were no exits from the room other than the one they had just come through, Mrs. Dark was nowhere to be seen.

The room, though, was far from empty. It had most likely been a dining room once, and huge portraits adorned the walls, though they had been ripped and slashed to unrecognizability. A great crystal chandelier hung overhead, fronded with strings of gray cobweb that drifted in the disturbed air like ancient lace curtains. It had probably once hung over a grand table. Now it swung over a bare marble floor that had been painted with a series of necromantic patterns—a five-pointed star inside a circle inside a square. Inside the pentagram stood a repulsive stone statue, the figure of some hideous demon, with twisted limbs and clawed hands. Horns rose from its head.

All around the room were scattered the remains of dark magic—bones and feathers and strips of skin, pools of blood that seemed to bubble like black champagne. There were empty cages lying on their sides, and a low table on which was spread an array of bloody knives and stone bowls filled with unpleasant dark liquids.

In all the gaps between the pentagram’s five points were runes and squiggles that hurt Will’s eyes when he looked at them. They were the opposite of the runes in the Gray Book, which seemed to speak of glory and peace. These were necromantic symbols that spoke of ruin and death.

“Jem,” Will said, “these are not the preparations for a binding spell. This is the work of necromancy.”

“She was trying to bring back her sister, isn’t that what she said?”

“Yes, but she was doing nothing else.” A dreadful dark suspicion had begun to blossom in the back of Will’s mind.

Jem did not reply; his attention seemed to be fixed on something across the room. “There’s a cat,” he said in a low whisper, pointing. “In one of those cages over there.”

Will glanced where his friend pointed. Indeed, a bristling gray cat was huddled in one of the locked animal cages along the wall. “And?”

“It’s still alive.”

“It’s a cat, James. We have bigger things to worry about—”

But Jem was already walking away. He reached the animal’s cage and scooped it up, holding the cage at eye level. The cat looked to be a gray Persian, with a squashed-in face and yellow eyes that regarded Jem malevolently. Suddenly it arched its back and hissed loudly, its eyes fixed on the pentagram. Jem looked up—and stared.

“Will,” he said in a warning tone. “Look.”

The statue in the middle of the pentagram had moved. Instead of crouching, it had straightened until it was standing upright. Its eyes burned with a sulfuric glow. It was only when its triple row of mouths smiled that Will realized it was not stone after all, just a creature of hard gray stonelike skin. A demon.

Will ducked back and flung Israfel reflexively, not really expecting the gesture to do much good. It didn’t. As it sailed near the pentagram, the blade bounced off an invisible wall and clattered to the marble floor. The demon in the pentagram cackled. “You attack me here?” it demanded in a high, thin voice. “You could bring the host of Heaven against me and they could do nothing! No angelic power can breach this circle!” “Mrs. Dark,” Will said between his teeth.

“So you recognize me now, do you? No one ever claimed you Shadowhunters were clever.” The demon bared its greenish fangs. “This is my true form. An ugly surprise for you, I suppose.”

“I daresay it’s an improvement,” said Will. “You weren’t much to look at before, and at least the horns are dramatic.”

“What are you, then?” Jem demanded, setting the cage, the cat still in it, down on the floor at his feet. “I thought you and your sister were warlocks.”

“My sister was a warlock,” hissed the creature that had been Mrs. Dark. “I am a full-blood demon—Eidolon. A shape-changer. Like your precious Tessa. But unlike her I cannot become what I transform into. I cannot touch the minds of the living or the dead. So the Magister did not want me.” Thin hurt was in the creature’s voice. “He enlisted me to train her. His precious little protégée. My sister as well. We know the ways of the Change. We were able to force it on her. But she was never grateful.” “That must have hurt you,” Jem said in his most soothing voice. Will opened his mouth, but seeing Jem’s warning look, closed it again. “Seeing Tessa get what you wanted, and not appreciating it.”

“She never understood. The honor that was being done her. The glory that would be hers.” The yellow eyes burned. “When she fled, the Magister’s rage fell on me—I had disappointed him. He swore out a bounty on me.” That jolted Jem, or seemed to. “You mean de Quincey wanted you dead?”

