Questions stil exploded through her head. Where is Mortmain? How could my mother be a Shadowhunter? If my father was a demon, how is it that I am still alive when all the offspring of Shadowhunters and demons are stillborn? But the terror in Nate’s eyes silenced her; despite everything, she found her hand slipping into his. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Nate.”
“Not for you, maybe. You were always—the good one. I’m going to burn, Tessie. Tessie, where’s your angel?”
She put her hand to her throat, a reflexive gesture. “I couldn’t wear it. I was pretending to be Jessamine.”
“You—must—wear it.” He coughed. More blood. “Wear it always. You swear?”
She shook her head. “Nate . . .” I can’t trust you, Nate.
“I know.” His voice was a bare rattle. “There’s no forgiveness for—the kinds of things I’ve had to do.”
She tightened her grip on his hand, her fingers slippery with his blood. “I forgive you,” she whispered, not knowing, or caring, if it was true.
His blue eyes widened. His face had gone the color of old yel ow parchment, his lips almost white. “You don’t know everything I’ve done, Tessie.”
She leaned over him anxiously. “Nate?”
But there was no reply. His face went slack, his eyes wide, half-rol ed-back in his head. His hand slid out of hers and struck the floor.
“Nate,” she said again, and put her fingers to the place where his pulse should have beat in his throat, already knowing what she would find.
There was nothing. He was dead.
Tessa stood up. Her torn waistcoat, her trousers, her shirt, even the ends of her hair, were soaked with Nate’s blood. She felt as numb as if she had been dipped in ice-cold water. She turned, slowly, only now, and for the first time, wondering if the others had been watching her, overhearing her conversation with Nate, wondering— They weren’t even looking in her direction. They were kneeling—Charlotte, Jem, and Henry—in a loose circle around a dark shape on the floor, just where she had been lying before, with Wil on top of her.
Will.
Tessa had had dreams before in which she’d been walking down a long, darkened corridor toward something dreadful—something she could not see but knew was terrifying and deadly. In the dreams, with each step, the corridor had gotten longer, stretching farther into darkness and horror. That same feeling of dread and helplessness overwhelmed her now as she moved forward, each step feeling like a mile, until she had joined the circle of kneeling Shadowhunters and was looking down at Wil .
He lay on his side. His face was white, his breathing shal ow. Jem had one hand on his shoulder and was speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, but Wil gave no sign of being able to hear him. Blood had pooled under him, smearing the floor, and for a moment Tessa just stared, unable to fathom where it had come from. Then she moved closer and saw his back. His gear had been shredded al along his spine and shoulder blades, the thick material torn by flying shards of razored metal. His skin swam with blood; his hair was soaked with it.
“Wil ,” Tessa whispered. She felt peculiarly dizzy, as if she were floating.
Charlotte looked up. “Tessa,” she said. “Your brother . . .”
“He’s dead,” Tessa said through her daze. “But Wil —?”
“He knocked you down and covered you to protect you from the explosion,” Jem said. There was no blame in his voice. “But there was nothing to protect him. You two were the closest to the blast. The metal fragments shredded his back. He’s losing blood quickly.”
“But isn’t there anything you can do?” Tessa’s voice rose, even as dizziness threatened to envelop her. “What about your healing runes? The iratzes?”
“We used an amissio, a rune that slows blood loss, but if we attempt a healing rune, his skin wil heal over the metal, driving it farther into the soft tissue,” said Henry flatly. “We need to get him back home to the infirmary. The metal must be removed before he can be healed.”
“Then, we must go.” Tessa’s voice was shaking. “We must—”
“Tessa,” said Jem. He stil had his hand on Wil ’s shoulder, but he was looking at her, his eyes wide. “Did you know you’re hurt?”
She gestured impatiently at her shirt. “This isn’t my blood. This is Nate’s. Now we must—Can he be carried? Is there anything—”
“No,” Jem interrupted, sharply enough to surprise her. “Not the blood on your clothes. You’ve a gash on your head. Here.” He touched his temple.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tessa said. “I’m perfectly al right.” She put her hand up to touch her temple—and felt her hair, thick and stiff with blood, and the side of her face sticky with it, before her fingertips touched the ragged flap of torn skin that ran from the corner of her cheek to her temple. A searing bolt of pain shot through her head.
It was the last straw. Already weak from blood loss and dizzy from repeated shocks, she felt herself begin to crumple. She barely felt Jem’s arms go around her as she fel into the darkness.
17
IN DREAMS
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
—Matthew Arnold, “Longing”