Unformatted text preview: EXCLUSIVE TO THIS EDITION OF CLOCKWORK PRINCE:
A never-before-seen letter from Will to his family. THE INFERNAL DEVICES
Prequel to the internationally bestselling Mortal Instruments
series
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
USA Today Bestseller * Wall Street Journal Bestseller *
Publishers Weekly Bestseller THE MORAL INSTRUMENTS
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING SERIES
USA Today Bestseller * Wall Street Journal Bestseller * Publishers Weekly Bestseller
OVER 4 MILLION COPIES IN PRINT
Translated into more than 30 languages
Soon to be a major motion picture from Sony Studios In the magical underworld of Victorian London, Tessa Gray has at last
found safety with the Shadowhunters. But that safety proves fleeting when
rogue forces in the Clave plot to see her protector, Charlotte, replaced as
head of the Institute. If Charlotte loses her position, Tessa will be out on
the street—and easy prey for the mysterious Magister, who wants to use
Tessa’s powers for his own dark ends.
With the help of handsome, self-destructive Will and the fiercely
devoted Jem, Tessa discovers that the Magister’s war on the
Shadowhunters is deeply personal. He blames them for a long-ago
tragedy that shattered his life. To unravel the secrets of the past, the trio
journeys from mist-shrouded Yorkshire to a manor house that holds
untold horrors, from the slums of London to an enchanted ballroom
where Tessa discovers that the truth of her parentage is more sinister than
she had imagined. When they encounter a clockwork demon bearing a
warning for Will, they realize that the Magister knows their every move—
and that one of their own has betrayed them.
Tessa finds her heart drawn more and more to Jem, though her longing
for Will, despite his dark moods, continues to unsettle her. But something
is changing in Will—the wall he has built around himself is crumbling.
Could finding the Magister free Will from his secrets and give Tessa the
answers about who she is and what she was born to do?
As their dangerous search for the Magister and the truth leads the
friends into peril, Tessa learns that when love and lies are mixed, they can
corrupt even the purest heart. CASSANDRA CLARE
is the New York Times bestselling author of the Mortal Instruments series.
She was born overseas and spent her early years traveling around the
world with her family and several trunks of books. Cassandra lives in
western Massachusetts with her husband, their cats, and these days, even
more books. Visit her online at cassandraclare.com.
TheInfernalDevices.com JACKET DESIGN BY RUSSELL GORDON
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COPYRIGHT © 2011 BY CLIFF NIELSEN Margaret K. McElderry Books
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TEEN.SimonandSchuster.com THE INFERNAL DEVICES • Book Two • Clockwork Prince Also by Cassandra Clare
THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS: City of Bones
City of Ashes
City of Glass
City of Fallen Angels
THE INFERNAL DEVICES: Clockwork Angel MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Cassandra Claire LLC
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in
any form. MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon &
Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live
event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon &
Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at
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Book design by Mike Rosamilia
The text for this book is set in Dolly.
Manufactured in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Clare, Cassandra.
Clockwork prince / Cassandra Clare.—1st ed.
p. cm.—(The infernal devices ; bk. 2)
Summary: As the Council attempts to strip Charlotte of her power,
sixteen-year-old orphaned shapechanger Tessa Gray works with the London
Shadowhunters to find the Magister and destroy his clockwork army, learning
the secret of her own identity while investigating his past.
ISBN 978-1-4169-7588-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4424-3134-8 (eBook)
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Demonology—Fiction. 3. Orphans—Fiction.
4. Secret societies—Fiction. 5. Identity—Fiction. 6. London (England)—
History—19th century—Fiction. 7. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–
1901—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C5265Cp 2011 [Fic]—dc23
2011017869 For Elka Khalepa ta kala “I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul. . . .
Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would
never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices
impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have had
unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth and
sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream,
that ends in nothing. . . .”
— Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities Contents Prologue
Chapter 1: The Council Chamber
Chapter 2: Reparations
Chapter 3: Unjustifiable Death
Chapter 4: A Journey
Chapter 5: Shades of the Past
Chapter 6: In Silence Sealed
Chapter 7: The Curse
Chapter 8: A Shadow On the Soul
Chapter 9: Fierce Midnight
Chapter 10: The Virtue of Angels
Chapter 11: Wild Unrest
Chapter 12: Masquerade
Chapter 13: The Mortal Sword
Chapter 14: The Silent City Chapter 15: Thousands More
Chapter 16: Mortal Rage
Chapter 17: In Dreams
Chapter 18: Until I Die
Chapter 19: If Treason Doth Prosper
Chapter 20: The Bitter Root
Chapter 21: Coals of Fire
Acknowledgments
A Note On Tessa’s England THE INFERNAL DEVICES • Book Two • Clockwork Prince PROLOGUE
The Outcast Dead
The fog was thick, muffling sound and sight. Where it parted, Will Herondale
could see the street rising ahead of him, slick and wet and black with rain,
and he could hear the voices of the dead.
Not all Shadowhunters could hear ghosts, unless the ghosts chose to be
heard, but Will was one of those who could. As he approached the old
cemetery, their voices rose in a ragged chorus—wails and pleading, cries
and snarls. This was not a peaceful burial ground, but Will knew that; it was
not his first visit to the Cross Bones Graveyard near London Bridge. He did
his best to block out the noises, hunching his shoulders so that his collar
covered his ears, head down, a fine mist of rain dampening his black hair.
The entrance to the cemetery was halfway down the block: a pair of
wrought iron gates set into a high stone wall, though any mundane passing
by would have observed nothing but a plot of overgrown land, part of an
unnamed builder’s yard. As Will neared the gates, something else no
mundane would have seen materialized out of the fog: a great bronze
knocker in the shape of a hand, the fingers bony and skeletal. With a
grimace Will reached out one of his own gloved hands and lifted the knocker,
letting it fall once, twice, three times, the hollow clank resounding through the
night.
Beyond the gates mist rose like steam from the ground, obscuring the
gleam of bone against the rough ground. Slowly the mist began to coalesce,
taking on an eerie blue glow. Will put his hands to the bars of the gate; the
cold of the metal seeped through his gloves, into his bones, and he shivered.
It was a more than ordinary cold. When ghosts rose, they drew energy from
their surroundings, depriving the air around them of heat. The hairs on the
back of Will’s neck prickled and stood up as the blue mist formed slowly into
the shape of an old woman in a ragged dress and white apron, her head
bent. “Hallo, Mol,” said Will. “You’re looking particularly fine this evening, if I do
say so.”
The ghost raised her head. Old Molly was a strong spirit, one of the
stronger Will had ever encountered. Even as moonlight speared through a
gap in the clouds, she hardly looked transparent. Her body was solid, her
hair twisted in a thick yellow-gray coil over one shoulder, her rough, red
hands braced on her hips. Only her eyes were hollow, twin blue flames
flickering in their depths.
“William ’erondale,” she said. “Back again so soon?”
She moved toward the gate with that gliding motion peculiar to ghosts. Her
feet were bare and filthy, despite the fact that they never touched the ground.
Will leaned against the gate. “You know I missed your pretty face.”
She grinned, her eyes flickering, and he caught a glimpse of the skull
beneath the half-transparent skin. Overhead the clouds had closed in on one
another again, blocking out the moon. Idly, Will wondered what Old Molly had
done to get herself buried here, far from consecrated ground. Most of the
wailing voices of the dead belonged to prostitutes, suicides, and stillbirths—
those outcast dead who could not be buried in a churchyard. Although Molly
had managed to make the situation quite profitable for herself, so perhaps
she didn’t mind.
She chortled. “What d’you want, then, young Shadow-hunter? Malphas
venom? I ’ave the talon of a Morax demon, polished very fine, the poison at
the tip entirely invisible—”
“No,” Will said. “That’s not what I need. I need Foraii demon powders,
ground fine.”
Molly turned her head to the side and spat a tendril of blue fire. “Now
what’s a fine young man like you want with stuff like that?”
Will just sighed inwardly; Molly’s protests were part of the bargaining
process. Magnus had already sent Will to Old Mol several times now, once
for black stinking candles that stuck to his skin like tar, once for the bones of
an unborn child, and once for a bag of faeries’ eyes, which had dripped
blood on his shirt. Foraii demon powder sounded pleasant by comparison.
“You think I’m a fool,” Molly went on. “This is a trap, innit? You Nephilim
catch me selling that sort of stuff, an’ it’s the stick for Old Mol, it is.” “You’re already dead.” Will did his best not to sound irritable. “I don’t know
what you think the Clave could do to you now.”
