Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(87)

A boiling tide of rage poured over Will, obliterating rationality, sense, everything but rage. He reached out and jerked the werewolf toward him, his arm wrapping the man’s neck, blade against his throat. Woolsey, only a few feet away, came up short, his green eyes shooting daggers.

“Come any closer,” Will said, “and I’ll cut your little wolfling’s throat.”

“I told you to stop,” Woolsey said in a measured tone. He was wearing, as he always was, a beautifully cut suit, a brocade riding coat atop it, everything now liberally soaked with rain. His fair hair, plastered to his face and neck, was colorless with water. “Both of you.”

“But I don’t have to listen to you!” Will shouted. “I was winning! Winning!” He glanced about the courtyard at the three scattered bodies of the wolves he had fought—two unconscious, one dead. “Your pack attacked me unprovoked. They broke the Accords. I was defending myself. They broke the Law!” His voice rose, harsh and unrecognizable. “I am owed their blood, and I will have it!”

“Yes, yes, buckets of blood,” said Woolsey. “And what would you do with it if you had it? You don’t care about this werewolf. Let him go.”

“No.”

“At least let him free so he can fight you,” Woolsey said.

Will hesitated, then released his grip on the werewolf he held, who faced his pack leader, looking terrified. Woolsey snapped his fingers in the wolf’s direction. “Run, Conrad,” he said. “Fast. And now.”

The werewolf didn’t need to be told twice; he turned on his heels and darted away, vanishing behind the stables. Will turned back to Woolsey with a sneer.

“So your pack are all cowards,” he said. “Five against one Shadowhunter? Is that how it is?”

“I didn’t tell them to come out here after you. They’re young. And stupid. And impetuous. And half their pack was killed by Mortmain. They blame your kind.” Woolsey stepped a little closer, his eyes raking up and down Will, as cold as green ice. “I assume your parabatai is dead, then,” he added with shocking casualness.

Will was not ready to hear the words at all, would never be ready. The battle had cleared his head of the pain for a moment. Now it threatened to return, all-encompassing and terrifying. He gasped as if Woolsey had punched him, and took an involuntary step back.

“And you’re trying to get yourself killed because of it, Nephilim boy? Is that what’s going on?”

Will swiped his wet hair out of his face and looked at Woolsey with hatred. “Maybe I am.”

“Is that how you respect his memory?”

“What does it matter?” Will said. “He’s dead. He’ll never know what I do or what I don’t do.”

“My brother is dead,” Woolsey said. “I still struggle to fulfill his wishes, to continue the Praetor Lupus in his memory, and to live as he would have had me live. Do you think I’m the sort of person who would ever be found in a place like this, consuming pig swill and drinking vinegar, knee deep in mud, watching some tedious Shadowhunter brat destroy even more of my already diminished pack, if it weren’t for the fact that I serve a greater purpose than my own desires and sorrows? And so do you, Shadowhunter. So do you.”

“Oh, God.” The dagger fell out of Will’s hand and landed in the mud at his feet. “What do I do now?” he whispered.

He had no idea why he was asking Woolsey, except that there was no one else in the world to ask. Not even when he thought he was cursed had he felt so alone.

Woolsey looked at him coolly. “Do what your brother would have wanted,” he said, then turned and stalked off back toward the inn.





15

STARS, HIDE YOUR FIRES


Stars, hide your fires;

Let not light see my black and deep desires.

—Shakespeare, Macbeth



Consul Wayland,

I write to you on a matter of the gravest import. One of the Shadowhunters of my Institute, William Herondale, is upon the road to Cadair Idris even as I write. He has discovered along the way an unmistakable sign of Miss Gray’s passage. I enclose his letter for your perusal, but I am sure you will agree that the whereabouts of Mortmain are now established and that we must with all haste assemble what forces we can and march immediately upon Cadair Idris. Mortmain has shown in the past a remarkable ability to slip from the nets we cast. We must take advantage of this moment and strike with all possible haste and force. I await your speedy reply.

Charlotte Branwell



The room was cold. The fire had long burned down in the grate, and the wind outside was howling around the corners of the Institute, rattling the panes of the windows. The lamp on the nightstand was turned down low, and Tessa shivered in the armchair by the bed, despite the shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

In the bed Jem was asleep, his head pillowed on his hand. He breathed just enough to move the blankets slightly, though his face was as pale as the pillows.

Tessa stood, letting the shawl slip from her shoulders. She was in her nightgown, the way she had been the first time she had ever met Jem, bursting into his room to find him playing the violin by the window. Will? he had said. Will, is that you?

He stirred and murmured now as she crawled into the bed with him, drawing the blankets over them both. She cupped her hands around his and held their joined hands between them. She tangled their feet together and kissed his cool cheek, warming his skin with her breath. Slowly she felt him stir against her, as if her presence were bringing him to life.