Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(118)

“The Consul is right about Charlotte Branwell!” she exclaimed. “Charlotte Branwell and William Herondale are the reason my husband is dead!”

“Oh?” It was Inquisitor Whitelaw, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Who exactly killed your husband? Was it Will?”

There was a murmur of astonishment. Tatiana looked outraged. “It was not my father’s fault—”

“On the contrary,” interrupted the Inquisitor. “This was kept from public knowledge, Mrs. Blackthorn, but you force my hand. We opened an investigation into the matter of your husband’s death, and it was determined that your father was indeed at fault, most grievous fault. If it were not for the actions of your brothers—and of William Herondale and Charlotte Branwell, among the others of the London Institute—the name of Lightwood would be stricken from the Shadowhunter records and you would be living the rest of your life as a friendless mundane.”

Tatiana turned beet red and clenched her fists. “William Herondale has—he has offered me insults unspeakable to a lady—”

“I fail to see how that is germane to the matter at hand,” said the Inquisitor. “One may be rude in one’s personal life but also correct about larger matters.”

“You took our house!” Tatiana screeched. “I am forced to rely on the generosity of my husband’s family like some starving beggar—”

The Inquisitor’s eyes were glittering to match the stones in his rings. “Your house was confiscated, Mrs. Blackthorn, not stolen. We searched the Lightwood family house,” he went on, raising his voice. “It was full of evidence of the elder Mr. Lightwood’s connections to Mortmain, journals detailing acts vile and filthy and unspeakable. The Consul cites the man’s journals as evidence that there will be an attack on London, but by the time Benedict Lightwood died, he was mad with demon pox. Nor is it likely Mortmain would have confided his true plans to him, even had he been sane.”

Looking nearly desperate, Consul Wayland interrupted. “The matter of Benedict Lightwood is closed—closed, and irrelevant. We are here to discuss the matters of Mortmain and the Institute! First, as Charlotte Branwell has been removed from the position, and the situation facing us is centered most heavily upon London, we require a new leader of the London Enclave. I am going to throw the floor open. Does anyone wish to step forward as her replacement?”

There was a rustle and murmur. George Penhallow had begun to rise to his feet—when the Inquisitor burst in furiously: “This is ridiculous, Josiah. There is no proof yet that Mortmain is not where Charlotte says he will be. We have not even begun to discuss sending reinforcements after her—”

“After her? What do you mean after her?”

The Inquisitor swept an arm out at the throng. “She is not here. Where do you think the inhabitants of the London Institute are? They have gone to Cadair Idris, after the Magister. And yet, instead of discussing whether we shall give them aid, we convene a Council to discuss Charlotte’s replacement?”

The Consul’s temper snapped. “There will be no aid!” he roared. “There will never be aid for those who—”

But the Council never found out who was destined to go unaided, for at that moment a steel blade, deadly sharp, whipped through the air behind the Consul and neatly severed his head from his body.

The Inquisitor jerked back, reaching for his staff, as blood sheeted across him; the Consul’s body fell, tumbling to the ground in two severed parts: his body slumping to the blood-wet floor of the podium while his severed head rolled away like a tennis ball. As he collapsed, revealed behind him was an automaton—as spindly as a human skeleton, dressed in the ragged remains of a red military tunic. It grinned like a skull as it retracted its scarlet-drenched blade and looked out upon the silent, stunned crowd of Shadowhunters.

The only other sound in the room came from Aloysius Starkweather, who was laughing, steadily and softly, apparently to himself. “She told you,” he wheezed. “She told you what would happen—”

A moment later the automaton had moved forward, its clawed hand shooting out to close about Aloysius’s throat. Blood burst from the old man’s throat as the creature lifted him off his feet, still grinning. The Shadowhunters began to shout—and then the doors burst open and a flood of clockwork creatures poured into the room.

“Well,” said a very amused voice. “This is unexpected.”

Tessa sat bolt upright, pulling the heavy coverlet around her. Beside her, Will stirred, propping himself up on his elbows, eyelids fluttering open slowly. “What—”

The room was filled with bright light. The torches had come on at full strength, and it was like the place was lit with daylight. Tessa could see the wreck of the room that they had made: their clothes scattered across the floor and the bed, the rug before the fireplace rucked up, the bedclothes wound about them. On the other side of the invisible wall was lounging a familiar figure in an elegant dark suit, one thumb hooked into the waistband of his trousers. His cat-pupilled eyes glimmered with mirth.

Magnus Bane.

“You might want to get up,” he said. “Everyone will be here quite soon to rescue you, and you may prefer to have clothes on when they arrive.” He shrugged. “I would, at any rate, but then, I am well known to be remarkably shy.”

Will swore in Welsh. He was sitting up now, the covers tucked about his waist, and had done his best to move his body to shield Tessa from Magnus’s gaze. He was without a shirt, of course, and in the brighter light Tessa could see where the tan on his hands and face faded into the paler white of his chest and shoulders. The white star mark on his shoulder gleamed out like a light, and she saw Magnus’s eyes go to it, and narrow.