“How many times must I tell you that de Quincey is not the Magister? The Magister is—” The demon broke off with a growl. “You try to trick me, little Shadowhunter, but your trick will not work.”

Jem shrugged. “You cannot remain in that pentagram forever, Mrs. Dark. Eventually the rest of the Enclave will come. We will starve you out. And then you will be ours, and you know how the Clave deals with those who break the Law.” Mrs. Dark hissed. “Perhaps he has forsaken me,” she said, “but I still fear the Magister more than I fear you, or your Enclave.”

More than I fear the Enclave. She should have been afraid, Will thought. What Jem had said to her was true. She ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t. In Will’s experience, when someone who ought to be afraid wasn’t, the reason was rarely bravery. Usually it meant that they knew something you didn’t.

“If you will not tell us who the Magister is,” said Will, his voice edged with steel, “perhaps you can answer a simple question instead. Is Axel Mortmain the Magister?”

The demon let out a wail, then clapped its bony hands over its mouth and sank, burning-eyed, to the ground. “The Magister. He will think I told you. I will never earn his forgiveness now—”

“Mortmain?” echoed Jem. “But he is the one who warned us—Ah.” He paused. “I see.” He had gone very white; Will knew his thoughts were chasing down the same winding road Will’s just had. He would probably have gotten there first—Will suspected Jem was in fact cleverer than he was himself—but he lacked Will’s tendency to assume the absolute worst about people and proceed from there. “Mortmain lied to us about the Dark Sisters and the binding spell,” he added, thinking out loud. “In fact, it was Mortmain who put the idea in Charlotte’s head in the first place that de Quincey was the Magister. If it were not for him, we would never have suspected the vampire. But why?” “De Quincey is a loathsome beast,” wailed Mrs. Dark, still crouched inside her pentagram. She seemed to have decided there was no more point in concealment. “He disobeyed Mortmain at every turn, wishing to be the Magister himself. Such insubordination must be punished.” Will’s gaze met Jem’s. He could tell they were both thinking the same thing. “Mortmain saw an opportunity to throw suspicion on a rival,” Jem said. “That is why he chose de Quincey.”

“He could have hidden those plans for automatons in de Quincey’s library,” agreed Will. “It is not as if de Quincey ever admitted they were his, or even seemed to recognize them when Charlotte showed them to him. And Mortmain could have told those automatons on the bridge to claim they were working for the vampire. In fact, he could have etched de Quincey’s seal into that clockwork girl’s chest and left her in the Dark House for us to find, as well—all to divert suspicion from himself.” “But Mortmain is not the only one who ever pointed the finger at de Quincey,” said Jem, and his voice was heavy. “Nathaniel Gray, Will. Tessa’s brother. When two people tell the same lie . . .”

“They are working together,” Will finished. He felt, for a moment, something almost like satisfaction, which quickly faded. He had disliked Nate Gray, had hated the way Tessa had treated him as if he could do no wrong, and then he’d despised himself for his own jealousy. To know that he had been correct about Nate’s character was one thing, but at what price?

Mrs. Dark laughed, a high, whining sound. “Nate Gray,” she spat. “The Magister’s little human lapdog. He sold his sister to Mortmain, you know. Just for a handful of silver, he did it. Just for a few sops to his vanity. I would never have treated my own sister so. And you say it is demons who are evil, and the humans who need protecting from us!” Her voice rose to a cackle.

Will ignored her; his mind was whirling. Dear God, that whole story of Nathaniel’s about de Quincey had been a trick, a lie to set the Clave off on a false track. Then why have Mortmain appear as soon as they had gone? To get rid of us, Jem and I, Will thought grimly. Nate couldn’t have known we two wouldn’t be going with Charlotte and Henry. He had to improvise something quickly when we stayed behind. Thus Mortmain and this extra trickery. Nate had been in it with Mortmain since the beginning.

And now Tessa is in the Institute with him. Will felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to turn and run out the door, race back to the Institute, and beat Nathaniel’s head against a wall. Only years of training, and fear for Henry and Charlotte, kept him where he was.

