Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(104)

Obviously I cannot compel any of you. As Consul Wayland has reminded me, I am not in a position to command the forces of the Shadowhunters, but I would be most obliged if any of you who agree with me that Mortmain must be fought and fought now will come to the London Institute tomorrow at midday and render us your assistance.

Yours truly,

Charlotte Branwell, head of the London Institute





18

FOR THIS ALONE


For this alone on Death I wreak

The wrath that garners in my heart:

He put our lives so far apart

We cannot hear each other speak.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In Memoriam A.H.H.”



Tessa stood at the edge of a precipice in a country she did not know. The hills about her were green, dropping off sharply into cliffs that sheered down toward a blue sea. Seabirds wheeled and cawed above her. A gray path wound like a snake along the edge of the cliff top. Just ahead of her, on the path, stood Will.

He wore black gear, and over it a long black riding coat, spattered with mud at the hem as if he had been walking a long way. He was without hat or gloves, and his dark hair was tousled by the wind off the sea. The wind lifted Tessa’s hair as well, bringing the scent of salt and brine, of the wet things that grow at the edge of the sea, a smell that reminded her of her sea voyage on the Main.

“Will!” she called out. There was something so lonely about the figure he cut, like Tristan watching across the Irish Sea for the ship that would bear Isolde back to him. Will did not turn at the sound of her voice, only raised his arms, his coat lifting in the wind, sweeping out behind him like wings.

Fear rose up in her heart. Isolde had come for Tristan, but it had been too late. He had died of grief. “Will!” she called again.

He stepped forward, off the cliff. She raced to the edge and looked down, but there was nothing there, only plunging gray-blue water and white surf. The tide seemed to carry his voice to her with each surge of water. “Awake, Tessa. Awake.”

“Awake, Miss Gray. Miss Gray!”

Tessa jerked upright. She had fallen asleep in the chair by the fireplace in her small prison; a coarse blue blanket was drawn over her, though she did not remember procuring it. The room burned with torchlight and the coals of the fire were low. It was impossible to tell if it was day or night.

Mortmain stood before her, and beside him was an automaton. It was one of the more humanoid that Tessa had seen. It was even clothed, as not many of them were, this one in a military tunic and trousers. The clothes made the head that rose above the stiff collar look even more uncanny, with its too-smooth features and bald metallic scalp. And its eyes—she knew they were glass and crystal, the irises red in the firelight, but the way they seemed to fix on her—

“You’re cold,” Mortmain said.

Tessa exhaled, and her breath came out in a white puff. “The warmth of your hospitality leaves something to be desired.”

He smiled, thin-lipped. “Very amusing.” He himself was wearing a heavy astrakhan coat over a gray suit, ever the businessman. “Miss Gray, I do not wake you lightly. I came because I wish you to see what your kind assistance with my father’s memories has allowed me to accomplish.” He gestured proudly at the automaton by his side.

“Another automaton?” Tessa said without interest.

“How rude of me.” Mortmain’s eyes flicked to the creature. “Introduce yourself.”

The creature’s mouth opened; Tessa caught a flash of brass. It spoke. “I am Armaros,” it said. “For a billion years I rode the winds of the great abysses between the worlds. I fought Jonathan Shadowhunter on the plains of Brocelind. For a thousand more years I lay trapped within the Pyxis. Now my master has freed me and I serve him.”

Tessa rose, the blanket sliding to her feet, unheeded. The automaton was watching her. Its eyes—its eyes were full of a dark intelligence, a consciousness that no automaton she had seen before had ever possessed.

“What is this?” she said in a whisper.

“An automaton body animated by a demon spirit. Downworlders already have their ways of capturing demon energies and using them. I used them myself to power the automatons you’ve seen before. But Armaros and his brothers are different. They are demons with the carapaces of automatons. They can think and reason. They are not easily outwitted. And they are very difficult to kill.”

Armaros reached across its body—Tessa could not help but note that it moved fluidly, smoothly, without the jerkiness of the automatons she had seen before. It moved like a person. It drew the sword that hung at its side and handed it to Mortmain. The blade was covered in the runes that Tessa had become so familiar with over the last months, the runes that decorated the blades of all Shadowhunter weapons. The runes that made them Shadowhunter weapons. The runes that were deadly to demons. Armaros should barely have been able to look upon the blade, much less hold it.

Her stomach clenched. The demon gave the sword to Mortmain, who handled it with the precision of a longtime naval officer. He spun the blade, swept it forward, and drove it into the demon’s chest.

There was a sound of tearing metal. Tessa was used to seeing automatons crumple when attacked, or spurt black fluid, or stagger. But the demon stood its ground, unblinking and unmoving, like a lizard in the sun. Mortmain twisted the hilt savagely, then jerked the weapon free.