"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.
His eyes opened and looked into hers. They were blue, achingly blue, the blue of the sky where it meets the sea.
"Tessa?" Will said, and she realized it was Will in her arms, Will who was dying, Will breathing out his last breath--and there was blood on his shirt, just over his heart, a spreading red stain--
Tessa sat bolt upright, gasping. For a moment she stared about her, disoriented. The tiny, dark room, the musty blanket wrapped around her, her own damp clothes and bruised body, seemed foreign to her. Then memory came back in a flood, and with it a wave of nausea.
She missed the Institute piercingly, in a way she had never even missed her home in New York. She missed Charlotte's bossy but caring voice, Sophie's understanding touch, Henry's puttering, and of course--she could not help it--she missed Jem and Will. She was terrified for Jem, for his health, but she was frightened for Will as well. The battle in the courtyard had been bloody, vicious. Any of them could have been hurt or killed. Was that the meaning of her dream, Jem turning into Will? Was Jem ill, was Will's life in danger? Not either of them, she prayed silently. Please, let me die before harm comes to either of them.
A noise startled her out of her reverie--a sudden dry scraping that sent a brutal shiver down her spine. She froze. Surely it was just the scratching of a branch against the window. But, no--there it came again. A scraping, dragging noise.
Tessa was on her feet in a moment, the blanket still wrapped around her. Terror was like a live thing inside her. All the tales she had ever heard of monsters in the dark woods seemed to be fighting for space in her mind. She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath, and saw the spindly automatons on the front steps of the Institute, their shadows long and grotesque, like human beings pulled out of shape.
She drew the blanket closer around herself, her fingers closing spasmodically on the material. The automatons had come for her on the Institute steps. But they were not very intelligent--able to follow simple commands, to recognize particular human beings. Still, they could not think for themselves. They were machines, and machines could be fooled.
The blanket was patchwork, the kind that would have been sewed by a woman, a woman who had lived in this house. Tessa drew in her breath and reached--reached into the blanket, searching for a flicker of ownership, the signature of whatever spirit had created and owned it. It was like plunging her hand into dark water and feeling around for an object. After what felt like an age of searching, she lit upon it--a flicker in the darkness, the solidity of a soul.
She concentrated on it, wrapping it around her like the blanket she clung to. The Change was easier now, less painful. She saw her fingers warp and change, becoming the clubbed, arthritic hands of an old woman. Liver spots rose on her skin, her back hunched, and her dress began to hang off her withered form. When her hair fell in front of her eyes, it was white.
The scraping sound came again. A voice echoed in the back of Tessa's mind, a querulous old woman's voice demanding to know who was in her house. Tessa stumbled for the door, her breath coming short, her heart fluttering in her chest, and made for the main room of the house.