Will whirled on Mrs. Dark. “What is his plan? What will the Enclave find when they reach Carleton Square? Certain slaughter? Answer me!” he shouted. Fear made his voice crack. “Or by the Angel, I will make sure that the Clave tortures you before you die. What is his plan for them?” Mrs. Dark’s yellow eyes flashed. “What does the Magister care about?” she hissed. “What has he ever cared about? He despises the Nephilim, but what is it that he wants?”

“Tessa,” said Jem immediately. “But she is safe in the Institute, and even his blasted clockwork army can’t break inside. Even without us there—”

In a wheedling voice Mrs. Dark said, “Once, when I was in the Magister’s confidence, he spoke to me of a plan he had to invade the Institute. He planned to paint the hands of his mechanical creatures with the blood of a Shadowhunter, thus allowing him to open the doors.” “The blood of a Shadowhunter?” Will echoed. “But—”

“Will.” Jem had his hand at his chest, where the clockwork creature had torn the skin that night on the steps of the Institute. “My blood.”

For a moment Will stood perfectly still, staring at his friend. Then, without a word, he turned and raced for the dining room doors; Jem, pausing only to seize the cat’s cage, followed. As they reached them, the doors slammed shut as if pushed, and Will came to a skidding halt. He spun to see Jem behind him, looking baffled.

In her pentagram Mrs. Dark was howling with laughter. “Nephilim,” she gasped between peals. “Stupid, stupid Nephilim. Where is your angel now?”

As they stared, enormous flames leaped up around the walls, licking up the curtains covering the windows, shimmering along the edges of the floor. The flames burned with a weird blue-green color, and the smell was thick and ugly—a demon smell. Inside its cage the cat was going wild, throwing itself against the bars again and again and howling.

Will drew a second seraph blade from his belt and cried, “Anael!” Light burst from the blade, but Mrs. Dark only laughed.

“When the Magister sees your charred corpses,” she cried, “then he will forgive me! Then he will welcome me back!”

Her laughter rose, high and horrible. Already the room was dim with smoke. Jem, raising his sleeve to cover his mouth, said to Will in a choking voice, “Kill her. Kill her, and the fire will die.”

Will, his grip tight on the hilt of Anael, growled, “Don’t you think I would if I could? She’s in the pentagram.”

“I know.” Jem’s eyes were full of meaning. “Will, cut it down.”

Because it was Jem, Will knew what he meant immediately, without being told explicitly. Spinning to face the pentagram, he raised the shining Anael, took aim, and flung the blade—not toward the demon but up toward the thick metal chain that supported the massive chandelier. The blade sheared through the chain like a knife through paper, there was a rending sound, and the demon had time only to scream once before the massive chandelier descended, a crashing comet of twisting metal and shattering glass. Will threw his arm across his eyes as debris rained over them all—smashed bits of stone, fragments of crystal, and chunks of rust. The floor shook underneath him as if the earth were quaking.

When all was quiet at last, he opened his eyes. The chandelier lay like the wreck of some immense ship twisted and destroyed at the bottom of the sea. Dust rose like smoke from the wreckage, and from one corner of the pile of smashed glass and metal a trickle of greenish black blood threaded across the marble. . . .

Jem had been right. The flames were gone. Jem himself, still gripping the handle of the cat’s cage, was gazing at the wreckage. His already pale hair had whitened further with plaster dust, and his cheeks were streaked with ash. “Nicely done, William,” he said.

Will did not reply; there was no time for it. Throwing the doors—which opened easily under his hands now—wide, he raced out of the room.

Tessa and Sophie flew up the Institute’s steps together until Sophie gasped, “Here! This door!” and Tessa flung it open and burst into the corridor beyond. Sophie pulled her wrist out of Tessa’s grasp and spun to slam the door shut behind them and slide the bolt closed. She leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard, her face streaked with tears.

