“The creatures injured him, and he lost some blood,” Thomas said, running a hand through his tangled brown hair. He looked at Sophie as he said it. “But Will gave him an iratze—”
“And his medicine?” Sophie asked quickly. “Has he had some of that?”
Thomas nodded, and the tight set of Sophie’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. Charlotte’s gaze softened as well. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said. “Perhaps you can see if he requires anything else?”
Thomas nodded, and set off back down the corridor with a last glance over his shoulder at Sophie, who did not seem to notice. Charlotte sank down onto the ottoman opposite Tessa. “Tessa, can you tell us what happened?”
Clutching the cup, her fingers cold despite its heat, Tessa shuddered. “Did you catch the ones that escaped? The—whatever they are. The metal monsters?”
Charlotte shook her head gravely. “We pursued them through the streets, but they disappeared once we reached Hungerford Bridge. Henry thinks there was some magic involved.”
“Or a secret tunnel,” Henry said. “I did also suggest a secret tunnel, my dear.” He looked at Tessa. His friendly face was streaked with blood and oil, his brightly striped waistcoat slashed and torn. He looked like a schoolboy who’d been in a bad scrape of some sort. “Did you see them coming out of a tunnel, perhaps, Miss Gray?”
“No,” Tessa said, her voice half a whisper. To clear her throat, she took another sip of the drink Agatha had given her, and set the cup down before running through it all—the bridge, the coachman, the chase, the words the creature had spoken, the way they had burst through the Institute gates. Charlotte listened with a pinched white face; even Henry looked grim. Sophie, sitting quietly on a chair, attended to the story with the grave intensity of a schoolgirl.
“They said it was a declaration of war,” Tessa finished. “That they were coming to wreak revenge on us—on you, I suppose—for what happened to de Quincey.”
“And the creature referred to him as the Magister?” Charlotte asked.
Tessa pressed her lips together firmly to keep them from trembling. “Yes. He said the Magister wanted me and that he had been sent to retrieve me. Charlotte, this is my fault. If it weren’t for me, de Quincey wouldn’t have sent those creatures tonight, and Jem—” She looked down at her hands. “Maybe you should just let him have me.”
Charlotte was shaking her head. “Tessa, you heard de Quincey last night. He hates Shadowhunters. He would strike at the Clave regardless of you. And if we gave you to him, all we would be doing is placing a potentially valuable weapon in his hands.” She looked at Henry. “I wonder why he waited this long. Why not come for Tessa when she was out with Jessie? Unlike demons, these clockwork creatures can go out during the day.”
“They can,” said Henry, “but not without alarming the populace—not yet. They don’t look enough like ordinary human beings to pass without exciting comment.” He took a shining gear from his pocket and held it up. “I examined the remains of the automatons down in the courtyard. These ones de Quincey sent after Tessa on the bridge are not like the one in the crypt. They’re more sophisticated, made of tougher metals, and with a more advanced jointure. Someone’s been working on the design in those blueprints Will found, refining it. The creatures are faster now, and deadlier.”
But how refined? “There was a spell,” Tessa said quickly. “On the blueprint. Magnus deciphered it… .”
“The binding spell. Meant to tie a demon energy to an automaton.” Charlotte looked at Henry. “Did de Quincey—?”
“Succeed in performing it?” Henry shook his head. “No. Those creatures are simply configured to follow a pattern, like music boxes. But they are not animate. They do not have intelligence or will or life. And there is nothing demonic about them.”
Charlotte exhaled in relief. “We must find de Quincey before he succeeds in his goal. Those creatures are difficult enough to kill as it is. The Angel knows how many of them he’s made, or how difficult they’d be to kill if they had the cunning of demons.”
“An army born neither of Heaven nor Hell,” said Tessa softly.
“Exactly,” said Henry. “De Quincey must be found and stopped. And in the meantime, Tessa, you must stay in the Institute. Not that we want to keep you a prisoner here, but it would be safer if you remained inside.”
“But for how long—?” Tessa began—and broke off, as Sophie’s expression changed. She was looking at something over Tessa’s shoulder, her hazel eyes suddenly wide. Tessa followed her gaze.
It was Will. He stood in the doorway of the drawing room. There was a streak of blood across his white shirt; it looked like paint. His face was still, almost masklike, his gaze fixed on Tessa. As their eyes met across the room, she felt the pulse jump in her throat.
“He wants to talk to you,” Will said.
There was a moment of silence as everyone in the drawing room looked at him. There was something forbidding about the intensity of Will’s gaze, the tension of his stillness. Sophie had her hand at her throat, her fingers nervously fluttering at her collar.
“Will,” Charlotte said finally. “Do you mean Jem? Is he all right?”
“He’s awake and talking,” Will said. His gaze slid momentarily to Sophie, who had glanced down, as if to hide her expression. “And now he wants to speak to Tessa.”
“But …” Tessa looked toward Charlotte, who seemed troubled. “Is he all right? Is he well enough?”
Will’s expression didn’t change. “He wants to talk to you,” he said, enunciating each word very clearly. “So you will get up, and you will come with me, and you will talk to him. Do you understand?”
“Will,” Charlotte began sharply, but Tessa was already rising, smoothing down her rumpled skirts with the flat of her hands. Charlotte looked worriedly at her, but said nothing more.
Will was utterly silent as they made their way down the corridor, witchlight sconces throwing their shadows against the far walls in spindly patterns. There was blackish oil as well as blood splattered on his white shirt, smudging his cheek; his hair was tangled, his jaw set. She wondered if he had slept at all since dawn, when she had left him in the attic. She wanted to ask him, but everything about him—his posture, his silence, the set of his shoulders—said that no questions would be welcome.
He pushed open the door of Jem’s room and ushered her in ahead of him. The only light in the room came from the window and from a taper of witchlight on the bedside table. Jem lay half-under the covers of the high carved bed. He was as white as his nightshirt, the lids of his closed eyes dark blue. Leaning against the side of the bed was his jade-headed cane. Somehow it had been repaired and was whole again, gleaming as if new.
Jem turned his face toward the sound of the door, not opening his eyes. “Will?”
Will did something then that amazed Tessa. He forced his face into a smile, and said, in a passably cheerful tone, “I brought her, like you asked.”
Jem’s eyes flicked open; Tessa was relieved to see that they had returned to their usual color. Still, they had the look of shadowed holes in his pale face.