Clockwork Princess

20

T

HE

I

NFERNAL

D

EVICES

Like wire-pulled automatons,

Slim silhouetted skeletons

Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,

And danced a stately saraband;

Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

—Oscar Wilde, “The Harlot’s House”

“It’s beautiful,” Henry breathed.

The Shadowhunters of the London Institute—along with Magnus Bane—stood in a loose half circle in the crypt, staring at one of the bare stone walls—or, more precisely, at something that had appeared on one of the bare stone walls.

It was a glowing archway, about ten feet in height, and perhaps five across in width. It was not carved into the stone but rather was made of glowing runes that twined into one another like the vines of a trellis. The runes were not from the Gray Book—Gabriel would have recognized them if they had been—but were runes he had never seen before. They had the foreign look of another language, yet each was distinct and beautiful and spoke a murmuring song of travel and distance, of whirling dark space and the distance between worlds.

They glowed green in the darkness, pale and acidic. Within the space created by the runes the wall was not visible—only darkness, impenetrable, as if of a great dark pit.

“It truly is amazing,” Magnus said.

All but the warlock were dressed in their gear and were bristling with weapons—Gabriel’s favorite double-edged longsword was slung over his back, and he was itching to get his gloved hands on the hilt. Though he liked the bow and arrow, he had been trained in the longsword by a master who could trace his own masters back to Lichtenauer, and Gabriel fancied the longsword his specialty. Besides, a bow and arrow would be much less use against automatons than a weapon that could chop them into component parts.

“All down to you, Magnus,” Henry said. He was glowing—or, Gabriel thought, it could have been the reflection of the lighted runes against his face.

“Not at all,” Magnus replied. “If not for your genius, this could never have been created.”

“While I am enjoying this exchange of pleasantries,” Gabriel said, seeing that Henry was about to respond, “there do remain a few—central—questions about this invention.”

Henry looked at him blankly. “Such as what?”

“I believe, Henry, that he is inquiring whether this … doorway—,” Charlotte began.

“We’ve called it a Portal,” said Henry. The capitalization of the word was very clear in his tone.

“Whether it works,” Charlotte finished. “Have you tried it?”

Henry looked stricken. “Well, no. There hasn’t been time. But I assure you, our calculations are faultless.”

Everyone but Henry and Magnus looked at the Portal with refreshed alarm. “Henry …,” Charlotte began.

“Well, I think Henry and Magnus should go first,” Gabriel said. “They invented the blasted thing.”

Everyone turned on him. “It’s like he’s replaced Will,” said Gideon, eyebrows up. “They say all the same sort of things.”

“I am not like Will!” Gabriel snapped.

“I should hope not,” said Cecily, though so quietly that he wondered if anyone else had heard her. She was looking especially pretty today, though he had no idea why. She was dressed in the same plain black woman’s gear as Charlotte; her hair was secured demurely behind her head, and the ruby necklace at her throat glowed against her skin. However, Gabriel reminded himself sternly, since they were most likely about to direct themselves all into mortal danger, thinking about whether Cecily was pretty ought not to be foremost on his mind. He told himself to stop immediately.

“I am nothing like Will Herondale,” he repeated.

“I am perfectly willing to go through first,” Magnus said, with the long-suffering air of a schoolmaster in a room full of ill-behaved schoolboys. “There are a few things I need. We are hoping Tessa will be there; Will may be also; I should like some extra gear and weapons to bring through. I plan, of course, to wait for you on the other side, but should there be any—unexpected developments, it is always good to prepare.”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes—of course.” She glanced down for a moment. “I cannot believe no one has come to assist us. I thought, after my letter, at least a few—” She broke off, swallowing, and raised her chin. “Let me get Sophie. She can put together the things you need, Magnus. And she and Cyril and Bridget are meant to join us shortly.” She vanished up the steps, Henry looking after her with worried fondness.

Gabriel could not blame him. It was obviously a severe blow to Charlotte that no one had answered her call and come to aid them, though he could have told her they would not. People were intrinsically selfish, and many hated the idea of a woman in charge of the Institute. They would not put themselves at risk for her. Only a few weeks ago he would have said the same thing about himself. Now, knowing Charlotte, he realized to his surprise, the idea of risking himself for her seemed an honor, as it would be to most Englishmen to risk themselves for the queen.

“How does one make the Portal work?” Cecily asked, glancing at the glowing archway as if it were a painting in a gallery, her dark head cocked to the side.