“Miss Jessamine,” she whispered. “Do you think—”

“I don’t know,” Tessa said. “But you heard Thomas. We must get to the Sanctuary, Sophie. It’s where we’ll be safe.” And Thomas wants me to make sure you stay safe. “You’re going to have to show me where it is. I can’t find my way there by myself.” Slowly Sophie nodded and drew herself upright. In silence she led Tessa through a winding mass of corridors until they reached the one corridor she remembered from the night when she had met Camille. After taking a lamp from a holder on the wall, Sophie lit it, and they hurried on, until they finally reached the great iron doors with their pattern of Cs. Brought up sharply in front of the doors, Sophie put a hand to her mouth. “The key!” she whispered. “I’ve forgotten the bloody—pardon me, miss—key!” Tessa felt a wave of frustrated anger, but pushed it back. Sophie had just had a friend die in her arms; she could hardly be blamed for forgetting a key. “But you know where Charlotte keeps it?”

Sophie nodded. “I’ll run and fetch it. You wait here, miss.”

She hurried off down the corridor. Tessa watched her go until her white cap and sleeves faded into the shadows, leaving Tessa alone in the darkness. The only light in the corridor came from the illumination that seeped beneath the doors to the Sanctuary. She pressed herself back against the wall as the shadows gathered thickly around her, as if she could disappear into the wall. She kept seeing the blood pouring out of Agatha’s chest, staining Sophie’s hands; kept hearing the brittle sound of Nate’s laugher as Jessamine collapsed— It came again, harsh and as brittle as glass, echoing out of the darkness behind her.

Sure she was imagining things, Tessa whirled, her back toward the Sanctuary doors. Before her in the hallway, where a moment before there had been empty air, someone was standing. Someone with fair hair and a grin plastered across his face. Someone carrying a long, thin knife in his right hand.

Nate.

“My Tessie,” he said. “That was very impressive. I wouldn’t have thought either you or the servant could run that fast.” He twirled the knife between his fingers. “Unfortunately for you, my master has gifted me with certain . . . powers. I can move faster than you can think.” He smirked. “Probably much faster, to judge by how long it took you to catch on to what was going on downstairs.” “Nate.” Tessa’s voice shook. “It’s not too late. You can stop this.”

“Stop what?” Nate looked directly at her, for the first time since he had knelt to Mortmain. “Stop acquiring incredible power and immense knowledge? Stop being the favored acolyte of the most powerful man in London? I’d be a fool to stop all this, little sister.” “Favored acolyte? Where was he when de Quincey was about to drain your blood?”

“I had disappointed him,” Nate said. “You disappointed him. You ran from the Dark Sisters, knowing what it would cost me. Your sisterly affection leaves something to be desired, Tessie.”

“I let the Dark Sisters torture me for your sake, Nate. I did everything for you. And you—you let me believe de Quincey was the Magister. All the things you claimed de Quincey did were done by Mortmain, weren’t they? He’s the one who wanted me brought here. He’s the one who employed the Dark Sisters. All that rubbish about de Quincey was just to lure the Enclave away from the Institute.” Nate smirked. “What was it Aunt Harriet used to say, that cleverness that comes too late is hardly cleverness at all?”

“And what will the Enclave find when they go to the address you claimed was de Quincey’s nest? Nothing? An empty house, a burned-out ruin?” She began to retreat from him, until her back struck the cold iron doors.

Nate followed, his eyes gleaming like the blade in his hand. “Oh, dear me, no. That bit was true. It wouldn’t do to have the Enclave realize so soon that they’d been made fools of, would it? Better to keep them busy, and cleaning out de Quincey’s little hiding place will keep them quite busy indeed.” He shrugged. “You’re the one who gave me the idea to let the blame for everything fall on the vampire, you know. After what happened the other night, he was a dead man, anyway. The Nephilim had their sights set on him, which made him useless to Mortmain. Sending the Enclave off to get rid of him and Will and Jem off to rid my master of that pestiferous Mrs. Dark— well, it’s three birds with one stone, really, isn’t it? And quite a clever plan of mine, if I do say so myself.”

