Jem was stil staring down at Wil , motionless. He seemed frozen. His face had gone a patchy white and red color.
“Jem!” Tessa whispered. “Please. Help me get him on his feet.” When Jem did not move, she reached out, took Wil by the shoulder, and shook him. “Wil . Wil , wake up, please.”
Wil only groaned and turned away from her, burying his head against his arm. He was a Shadowhunter, she thought, six feet of bone and muscle, far too heavy for her to lift. Unless— “If you do not help me,” Tessa said to Jem, “I swear, I wil Change into you, and I wil lift him myself. And then everyone here wil see what you look like in a dress.” She fixed him with a look. “Do you understand?”
Very slowly he raised his eyes to hers. He did not look fazed by the idea of being seen by ifrits in a dress; he did not look as if he saw her at al . It was the first time she could remember seeing those silver eyes without any light behind them. “Do you?” he said, and reached into the bunk, catching Wil by the arm and hauling him sideways, taking little care, and bumping Wil ’s head, hard, against the side rail of the bed.
Wil groaned and opened his eyes. “Let me go—”
“Help me with him,” Jem said without looking at Tessa, and together they wrestled Wil out of the bunk. He nearly fel , sliding his arm around Tessa to balance himself as Jem retrieved his weapons belt from the nail it was hanging from.
“Tel me this is not a dream,” Wil whispered, nuzzling his face into the side of her neck. Tessa jumped. He felt feverishly hot against her skin. His lips grazed her cheekbone; they were as soft as she remembered.
“Jem,” Tessa said desperately, and Jem looked over at them; he had been buckling Wil ’s belt over his own, and it seemed clear he hadn’t heard a word Wil had said. He knelt down to stuff Wil ’s feet into his boots, then rose to take his parabatai’s arm. Wil seemed delighted by this.
“Oh, good,” he said. “Now we’re al three together.”
“Shut up,” said Jem.
Wil giggled. “Listen, Carstairs, you haven’t any of the needful on you, have you? I’d stump up, but I’m flat out.”
“What did he say?” Tessa was baffled.
“He wants me to pay for his drugs.” Jem’s voice was stiff. “Come. We’l get him to the carriage, and I’l come back with the money.”
As they struggled toward the door, Tessa heard the voice of the cloven-footed man, fol owing them, thin and as high as music piped through reeds, ending in a high-pitched giggle.
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
A nd here comes a chopper to chop off your head!”
*
Even the dirty Whitechapel air seemed clear and fresh after the cloying incense stench of the faerie drug den. Tessa almost stumbled going down
the stairs. The carriage was thankful y stil at the curb, and Cyril was swinging himself down out of the seat, heading over to them, concern on his big, open face.
“Is he al right, then?” he said, taking the arm that Wil had draped over Tessa’s shoulders and draping it over his own. Tessa slipped aside grateful y; her back had begun to ache.
Wil predictably, though, did not like this. “Let me go,” he said with sudden irritation. “Let me go. I can stand.”
Jem and Cyril exchanged glances, then moved apart. Wil staggered, but stayed upright. He raised his head, the cold wind lifting the sweaty hair from his neck and forehead, blowing it across his eyes. Tessa thought of him up on the roof of the Institute: A nd I behold London, a human awful wonder of God.
He looked at Jem. His eyes were bluer than blue, his cheeks flushed, his features angelic. He said, “You did not have to come and fetch me like some child. I was having quite a pleasant time.”
Jem looked back at him. “God damn you,” he said, and hit Wil across the face, sending him spinning. Wil didn’t lose his footing, but fetched up against the side of the carriage, his hand to his cheek. His mouth was bleeding. He looked at Jem with total astonishment.
“Get him into the carriage,” Jem said to Cyril, and turned and went back through the red door—to pay for whatever Wil had taken, Tessa thought.
Wil was stil staring after him, the blood reddening his mouth.
“James?” he said.
“Come along, then,” said Cyril, not unkindly. He real y was awful y like Thomas, Tessa thought as he opened the carriage door and helped Wil inside, and then Tessa after him. He gave her a handkerchief from his pocket. It was warm and smel ed like cheap eau de cologne. She smiled and thanked him as he shut the door.
Wil was slumped in the corner of the carriage, his arms around himself, his eyes half-open. Blood had trickled down his chin. She leaned over and pressed the handkerchief to his mouth; he reached up and put his hand over hers, holding it there. “I’ve made a mess of things,” he said.