“It will transport you instantly from one place to another,” said Henry. “But the trick is—well, that part is magic.” He said the word a little nervously.

“You need to be picturing the place you’re going to,” said Magnus. “It won’t work to take you to a place you have never been and cannot imagine. In this case, to get to Cadair Idris, we are going to need Cecily. Cecily, how close to Cadair Idris do you believe you can bring us?”

“To the very top,” Cecily said confidently. “There are several paths that will bring you up the mountain, and I have walked two of them with my father. I can remember the crest of the mountain.”

“Excellent,” Henry said. “Cecily, you will stand before the Portal and visualize our destination—”

“But she’s not going first, is she?” Gabriel demanded. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he was startled. He hadn’t meant to say them. Ah, well, in for a penny, in for a pound, though, he thought. “I meant: She is the least trained of us all; it wouldn’t be safe.”

“I can go through first,” Cecily said, looking as if she were not in the least grateful for Gabriel’s support. “I see no reason why—”

“Henry!” It was Charlotte, reappearing at the foot of the steps. Behind her were the servants of the Institute, all in training gear—Bridget, looking as if she were out for a morning stroll; Cyril, set and determined; and Sophie, carrying a large leather bag.

Behind them were three more men. Tall men, in parchment robes, moving with peculiar gliding motions.

Silent Brothers.

Unlike any other Silent Brothers that Gabriel had seen before, though, these were armed. Weapons belts were cinched around their waists, over their robes, and from their belts hung long, curved blades, their hilts made of shimmering adamas, the same material used to make steles and seraph blades.

Henry looked up, puzzled—then guiltily, from the Portal, to the Brothers. His lightly freckled face paled. “Brother Enoch,” he said. “I—”

Calm yourself. The Silent Brother’s voice rang out in all their minds. We have not come to warn you of any possible breach of the Law, Henry Branwell. We have come to fight with you.

“To fight with us?” Gideon looked amazed. “But Silent Brothers don’t— I mean, they aren’t warriors—”

That is incorrect. Shadowhunters we were and Shadowhunters we remain, even when changed to become Brothers. We were founded by Jonathan Shadowhunter himself, and though we live by the book, we may yet die by the sword if we so choose.

Charlotte was beaming. “They learned of my message,” she said. “They came. Brother Enoch, Brother Micah, and Brother Zachariah.”

The two Brothers behind Enoch inclined their heads silently. Gabriel fought off a shiver. He had always found the Silent Brothers eerie, though he knew they were an integral part of Shadowhunter life.

“Brother Enoch also told me why no one else came,” Charlotte said, the smile vanishing from her face. “Consul Wayland convened a Council meeting this morning, though he told us nothing of it. Attendance for all Shadowhunters was mandatory by Law.”

Henry’s breath hissed out through his teeth. “That ba—bad man,” he finished, with a quick glance at Cecily, who rolled her eyes. “What’s the Council meeting about?”

“Replacing us as heads of the Institute,” Charlotte said. “He still believes Mortmain’s attack will come against London, and that a strong leader here is needed to stand against the clockwork army.”

“Mrs. Branwell!” Sophie, in the act of handing to Magnus the bag she had been carrying, nearly dropped it. “They can’t do that!”

“Oh, they very well can,” said Charlotte. She looked around at all their faces, and raised her chin. In that moment, despite her small size, Gabriel thought, she seemed taller than the Consul. “We all knew this would come,” she said. “It does not matter. We are Shadowhunters, and our duty is to each other and to what we think is right. We believe Will, and we believe in Will. Faith has brought us this far; it will bring us a little farther. The Angel watches over us, and we shall win out.”

Everyone was silent. Gabriel looked around at their faces—determined, every one—and even Magnus seemed, if not moved or convinced, considering and respectful. “Mrs. Branwell,” he said at last. “If Consul Wayland does not consider you a leader, he is a fool.”

Charlotte inclined her head toward him. “Thank you,” she said. “But we should waste no more time—we must go, and quickly, for this matter can wait on us no longer.”

Henry looked for a long moment at his wife, and then toward Cecily. “Are you ready?”

Will’s sister nodded, and moved forward to stand before the Portal. Its gleaming light cast the shadow of unfamiliar runes across her small, determined face.

“Visualize,” said Magnus. “Imagine as hard as you can that you are looking at the top of Cadair Idris.”

Cecily’s hands clenched at her sides. As she stared, the Portal began to move, the runes to ripple and change. The darkness within the archway lightened. Suddenly Gabriel was no longer looking at shadow. He was gazing at a portrait of a landscape that could have been painted within the Portal—the green curve of the top of a mountain, a lake as blue and deep as the sky.