He was preening, Tessa thought in disgust. Proud of himself. Most of her wanted to spit in his face, but she knew she should keep him talking, give herself a chance to think of a way out of the situation. “You certainly fooled us,” she said, hating herself. “How much of that story you told was the truth? How much was lies?” “Quite a bit was the truth, if you really want to know. The best lies are based on the truth, at least in part,” he bragged. “I came to London thinking I was going to blackmail Mortmain with my knowledge of his occult activities. The fact was, he couldn’t have cared less about that. He wanted to get a look at me because he wasn’t sure, you see. Wasn’t sure if I was our parents’ first child or their second. He thought I might be you.” He grinned. “He was as pleased as punch when he realized I wasn’t the child he was looking for. He wanted a girl, you see.” “But why? What does he want with me?”

Nate shrugged. “I don’t know. Nor do I care. He told me that if I procured you for him, and you turned out to be all he hoped you would be, he would make me his disciple. After you fled, he gave me to de Quincey in revenge. When you brought me here, to the heart of the Nephilim, it was a second chance to offer the Magister what I’d lost for him before.” “You contacted him?” Tessa felt sick. She thought of the open window in the drawing room, Nate’s flushed face, his claim that he hadn’t opened it. Somehow, she knew, he had sent Mortmain a message. “You let him know you were here? That you were willing to betray us? But you could have stayed! You would have been safe!”

“Safe, and powerless. Here I’m an ordinary human, weak and contemptible. But as Mortmain’s disciple, I will stand at his right hand when he rules the British Empire.”

“You’re mad,” Tessa said. “The whole thing’s ridiculous.”

“I assure you it isn’t. By this time next year Mortmain will be ensconced in Buckingham Palace. The Empire will bow before his rule.”

“But you won’t be beside him. I see how he looks at you. You’re not a disciple; you’re a tool to be used. When he gets what he wants, he will throw you aside like rubbish.”

Nate’s grip tightened on the knife. “Not true.”

“It is true,” Tessa said. “Aunt always said you were too trusting. It’s why you’re such an awful gambler, Nate. You’re such a liar yourself, but you never can tell when you’re being lied to. Aunt said—”

“Aunt Harriet.” Nate laughed softly. “So unfortunate the way she died.” He grinned. “Didn’t you think it was a bit odd that I’d sent you a box of chocolates? Something I knew you wouldn’t eat? Something I knew she would?” Nausea gripped Tessa, a pain in her stomach as if Nate’s knife were twisting there. “Nate—you wouldn’t—Aunt Harriet loved you!”

“You have no idea what I would do, Tessie. No idea at all.” He spoke rapidly, almost fevered in his intensity. “You think of me as a fool. Your foolish brother who needs to be protected from the world. So easily duped and taken advantage of. I heard you and Aunt discussing me. I know neither of you ever thought I’d make anything of myself, ever do anything you could be proud of me for. But now I have. Now I have,” he snarled, as if completely unaware of the irony in his words.

“You’ve made a murderer of yourself. And you think I ought to be proud? I’m ashamed to be related to you.”

“Related to me? You’re not even human. You are some thing. You are no part of me. From the moment Mortmain told me what you really are, you were dead to me. I have no sister.”

“Then why,” said Tessa in a voice so quiet she could barely hear it herself, “do you keep calling me Tessie?”

He looked at her for a moment in stark confusion. And as she looked back at her brother—the brother she had thought was all she had left in the world—something moved beyond Nate’s shoulder, and Tessa wondered if she was seeing things, if perhaps she was going to faint.

“I wasn’t calling you Tessie,” he said. He sounded baffled, almost lost.

A feeling of unbearable sadness gripped her. “You’re my brother, Nate. You’ll always be my brother.”

His eyes narrowed. For a moment Tessa thought perhaps he had heard her. Perhaps he would reconsider. “When you belong to Mortmain,” he said, “I

shall be bound to him forever. For I am the one who made it possible for him to have you.”

Her heart sank. The thing beyond Nate’s shoulder moved again, a disturbance of the shadows. It was real, Tessa thought. Not her imagination. There was something behind Nate. Something moving toward them both. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Sophie, she thought. She hoped the other girl would have the sense to run away before Nate came for her with the knife.

“Come along, then,” he said to Tessa. “There’s no reason to make a fuss. The Magister isn’t going to hurt you—”

“You cannot be sure of that,” Tessa said. The figure behind Nate was almost upon him. There was something pale and glimmering in its hand. Tessa fought to keep her eyes locked on Nate’s face.