“Pah.” Her hollow eyes flamed. “The prisons of the Silent Brothers,
beneath the earth, can ’old either the living or the dead; you know that,
Shadowhunter.”
Will held up his hands. “No tricks, old one. Surely you must have heard the
rumors running about in Downworld. The Clave has other things on its mind
than tracking down ghosts who traffic in demon powders and faerie blood.”
He leaned forward. “I’ll give you a good price.” He drew a cambric bag from
his pocket and dangled it in the air. It clinked like coins rattling together.
“They all fit your description, Mol.”
An eager look came over her dead face, and she solidified enough to take
the bag from him. She plunged one hand into it and brought her palm out full
of rings—gold wedding rings, each tied in a lovers’ knot at the top. Old Mol,
like many ghosts, was always looking for that talisman, that lost piece of her
past that would finally allow her to die, the anchor that kept her trapped in the
world. In her case it was her wedding ring. It was common belief, Magnus
had told Will, that the ring was long gone, buried under the silty bed of the
Thames, but in the meantime she’d take any bag of found rings in the hope
one would turn out to be hers.
She dropped the rings back into the bag, which vanished somewhere on
her undead person, and handed him a folded sachet of powder in return. He
slipped it into his jacket pocket just as the ghost began to shimmer and fade.
“Hold up, there, Mol. That isn’t all I have come for tonight.”
The spirit flickered while greed warred with impatience and the effort of
remaining visible. Finally she grunted. “Very well. What else d’you want?”
Will hesitated. This was not something Magnus had sent him for; it was
something he wanted to know for himself. “Love potions—”
Old Mol screeched with laughter. “ Love potions? For Will ’erondale?
’Tain’t my way to turn down payment, but any man who looks like you ’as got
no need of love potions, and that’s a fact.”
“No,” Will said, a little desperation in his voice. “I was looking for the
opposite, really—something that might put an end to being in love.”
“An ’atred potion?” Mol still sounded amused. “I was hoping for something more akin to indifference? Tolerance?”
She made a snorting noise, astonishingly human for a ghost. “I ’ardly like
to tell you this, Nephilim, but if you want a girl to ’ate you, there’s easy enough
ways of making it ’appen. You don’t need my help with the poor thing.”
And with that she vanished, spinning away into the mists among the
graves. Will, looking after her, sighed. “Not for her,” he said under his breath,
though there was no one to hear him, “for me . . .” And he leaned his head
against the cold iron gate. THE COUNCIL CHAMBER Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Palace of Art” “Oh, yes. It really does look just as I imagined,” Tessa said, and turned to
smile at the boy who stood beside her. He had just helped her over a puddle,
and his hand still rested politely on her arm, just above the crook of her
elbow.
James Carstairs smiled back at her, elegant in his dark suit, his silver-fair
hair whipped by the wind. His other hand rested on a jade-topped cane, and
if any of the great crowd of people milling around them thought that it was
odd that someone so young should need a walking stick, or found anything
unusual about his coloring or the cast of his features, they didn’t pause to
stare.
“I shall count that as a blessing,” said Jem. “I was beginning to worry, you
know, that everything you encountered in London was going to be a
disappointment.”
A disappointment. Tessa’s brother, Nate, had once promised her
everything in London—a new beginning, a wonderful place to live, a city of
soaring buildings and gorgeous parks. What Tessa had found instead was
horror and betrayal, and danger beyond anything she could have imagined.
And yet . . .
“Not everything has been.” She smiled up at Jem.
“I am glad to hear it.” His tone was serious, not teasing. She looked away from him up at the grand edifice that rose before them. Westminster Abbey,
with its great Gothic spires nearly touching the sky. The sun had done its best
to struggle out from behind the haze-tipped clouds, and the abbey was
bathed in weak sunlight.
“This is really where it is?” she asked as Jem drew her forward, toward the
abbey entrance. “It seems so . . .”
“Mundane?”
“I had meant to say crowded.” The Abbey was open to tourists today, and
groups of them swarmed busily in and out the enormous doors, most
clutching Baedeker guidebooks in their hands. A group of American tourists
—middle-aged women in unfashionable clothes, murmuring in accents that
made Tessa briefly homesick—passed them as they went up the stairs,
hurrying after a lecturer who was offering a guided tour of the Abbey. Jem
and Tessa melted in effortlessly behind them.