Cecily gave a little gasp—and then, unprompted, stepped forward, and vanished through the archway. It was like watching a sketch being erased. First her hands vanished into the Portal, and then her arms, outstretched, and then her body.

And she was gone.

Charlotte gave a little shriek. “Henry!”

There was a buzzing in Gabriel’s ears. He could hear Henry reassuring Charlotte that this was the way the Portal was meant to function, that nothing untoward had happened, but it was like a song half-heard from another room, the words a rhythm without meaning. All he knew was that Cecily, braver than all of them, had stepped through the unknown doorway and was gone. And he could not let her go alone.

He moved forward. He heard his brother call his name, but he ignored him; pushing past Gideon, he reached the Portal, and stepped through it.

For a moment there was nothing but blackness. Then a great hand seemed to reach out of the darkness and snatch hold of him, and he was pulled into the whirling inky maelstrom.

The great Council room was full of people shouting.

On the raised platform at the center stood Consul Wayland, staring out at the shouting throng with a look of furious impatience on his face. His dark eyes raked the Shadowhunters congregated in front of him: George Penhallow was locked in a screaming match with Sora Kaidou of the Tokyo Institute; Vijay Malhotra was jabbing a thin finger into the chest of Japheth Pangborn, who rarely left his manor house in the Idris countryside these days, and who had turned as red as a tomato at the indignity of it all. Two of the Blackwells had cornered Amalia Morgenstern, who was snapping at them in German. Aloysius Starkweather, all in black, stood beside one of the wooden benches, his wiry limbs nearly bent up around his ears as he glared up at the podium with sharp old eyes.

The Inquisitor, standing beside Consul Wayland, slammed his wooden staff down against the floor hard enough to nearly shatter the floorboards. “That is ENOUGH!” he roared. “All of you will be silent, and you will be silent now. SIT DOWN.”

A ripple of shock went through the room—and, to the Consul’s evident surprise, they sat. Not quietly, but they sat—all who had room to sit. The chamber was filled to bursting; this many Shadowhunters rarely appeared at any one meeting. There were representatives here from all the Institutes—New York, Bangkok, Geneva, Bombay, Kyoto, Buenos Aires. Only the London Shadowhunters, Charlotte Branwell and her cohorts, were absent.

Only Aloysius Starkweather remained standing, his ragged dark cloak flapping about him like crow’s wings. “Where is Charlotte Branwell?” he demanded. “It was understood from the message you sent out that she would be here to explain the contents of her message to the Council.”

“I will explain the contents of her message,” said the Consul through gritted teeth.

“It would be preferable to hear it from her,” said Malhotra, his dark eyes keen as he looked from the Consul to the Inquisitor and back. Inquisitor Whitelaw looked drawn, as if he had been suffering recent sleepless nights; his mouth was tight at the corners.

“Charlotte Branwell is overreacting,” said the Consul. “I take full responsibility for having put her in charge of the London Institute. It was something I should never have done. She has been relieved of her position.”

“I have had occasion to meet and speak with Mrs. Branwell,” said Starkweather in his hoarse Yorkshire tones. “She does not strike me as someone who would easily overreact.”

Looking as if he remembered exactly why he had been so glad Starkweather had ceased attending Council meetings, the Consul said tightly: “She is in a delicate way, and I believe she has become … overset.”

Chatter and confusion. The Inquisitor looked over at Wayland and gave him a narrow glance of disgust. The Consul returned his look with a glare. It was clear that the two men had been arguing: The Consul was flushed with anger, the look he bent toward the Inquisitor in return filled with betrayal. It was clear that Whitelaw did not agree with the Consul’s words.

A woman rose to her feet from the crowded benches. She had white hair piled high on her head and an imperious manner. The Consul looked as if he were groaning inwardly. Callida Fairchild, Charlotte Branwell’s aunt. “If you are suggesting,” she said in a frozen voice, “that my niece is making hysterical and unreasonable decisions because she is carrying one of the next generation of Shadowhunters, Consul, I suggest you think again.”

The Consul ground his teeth. “There is no evidence that Charlotte Branwell’s statements that Mortmain is in Wales have any truth to them,” he said. “It all stems from the reports of Will Herondale, who is only a boy, and a reprehensibly irresponsible one at that. All evidence, including the journals of Benedict Lightwood, point to an attack on London, and it is there we must marshal our forces.”