“I am sure.” He sounded impatient. “I am not a fool, Tessa—”

The figure exploded into movement. The pale and glimmering object rose above Nate’s head and came down with a heavy crash. Nate pitched forward, crumpling to the ground. The blade rolled from his hand as he struck the carpet and lay still, blood staining his pale blond hair.

Tessa looked up. In the dim light she could see Jessamine standing over Nate, a furious expression on her face. The remains of a shattered lamp were still clutched in her left hand.

“Not a fool, perhaps.” She prodded Nate’s recumbent form with a disdainful toe. “But not your most shining moment, either.”

Tessa could only stare. “Jessamine?”

Jessamine looked up. The neckline of her dress was torn, her hair had come down out of its pins, and there was a purpling bruise on her right cheek. She dropped the lamp, which narrowly missed hitting Nate once again in the head, and said, “I’m quite all right, if that’s what you’re so pop-eyed about. It wasn’t me they wanted, after all.” “Miss Gray! Miss Lovelace!” It was Sophie, out of breath from running up and down stairs. In one hand she held the slender iron Sanctuary key. She looked down at Nate as she reached the end of the corridor, her mouth opening in surprise. “Is he all right?” “Oh, who cares if he’s all right?” Jessamine said, bending to pick up the knife that Nate had dropped. “After all the lies he told! He lied to me! I really thought—” She flushed dark red. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” She straightened and whirled on Sophie, her chin held high. “Now, don’t just stand there staring, Sophie, do let us into the Sanctuary before God knows what comes after us all and tries to kill us again.” Will burst out of the mansion and onto the front steps, Jem just behind him. The lawn ahead of them was stark in the moonlight; their carriage was where they had left it in the center of the drive. Jem was relieved to see that the horses hadn’t spooked despite all the noise, though he supposed that Balios and Xanthos, belonging to Shadowhunters as they did, had probably seen much worse.

“Will.” Jem came to a stop beside his friend, trying to conceal the fact that he needed to catch his breath. “We must get back to the Institute as soon as possible.”

“You will get no disagreement from me on that front.” Will gave Jem a keen look; Jem wondered if his face was as flushed and feverish-looking as he feared. The drug, which he had taken in a great quantity before they’d left the Institute, was wearing off faster than it should have been; at another time the realization would have prickled Jem with anxiety. Now he put it aside.

“Do you think Mortmain expected us to kill Mrs. Dark?” he asked, less because he felt the question was an urgent one than because he needed a few more moments to catch his breath before he climbed into the carriage.

Will had his jacket open and was rummaging in one of the pockets. “I imagine so,” he said, almost absently, “or probably he hoped we’d all kill one another, which would have been ideal for him. Clearly he wants de Quincey dead as well and has decided to use the Nephilim as his own band of personal assassins.” Will drew a folding knife from his inner pocket and looked at it with satisfaction. “A single horse,” he observed, “is much faster than a carriage.” Jem gripped the cage he was holding tighter. The gray cat, behind its bars, was looking around with wide yellow interested eyes. “Please tell me you aren’t going to do what I suspect you’re going to do, Will.” Will flipped the knife open and started up the drive. “There’s no time to lose, James. And Xanthos can pull the carriage perfectly well by himself, if you’re the only one in it.”

Jem went after him, but the heavy cage, as well as his own fevered exhaustion, slowed his progress. “What are you doing with that knife? You’re not going to murder the horses, are you?”

“Of course not.” Will raised the blade and began to slash at the harness fastening Balios, his favored of the two animals, to the carriage.

“Ah,” said Jem. “I see. You’re going to ride off on that horse like Dick Turpin and leave me here. Have you gone mad?”

“Someone’s got to look after that cat.” The girth and traces fell away, and Will swung himself up onto Balios.

“But—” Really alarmed now, Jem set the cage down. “Will, you can’t—”

It was too late. Will dug his heels into the horse’s sides. Balios reared and neighed, Will clinging on resolutely—Jem could have sworn he was grinning—and then the horse wheeled and pounded toward the gates. Inside of a moment, horse and rider were out of sight.