The inside of the abbey smelled of cold stone and metal. Tessa looked up
and around, marveling at the size of the place. It made the Institute look like a
village church.
“Notice the triple division of the nave,” a guide droned, going on to explain
that smaller chapels lined the eastern and western aisles of the Abbey. There
was a hush over the place even though no services were going on. As Tessa
let Jem lead her toward the eastern side of the church, she realized she was
stepping over stones carved with dates and names. She had known that
famous kings, queens, soldiers, and poets were buried in Westminster
Abbey, but she hadn’t quite expected she’d be standing on top of them.
She and Jem slowed finally at the southeastern corner of the church.
Watery daylight poured through the rose window overhead. “I know we are in
a hurry to get to the Council meeting,” said Jem, “but I wanted you to see
this.” He gestured around them. “Poets’ Corner.”
Tessa had read of the place, of course, where the great writers of England
were buried. There was the gray stone tomb of Chaucer, with its canopy, and
other familiar names: “Edmund Spenser, oh, and Samuel Johnson,” she
gasped, “and Coleridge, and Robert Burns, and Shakespeare—”
“He isn’t really buried here,” said Jem quickly. “It’s just a monument. Like
Milton’s.” “Oh, I know, but—” She looked at him, and felt herself flush. “I can’t explain
it. It’s like being among friends, being among these names. Silly, I know . . .”
“Not silly at all.”
She smiled at him. “How did you know just what I’d want to see?”
“How could I not?” he said. “When I think of you, and you are not there, I
see you in my mind’s eye always with a book in your hand.” He looked away
from her as he said it, but not before she caught the slight flush on his
cheekbones. He was so pale, he could never hide even the least blush, she
thought—and was surprised how affectionate the thought was.
She had become very fond of Jem over the past fortnight; Will had been
studiously avoiding her, Charlotte and Henry were caught up in issues of
Clave and Council and the running of the Institute—and even Jessamine
seemed preoccupied. But Jem was always there. He seemed to take his
role as her guide to London seriously. They had been to Hyde Park and Kew
Gardens, the National Gallery and the British Museum, the Tower of London
and Traitors’ Gate. They had gone to see the cows being milked in St.
James’s Park, and the fruit and vegetable sellers hawking their wares in
Covent Garden. They had watched the boats sailing on the sun-sparked
Thames from the Embankment, and had eaten things called “doorstops,”
which sounded horrible but turned out to be butter, sugar, and bread. And as
the days went on, Tessa felt herself unfolding slowly out of her quiet, huddled
unhappiness over Nate and Will and the loss of her old life, like a flower
climbing out of frozen ground. She had even found herself laughing. And she
had Jem to thank for it.
“You are a good friend,” she exclaimed. And when to her surprise he said
nothing to that, she said, “At least, I hope we are good friends. You do think
so too, don’t you, Jem?”
He turned to look at her, but before he could reply, a sepulchral voice
spoke out of the shadows, “‘Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here:
Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones.’”
A dark shape stepped out from between two monuments. As Tessa
blinked in surprise, Jem said, in a tone of resigned amusement, “Will.
Decided to grace us with your presence after all?”
“I never said I wasn’t coming.” Will moved forward, and the light from the
rose windows fell on him, illuminating his face. Even now, Tessa never could
look at him without a tightening in her chest, a painful stutter of her heart.
Black hair, blue eyes, graceful cheekbones, thick dark lashes, full mouth—he
would have been pretty if he had not been so tall and so muscular. She had
run her hands over those arms. She knew what they felt like—iron, corded
with hard muscles; his hands, when they cupped the back of her head, slim
and flexible but rough with calluses . . .
She tore her mind away from the memories. Memories did one no good,
not when one knew the truth in the present. Will was beautiful, but he was not
hers; he was not anybody’s. Something in him was broken, and through that
break spilled a blind cruelty, a need to hurt and to push away.
“You’re late for the Council meeting,” said Jem good-naturedly. He was the
only one Will’s puckish malice never seemed to touch.
“I had an errand,” said Will. Up close Tessa could see that he looked tire...
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