A buzz went through the room, the words “an attack on London” repeated over and over. Amalia Morgenstern fanned herself with a lace handkerchief, while Lilian Highsmith, her fingers stroking the haft of a dagger protruding from the wrist of one glove, looked delighted.

“Evidence,” snapped Callida. “My niece’s word is evidence—”

There was another rustle, and a young woman rose to her feet. She wore a bright green dress and a defiant expression. The last time the Consul had seen her, she had been sobbing in this same Council room, demanding justice. Tatiana Blackthorn, née Lightwood.

“The Consul is right about Charlotte Branwell!” she exclaimed. “Charlotte Branwell and William Herondale are the reason my husband is dead!”

“Oh?” It was Inquisitor Whitelaw, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Who exactly killed your husband? Was it Will?”

There was a murmur of astonishment. Tatiana looked outraged. “It was not my father’s fault—”

“On the contrary,” interrupted the Inquisitor. “This was kept from public knowledge, Mrs. Blackthorn, but you force my hand. We opened an investigation into the matter of your husband’s death, and it was determined that your father was indeed at fault, most grievous fault. If it were not for the actions of your brothers—and of William Herondale and Charlotte Branwell, among the others of the London Institute—the name of Lightwood would be stricken from the Shadowhunter records and you would be living the rest of your life as a friendless mundane.”

Tatiana turned beet red and clenched her fists. “William Herondale has—he has offered me insults unspeakable to a lady—”

“I fail to see how that is germane to the matter at hand,” said the Inquisitor. “One may be rude in one’s personal life but also correct about larger matters.”

“You took our house!” Tatiana screeched. “I am forced to rely on the generosity of my husband’s family like some starving beggar—”

The Inquisitor’s eyes were glittering to match the stones in his rings. “Your house was confiscated, Mrs. Blackthorn, not stolen. We searched the Lightwood family house,” he went on, raising his voice. “It was full of evidence of the elder Mr. Lightwood’s connections to Mortmain, journals detailing acts vile and filthy and unspeakable. The Consul cites the man’s journals as evidence that there will be an attack on London, but by the time Benedict Lightwood died, he was mad with demon pox. Nor is it likely Mortmain would have confided his true plans to him, even had he been sane.”

Looking nearly desperate, Consul Wayland interrupted. “The matter of Benedict Lightwood is closed—closed, and irrelevant. We are here to discuss the matters of Mortmain and the Institute! First, as Charlotte Branwell has been removed from the position, and the situation facing us is centered most heavily upon London, we require a new leader of the London Enclave. I am going to throw the floor open. Does anyone wish to step forward as her replacement?”

There was a rustle and murmur. George Penhallow had begun to rise to his feet—when the Inquisitor burst in furiously: “This is ridiculous, Josiah. There is no proof yet that Mortmain is not where Charlotte says he will be. We have not even begun to discuss sending reinforcements after her—”

“After her? What do you mean after her?”

The Inquisitor swept an arm out at the throng. “She is not here. Where do you think the inhabitants of the London Institute are? They have gone to Cadair Idris, after the Magister. And yet, instead of discussing whether we shall give them aid, we convene a Council to discuss Charlotte’s replacement?”

The Consul’s temper snapped. “There will be no aid!” he roared. “There will never be aid for those who—”

But the Council never found out who was destined to go unaided, for at that moment a steel blade, deadly sharp, whipped through the air behind the Consul and neatly severed his head from his body.

The Inquisitor jerked back, reaching for his staff, as blood sheeted across him; the Consul’s body fell, tumbling to the ground in two severed parts: his body slumping to the blood-wet floor of the podium while his severed head rolled away like a tennis ball. As he collapsed, revealed behind him was an automaton—as spindly as a human skeleton, dressed in the ragged remains of a red military tunic. It grinned like a skull as it retracted its scarlet-drenched blade and looked out upon the silent, stunned crowd of Shadowhunters.

The only other sound in the room came from Aloysius Starkweather, who was laughing, steadily and softly, apparently to himself. “She told you,” he wheezed. “She told you what would happen—”

A moment later the automaton had moved forward, its clawed hand shooting out to close about Aloysius’s throat. Blood burst from the old man’s throat as the creature lifted him off his feet, still grinning. The Shadowhunters began to shout—and then the doors burst open and a flood of clockwork creatures poured into the room.

“Well,” said a very amused voice. “This is unexpected.”

