“De Quincey is a loathsome beast,” wailed Mrs. Dark, still crouched inside her pentagram. She seemed to have decided there was no more point in concealment. “He disobeyed Mortmain at every turn, wishing to be the Magister himself. Such insubordination must be punished.”
Will’s gaze met Jem’s. He could tell they were both thinking the same thing. “Mortmain saw an opportunity to throw suspicion on a rival,” Jem said. “That is why he chose de Quincey.”
“He could have hidden those plans for automatons in de Quincey’s library,” agreed Will. “It is not as if de Quincey ever admitted they were his, or even seemed to recognize them when Charlotte showed them to him. And Mortmain could have told those automatons on the bridge to claim they were working for the vampire. In fact, he could have etched de Quincey’s seal into that clockwork girl’s chest and left her in the Dark House for us to find, as well—all to divert suspicion from himself.”
“But Mortmain is not the only one who ever pointed the finger at de Quincey,” said Jem, and his voice was heavy. “Nathaniel Gray, Will. Tessa’s brother. When two people tell the same lie …”
“They are working together,” Will finished. He felt, for a moment, something almost like satisfaction, which quickly faded. He had disliked Nate Gray, had hated the way Tessa had treated him as if he could do no wrong, and then he’d despised himself for his own jealousy. To know that he had been correct about Nate’s character was one thing, but at what price?
Mrs. Dark laughed, a high, whining sound. “Nate Gray,” she spat. “The Magister’s little human lapdog. He sold his sister to Mortmain, you know. Just for a handful of silver, he did it. Just for a few sops to his vanity. I would never have treated my own sister so. And you say it is demons who are evil, and the humans who need protecting from us!” Her voice rose to a cackle.
Will ignored her; his mind was whirling. Dear God, that whole story of Nathaniel’s about de Quincey had been a trick, a lie to set the Clave off on a false track. Then why have Mortmain appear as soon as they had gone? To get rid of us, Jem and I, Will thought grimly. Nate couldn’t have known we two wouldn’t be going with Charlotte and Henry. He had to improvise something quickly when we stayed behind. Thus Mortmain and this extra trickery. Nate had been in it with Mortmain since the beginning.
And now Tessa is in the Institute with him. Will felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to turn and run out the door, race back to the Institute, and beat Nathaniel’s head against a wall. Only years of training, and fear for Henry and Charlotte, kept him where he was.
Will whirled on Mrs. Dark. “What is his plan? What will the Enclave find when they reach Carleton Square? Certain slaughter? Answer me!” he shouted. Fear made his voice crack. “Or by the Angel, I will make sure that the Clave tortures you before you die. What is his plan for them?”
Mrs. Dark’s yellow eyes flashed. “What does the Magister care about?” she hissed. “What has he ever cared about? He despises the Nephilim, but what is it that he wants?”
“Tessa,” said Jem immediately. “But she is safe in the Institute, and even his blasted clockwork army can’t break inside. Even without us there—”
In a wheedling voice Mrs. Dark said, “Once, when I was in the Magister’s confidence, he spoke to me of a plan he had to invade the Institute. He planned to paint the hands of his mechanical creatures with the blood of a Shadowhunter, thus allowing him to open the doors.”
“The blood of a Shadowhunter?” Will echoed. “But—”
“Will.” Jem had his hand at his chest, where the clockwork creature had torn the skin that night on the steps of the Institute. “My blood.”
For a moment Will stood perfectly still, staring at his friend. Then, without a word, he turned and raced for the dining room doors; Jem, pausing only to seize the cat’s cage, followed. As they reached them, the doors slammed shut as if pushed, and Will came to a skidding halt. He spun to see Jem behind him, looking baffled.
In her pentagram Mrs. Dark was howling with laughter. “Nephilim,” she gasped between peals. “Stupid, stupid Nephilim. Where is your angel now?”
As they stared, enormous flames leaped up around the walls, licking up the curtains covering the windows, shimmering along the edges of the floor. The flames burned with a weird blue-green color, and the smell was thick and ugly—a demon smell. Inside its cage the cat was going wild, throwing itself against the bars again and again and howling.
Will drew a second seraph blade from his belt and cried, “Anael!” Light burst from the blade, but Mrs. Dark only laughed.
“When the Magister sees your charred corpses,” she cried, “then he will forgive me! Then he will welcome me back!”
Her laughter rose, high and horrible. Already the room was dim with smoke. Jem, raising his sleeve to cover his mouth, said to Will in a choking voice, “Kill her. Kill her, and the fire will die.”
Will, his grip tight on the hilt of Anael, growled, “Don’t you think I would if I could? She’s in the pentagram.”
“I know.” Jem’s eyes were full of meaning. “Will, cut it down.”
Because it was Jem, Will knew what he meant immediately, without being told explicitly. Spinning to face the pentagram, he raised the shining Anael, took aim, and flung the blade—not toward the demon but up toward the thick metal chain that supported the massive chandelier. The blade sheared through the chain like a knife through paper, there was a rending sound, and the demon had time only to scream once before the massive chandelier descended, a crashing comet of twisting metal and shattering glass. Will threw his arm across his eyes as debris rained over them all—smashed bits of stone, fragments of crystal, and chunks of rust. The floor shook underneath him as if the earth were quaking.
When all was quiet at last, he opened his eyes. The chandelier lay like the wreck of some immense ship twisted and destroyed at the bottom of the sea. Dust rose like smoke from the wreckage, and from one corner of the pile of smashed glass and metal a trickle of greenish black blood threaded across the marble… .
Jem had been right. The flames were gone. Jem himself, still gripping the handle of the cat’s cage, was gazing at the wreckage. His already pale hair had whitened further with plaster dust, and his cheeks were streaked with ash. “Nicely done, William,” he said.
Will did not reply; there was no time for it. Throwing the doors—which opened easily under his hands now—wide, he raced out of the room.
Tessa and Sophie flew up the Institute’s steps together until Sophie gasped, “Here! This door!” and Tessa flung it open and burst into the corridor beyond. Sophie pulled her wrist out of Tessa’s grasp and spun to slam the door shut behind them and slide the bolt closed. She leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard, her face streaked with tears.
“Miss Jessamine,” she whispered. “Do you think—”
“I don’t know,” Tessa said. “But you heard Thomas. We must get to the Sanctuary, Sophie. It’s where we’ll be safe.” And Thomas wants me to make sure you stay safe. “You’re going to have to show me where it is. I can’t find my way there by myself.”