“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.
11
FEW ARE ANGELS
We all are men,
In our own natures frail, and capable
Of our flesh; few are angels
—Shakespeare, King Henry VIII
Tessa screamed.
Not a human scream but a vampire scream. She barely recognized the sound that came from her own throat—it sounded like shattering glass. Only later did she even realize that she was screaming words. She would have thought she’d cry her brother’s name, but she didn’t.
“Will!” she screamed. “Will, now! Do it now!”
A gasp ran through the room. Dozens of white faces swung toward Tessa. Her scream had broken through their blood-lust. De Quincey was motionless on the stage; even Nathaniel was looking at her, dazed and staring, as if wondering if her screams were a dream born out of his agony.
Will, his finger on the button of the Phosphor, hesitated. His eyes met Tessa’s across the room. It was only for a split second, but de Quincey saw their glance. As if he could read it, the look on his face changed, and he swung his hand up to point directly at Will.
“The boy,” he spat. “Stop him!”
Will tore his gaze from Tessa’s. The vampires were already rising to their feet, moving toward him, their eyes glittering with rage and hunger. Will looked past them, at de Quincey, who was staring at Will with fury. There was no fear on Will’s face as his gaze met the vampire’s—no hesitation, and no surprise.
“I am not a boy,” he said. “I am Nephilim.”
And he pressed the button.
Tessa braced herself for a flare of white witchlight. Instead there was a great whoosh of sound as the flames of the candela-bras shot toward the ceiling. Sparks flew, scattering the floor with glowing embers, catching in the curtains, in the skirts of women’s dresses. Suddenly the room was full of billowing black smoke and screams—high-pitched and horrible.
Tessa could no longer see Will. She tried to dart forward, but Magnus—she had nearly forgotten he was there—caught her firmly by the wrist. “Miss Gray, no,” he said, and when she responded by pulling away harder, he added, “Miss Gray! You’re a vampire now! If you catch fire, you’ll go up like kindling wood—”