Tessa sat bolt upright, pulling the heavy coverlet around her. Beside her, Will stirred, propping himself up on his elbows, eyelids fluttering open slowly. “What—”

The room was filled with bright light. The torches had come on at full strength, and it was like the place was lit with daylight. Tessa could see the wreck of the room that they had made: their clothes scattered across the floor and the bed, the rug before the fireplace rucked up, the bedclothes wound about them. On the other side of the invisible wall was lounging a familiar figure in an elegant dark suit, one thumb hooked into the waistband of his trousers. His cat-pupilled eyes glimmered with mirth.

Magnus Bane.

“You might want to get up,” he said. “Everyone will be here quite soon to rescue you, and you may prefer to have clothes on when they arrive.” He shrugged. “I would, at any rate, but then, I am well known to be remarkably shy.”

Will swore in Welsh. He was sitting up now, the covers tucked about his waist, and had done his best to move his body to shield Tessa from Magnus’s gaze. He was without a shirt, of course, and in the brighter light Tessa could see where the tan on his hands and face faded into the paler white of his chest and shoulders. The white star mark on his shoulder gleamed out like a light, and she saw Magnus’s eyes go to it, and narrow.

“Interesting,” he said.

Will made an incoherent noise of protest. “Interesting? By the Angel, Magnus—”

Magnus gave him a wry look. There was something in it—something that made Tessa feel as if Magnus knew something they didn’t. “If I were a different person, I would have a lot to say to you right now,” he said.

“I appreciate your restraint.”

“You won’t soon,” said Magnus shortly. Then he reached up as if he were knocking on a door, and tapped the invisible wall between them. It was like watching someone plunge their hand into water—ripples spread out from the place where his fingers touched, and suddenly the wall slid away and was gone, in a shower of blue sparks. “Here,” the warlock said, and tossed a tied leather sack onto the foot of the bed. “I brought gear. I thought you might be in need of clothing, but I didn’t realize quite how in need.”

Tessa glared at him around Will’s shoulder. “How did you find us here? How did you know—which of the others are with you? Are they all right?”

“Yes. Quite a few of them are, hurrying through this place, looking for you. Now get dressed,” he said, and turned his back, giving them privacy. Tessa, mortified, reached for the sack on the bed, scrabbled through it until she found her gear, and then stood up with the sheet wrapped around her body and dashed behind the tall Chinese screen in the corner of the room.

She did not look at Will as she went; she couldn’t bring herself to. How could she look at him without thinking of what they’d done? Wondering if he was horrified, if he couldn’t believe either of them would do such a thing after Jem—

Viciously she yanked on the gear. Thank goodness that gear, unlike dresses, could be assembled on the body without recourse to help from anyone else. Through the screen she heard Magnus explaining to Will that he and Henry had managed, through a combination of magic and invention, to create a Portal that would transport them from London to Cadair Idris. She could see them only in silhouette, but she saw Will nodding in relief as Magnus listed those who had come with him—Henry, Charlotte, the Lightwood brothers, Cyril, Sophie, Cecily, Bridget, and a group of the Silent Brothers.

At the mention of his sister’s name, Will began to pull on his clothes with even greater haste, and by the time Tessa stepped out from behind the screen, he was entirely dressed in gear, his boots laced up, his hands buckling on his weapons belt. As he saw her, his face broke into a tentative smile.

“The others have all spread out through the tunnels to find you,” Magnus said. “We were meant to take a half hour to search and then meet up in a central chamber. I will give you two a moment to—collect yourselves.” He smirked, and pointed to the door. “I shall be outside in the corridor.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Tessa was in Will’s arms, her hands locked about his neck. “Oh, by the Angel,” she said. “That was mortifying.”

Will slid his hands into her hair and was kissing her, kissing her eyelids and her cheeks and then her mouth, quickly but with fervor and concentration, as if nothing could be more important. “Listen to you,” he said. “You said ‘by the Angel.’ Like a Shadowhunter.” He kissed the side of her mouth. “I love you. God, I love you. I waited so long to say it.”

She curved her hands about the sides of his waist, holding him there, the material of his gear rough beneath her fingertips. “Will,” she said hesitantly. “You’re not—sorry?”

“Sorry?” He looked at her in disbelief. “Nage ddim—you’re mad if you think I’m sorry, Tess.” His knuckle brushed her cheek. “There is more, so much more I want to say to you—”

“No,” she teased. “Will Herondale, with more to say?”

He ignored this. “But now is not the time—not with Mortmain breathing down our necks, most likely, and Magnus outside the door. Now is the time to finish this. But when it is over, Tess, I will say everything to you I have always wanted to say. As for now—” He kissed her temple, and released her, his eyes searching her face. “I need to know you believe me when I say I love you. That is all.”

