Nate whirled on her. “Enough of your games, you stupid little—”
His words were cut off suddenly as the automaton bent and seized him in its pincered grasp. It lifted him up, up, level with its slash of a mouth clicking and whirring inquisitively. Nate began to scream, and kept screaming, witlessly, his arms flailing as Wil , finished with whatever he was doing, dropped to the ground in a crouch. He shouted something at Tessa, his blue eyes wide and wild, but she couldn’t hear him over her brother’s screams. Her heart was slamming against her chest; she felt her hair tumble down, hitting her shoulders with a soft, heavy weight. She was herself again, the shock of what was happening too great for her to hold on to the Change. Nate was stil screaming—the thing had him in a terrible pincer grip. Wil had begun to run, just as the creature, staring at Tessa, reared up with a roar—and Wil struck her, knocking her to the ground and covering her with his body as the automaton blew apart like an exploding star.
The cacaphony of bursting, clattering metal was incredible. Tessa tried to cover her ears, but Wil ’s body was pinning her firmly to the ground. His elbows dug into the floor on either side of her head. She felt his breath on the back of her neck, the pounding of his heart against her spine. She heard her brother cry out, a terrible gurgling cry. She turned her head, pressing her face into Wil ’s shoulder as his body jerked against hers; the floor shuddered beneath them— And it was over. Slowly Tessa opened her eyes. The air was cloudy with plaster dust and floating splinters and tea from torn burlap sacks. Huge chunks of metal lay scattered haphazardly about the floor, and several of the windows had burst open, letting in foggy evening light. Tessa’s glance darted about the room. She saw Henry, cradling Charlotte, kissing her pale face as she gazed up at him; Jem, struggling to his feet, stele in hand and plaster dust coating his clothes and hair—and Nate.
At first she thought he was leaning against one of the pil ars. Then she saw the spreading red stain across his shirt, and realized. A jagged chunk of metal had gone through him like a spear, pinning him upright to the pil ar. His head was down, his hands clawing weakly at his chest.
“Nate!” she screamed. Wil rol ed sideways, freeing her, and she was on her feet in seconds, racing across the room to her brother. Her hands were shaking with horror and revulsion, but she managed to close them around the metal spear in his chest and pul it free. She threw it aside and barely succeeded in catching him as he slumped forward, his sudden dead weight bearing her to the ground. Somehow she found herself on the ground, Nate’s limp body stretched awkwardly across her lap.
A memory rose in her mind—her crouching on the floor at de Quincey’s town house, holding Nate in her arms. She had loved him then. Trusted him. Now, as she held him and his blood soaked into her shirt and trousers, she felt as if she were watching actors on a stage, playing parts, acting out grief.
“Nate,” she whispered.
His eyes fluttered open. A pang of shock went through her. She had thought he was already dead.
“Tessie . . .” His voice sounded thick, as if it were coming through layers of water. His eyes roamed her face, then the blood on her clothes, and then, final y, came to rest on his own chest, where blood pumped steadily through a massive rent in his shirt. Tessa shrugged off her jacket, wadded it up, and pressed it hard against the wound, praying it would be enough to make the blood stop.
It wasn’t. The jacket was soaked through instantly, thin wet streams of blood running down Nate’s sides. “Oh, God,” Tessa whispered. She raised her voice. “Wil —”
“Don’t.” Nate’s hand seized her wrist, his nails digging in.
“But, Nate—”
“I’m dying. I know.” He coughed, a loose, wet, rattling sound. “Don’t you understand? I’ve failed the Magister. He’l kil me anyway. And he’l make it slow.” He made a hoarse, impatient noise. “Leave it, Tessie. I’m not being noble. You know I’m not that.”
She took a ragged breath. “I should leave you here to die alone in your own blood. That’s what you’d do if it were me.”
“Tessie—” A stream of blood spil ed from the corner of his mouth. “The Magister was never going to hurt you.”
“Mortmain,” she whispered. “Nate, where is he? Please. Tel me where he is.”
“He—” Nate choked, heaving in a breath. A bubble of blood appeared on his lips. The jacket in Tessa’s hand was a sodden rag. His eyes went wide, starkly terrified. “Tessie . . . I—I’m dying. I’m real y dying—”