Wil came closer, and knelt down beside his friend. At this distance it was easy to see that the man on the floor was not Jem. He was older, and Caucasian; he had a growth of silver stubble on his chin and cheeks, and his features were broader and less defined. Wil ’s heartbeat slowed as the man’s eyes fluttered open.
They were silver discs, like Jem’s. And in that moment Wil recognized him. He smel ed the sweet-sour tang of burning warlock drugs, felt the heat of them in his veins, and knew that he had seen this man before, and knew where.
“You’re a werewolf,” he said. “One of the packless ones, buying yin fen off the ifrits down the Chapel. Aren’t you?”
The werewolf’s eyes roamed over them both, and fastened on Jem. His lids narrowed, and his hand shot out, grabbing Jem by the lapels. “You,”
he wheezed. “You’re one of us. ’ave you got any of it on you—any of the stuff—”
Jem recoiled. Wil seized the werewolf by the wrist and yanked his hand free. It wasn’t difficult; there was very little strength in his nerveless fingers. “Don’t touch him.” Wil heard his own voice as if from a distance, clipped and cold. “He doesn’t have any of your filthy powder. It doesn’t work on us Nephilim like it does on you.”
“Wil .” There was a plea in Jem’s voice: Be kinder.
“You work for Mortmain,” said Wil . “Tel us what you do for him. Tel us where he is.”
The werewolf laughed. Blood splashed up over his lips and dribbled down his chin. Some of it splattered onto Jem’s gear. “As if—I’d know— where the Magister was,” he wheezed. “Bloody fools, the pair of you. Bloody useless Nephilim. If I ’ad—me strength—I’d chop yer into bloody rags —”
“But you don’t.” Wil was remorseless. “And maybe we do have some yin fen.”
“You don’t. You think—I don’t know?” The werewolf’s eyes wandered. “When ’e gave it to me first, I saw things—such things as yer can’t imagine —the great crystal city—the towers of Heaven—” Another spasming cough racked him. More blood splattered. It had a silvery sheen to it, like mercury. Wil exchanged a look with Jem. The crystal city. He couldn’t help thinking of Alicante, though he had never been there. “I thought I were going ter live forever—work al night, al day, never get tired. Then we started dying off, one by one. The drug, it kil s ya, but ’e never said. I came back here to see if maybe there was stil any of it stashed somewhere. But there’s none. No point leavin’. I’m dyin’ now. Might as wel die ’ere as anywhere.”
“He knew what he was doing when he gave you that drug,” said Jem. “He knew it would kil you. He doesn’t deserve your secrecy. Tel us what he was doing—what he was keeping you working on al night and day.”
“Putting those things together—those metal men. They don’t ’arf give you the wil ies, but the money were good and the drugs were better—”
“And a great deal of good that money wil do you now,” said Jem, his voice uncharacteristical y bitter. “How often did he make you take it? The silver powder?”
“Six, seven times a day.”
“No wonder they’re running out of it down the Chapel,” Wil muttered. “Mortmain’s control ing the supply.”
“You’re not supposed to take it like that,” said Jem. “The more you take, the faster you die.”
The werewolf fixed his gaze on Jem. His eyes were shot through with red veins. “And you,” he said. “ ’Ow much longer ’ave you got left?”
Wil turned his head. Charlotte was motionless behind him at the top of the stairs, staring. He raised a hand to gesture her over. “Charlotte, if we can get him downstairs, perhaps the Silent Brothers can do something to help him. If you could—”
But Charlotte, to Wil ’s surprise, had turned a pale shade of green. She clapped her hand over her mouth and dashed downstairs.
“Charlotte!” Wil hissed; he didn’t dare shout. “Oh, bloody hel . Al right, Jem. You take his legs, I’l take his shoulders—”
“There’s no point, Wil .” Jem’s voice was soft. “He’s dead.”
Wil turned back. Indeed, the silver eyes were wide open, glassy, fixed on the ceiling; the chest had ceased to rise and fal . Jem reached to close his eyelids, but Wil caught his friend by the wrist.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to give him the blessing, Wil . Just close his eyes.”
“He doesn’t deserve that. He was working with the Magister!” Wil ’s whisper was rising to a shout.
“He is like me,” said Jem simply. “An addict.”
Wil looked at him over their joined hands. “He is not like you. And you wil not die like that.”
Jem’s lips parted in surprise. “Wil . . .”
They both heard the sound of a door opening, and a voice cal ing out Jessamine’s name. Wil released Jem’s wrist, and both of them dropped flat to the ground, inching to the edge of the gal ery to see what was happening on the warehouse floor.
16
MORTAL RAGE
When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defac’d
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz’d,
A nd brass eternal slave to mortal rage
—Shakespeare, “Sonnet 64”