“I believe everything you say,” Tessa said with a smile, her hands creeping down from his waist to his weapons belt. Her fingers closed on the hilt of a dagger, and she yanked it from the belt, smiling as he looked down at her in surprise. She kissed his cheek and stepped back. “After all,” she said, “you weren’t lying about that tattoo of the dragon of Wales, were you?”

The room reminded Cecily of the inside of Saint Paul’s dome, which Will had taken her to see on one of his less disagreeable days, after she had first come to London. It was the grandest building she had ever been inside. They had tested the echo of their voices in the interior Whispering Gallery and read the inscription left by Christopher Wren: Si monumentum requiris, circumspice. “If you seek his monument, look about you.”

Will had explained to her what it meant, that Wren preferred to be remembered by the works he had built rather than any tombstone. The whole of the cathedral was a monument to his craft—as, in a way, the whole of this labyrinth beneath the mountain, and this room especially, was a monument to Mortmain’s.

There was a domed ceiling here, too, though there were no windows, only an upward-reaching hollow in the stone. A circular gallery ran around the upper part of the dome, and there was a platform on it, from which, presumably, one could stand and look down at the floor, which was smooth stone.

There was an inscription on the wall here, too. Four sentences, cut into the wall in glittering quartz.

THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT PITY.

THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT REGRET.

THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT NUMBER.

THE INFERNAL DEVICES WILL NEVER STOP COMING.

On the stone floor, lined up in rows, were hundreds of automatons. They wore a motley assortment of military uniforms and were deadly still, their metal eyes closed. Tin soldiers, Cecy thought, grown to human size. The Infernal Devices. Mortmain’s great creation—an army bred to be unstoppable, to slaughter Shadowhunters and to move onward without remorse.

Sophie had been the first to discover the room; she had screamed, and the others had all rushed to find out why. They had found Sophie standing, shaking, amid the unmoving mass of clockwork creatures. One of them lay at her feet; she had cut its legs out from under it with a sweep of her blade, and it had crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The others had not moved or awakened despite the fate of their associate, which had given the Shadowhunters the boldness to go forward among them.

Henry was on his knees now, beside the carapace of one of the still unmoving automatons; he had slit open its uniform and opened its metal chest and was studying what was within. The Silent Brothers stood about him, as did Charlotte, Sophie, and Bridget. Gideon and Gabriel had returned as well, their explorations having proved fruitless. Only Magnus and Cyril had not yet returned. Cecily could not fight down her mounting unease—not at the presence of the automatons but at the absence of her brother. No one had found him yet. Could it be that he was not here to be found? She said nothing, however. She had promised herself that as a Shadowhunter she would not fuss, or scream, whatever happened.

“Look at this,” Henry murmured in a low voice. Inside the chest of the clockwork creature was a mess of wires and what looked to Cecily like a metal box, the kind that might hold tobacco. Carved onto the outside of the box was the symbol of a serpent swallowing its own tail. “The ourobouros. The symbol of the containment of demon energies.”

“As on the Pyxis.” Charlotte nodded.

“Which Mortmain stole from us,” Henry confirmed. “It had concerned me that this was what Mortmain was attempting.”

“That what was what he was attempting?” Gabriel demanded. He was flushed, his green eyes bright. Bless Gabriel, Cecily thought, for always asking exactly the question that was on his mind.

“Animating the automatons,” Henry said absently, reaching for the box. “Giving them consciousness, even will—”

He broke off as his fingers touched the box and it flared suddenly into light. Light, like the illumination of a witchlight rune-stone, poured from the box and through the ourobouros. Henry jerked back with a cry, but it was already too late. The creature sat up, lightning fast, and seized hold of him. Charlotte shrieked and threw herself forward, but she was not fast enough. The automaton, its chest still hanging grotesquely open, caught Henry under the arms and cracked his body like a whip.

There was a terrible snapping sound, and Henry went limp. The automaton tossed Henry aside and turned to cuff Charlotte brutally across the face. She crumpled beside her husband’s body as the clockwork creature took a step forward, and seized hold of Brother Micah. The Silent Brother slammed his staff down on the automaton’s hand, but the creature did not even seem to notice. With a rumble of machinery that sounded like a laugh, it reached out and tore the Silent Brother’s throat open.

Blood sprayed across the room, and Cecily did exactly what she had promised herself she would not do, and screamed.