Clockwork Prince (The Infernal Devices 2)

She glanced down at his hands. Slim, fine, capable hands, with blunt-cut nails, and scars across the knuckles. Were any of the Nephilim unscarred? "These words, they have a special appeal to you, dont they?" she asked softly. "These dead languages. Why is that?"

He was leaning close enough to her that she felt his warm breath on her cheek when he exhaled. "I cannot be sure," he said, "though I think it has something to do with the clarity of them. Greek, Latin, Sanskrit, they contain pure truths, before we cluttered our languages with so many useless words. "

"But what of your language?" she said softly. "The one you grew up speaking?"

His lips twitched. "I grew up speaking English and Mandarin Chinese," he said. "My father spoke English, and Chinese badly. After we moved to Shanghai, it was even worse. The dialect there is barely intel igible by someone who speaks Mandarin. "

"Say something in Mandarin," said Tessa with a smile.

Jem said something rapidly, that sounded like a lot of breathy vowels and consonants run together, his voice rising and fal ing melodical y: "Ni hen piao liang. "

"What did you say?"

"I said your hair is coming undone. Here," he said, and reached out and tucked an escaping curl back behind her ear. Tessa felt the blood spil hot up into her cheeks, and was glad for the dimness of the carriage. "You have to be careful with it," he said, taking his hand back slowly, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "You dont want to give the enemy anything to grab hold of. "

"Oh-yes-of course. " Tessa looked quickly toward the window-and stared. The yel ow fog hung heavy over the streets, but she could see well enough. They were in a narrow thoroughfare-though broad, perhaps, by Londons standards. The air seemed thick and greasy with coal dust and fog, and the streets were lined with people. Filthy, dressed in rags, they slumped against the wal s of tipsy-looking buildings, their eyes watching the carriage go by like hungry dogs following the progress of a bone. Tessa saw a woman wrapped in a shawl, a basket of flowers drooping from one hand, a baby folded into a corner of the shawl propped against her shoulder. Its eyes were closed, its skin as pale as curd; it looked sick, or dead. Barefoot children, as dirty as homeless cats, played together in the streets; women sat leaning against one another on the stoops of buildings, obviously drunk. The men were worst of all, slumped against the sides of houses, dressed in dirty, patched topcoats and hats, the looks of hopelessness on their faces like etchings on gravestones.

"Rich Londoners from Mayfair and Chelsea like to take midnight tours of districts like these," said Jem, his voice uncharacteristical y bitter. "They call it slumming. "

"Do they stop and-and help in some way?"

"Most of them, no. They just want to stare so they can go home and talk at their next tea party about how they saw real mug-hunters or dol ymops or Shivering Jemmys. Most of them never get out of their carriages or omnibuses. "

"Whats a Shivering Jemmy?"

Jem looked at her with flat silver eyes. "A freezing, ragged beggar," he said. "Someone likely to die of the cold. "

Tessa thought of the thick paper pasted over the cracks in the windowpanes in her New York apartment. But at least she had had a bedroom, a place to lie down, and Aunt Harriet to make her hot soup or tea over the smal range. She had been lucky.

The carriage came to a stop at an unprepossessing corner. Across the street the lights of an open public house spilled out onto the street, along with a steady stream of drunkards, some with women leaning on their arms, the womens brightly colored dresses stained and dirty and their cheeks highly rouged. Somewhere someone was singing "Cruel Lizzie Vickers. "

Jem took her hand. "I cant glamour you against the glances of mundanes,"

he said. "So keep your head down and keep close to me. "

Tessa smiled crookedly but didnt take her hand out of his. "You said that already. "

He leaned close and whispered into her ear. His breath sent a shiver racing through her whole body. "Its very important. "

He reached past her for the door and swung it open. He leaped down onto the pavement and helped her down after him, pul ing her close against his side. Tessa looked up and down the street. There were some incurious stares from the crowds, but the two of them were largely ignored. They headed toward a narrow door painted red. There were steps around it, but unlike all the other steps in the area, they were bare. No one was sitting on them. Jem took them quickly, pul ing her up after him, and rapped sharply on the door.

It was opened after a moment by a woman in a long red dress, fitted so tightly to her body that Tessas eyes widened. She had black hair piled on her head, kept in place by a pair of gold chopsticks. Her skin was very pale, her eyes rimmed with kohl-but on closer examination Tessa realized she was white, not foreign. Her mouth was a sulky red bow. It turned down at the corners as her gaze came to rest on Jem.

"No," she said. "No Nephilim. "

She moved to shut the door, but Jem had raised his cane; the blade shot out from the base of it, holding the door open wide. "No trouble," he said.

"Were not here for the Clave. Its personal. "

She narrowed her eyes.

"Were looking for someone," he said. "A friend. Take us to him, and we wont bother you further. "

At that, she threw her head back and laughed. "I know who youre looking for," she said. "Theres only one of your kind here. " She turned away from the door with a shrug of contempt. Jems blade slid back into its casing with a hiss, and he ducked under the low lintel, drawing Tessa after him.

Beyond the door was a narrow corridor. A heavy sweet smel hung on the air, like the smel that hung about Jems clothing after he had taken his drug.

Her hand tightened involuntarily on his. "This is where Will comes to buy the -to buy what I need," he whispered, inclining his head so that his lips nearly touched her ear. "Although why he would be here now . . . "

The woman who had opened the door for them glanced back over her shoulder as she set off down the hall. There was a slit up the back of her dress, showing much of her legs-and the end of a long, slender forked tail, marked with black and white markings like the scales of a snake. Shes a warlock, Tessa thought with a dull thud at her heart. Ragnor, the Dark Sisters, this woman-why was it that warlocks always seemed so-sinister? With the exception of Magnus perhaps, but she had the feeling Magnus was an exception to many rules.

The corridor widened out into a large room, its wal s painted dark red.

Great lamps, their sides carved and painted with delicate traceries that threw patterned light against the wal s, hung down from the ceiling. Along the wal s were ranged beds, in bunks, like the inside of a ship. A large round table dominated the center of the room. At it sat a number of men, their skin the same blood-red as the wal s, their black hair clipped close to their heads.

Their hands ended in blue-black talons that had also been clipped, probably to all ow them to more easily count and sift and mix the various powders and concoctions they had spread out before them. The powders seemed to glimmer and shine under the lamplight, like pulverized jewels.

"Is this an opium den?" Tessa whispered into Jems ear.

His eyes were raking the room anxiously. She could sense the tension in him, a thrum just under the skin, like the fast-beating heart of a hummingbird.

"No. " He sounded distracted. "Not real y-mostly demon drugs and faerie powders. Those men at the table, theyre ifrits. Warlocks without powers. "

The woman in the red dress was leaning over the shoulder of one of the ifrits. Together they looked up and over at Tessa and Jem, their eyes lingering on Jem. Tessa didnt like the way they were looking at him. The warlock woman was smiling; the ifrits look was calculating. The woman straightened up and swayed over to them, her hips moving like a metronome under the tight satin of her dress.

"Madran says we have what you want, silver boy," said the warlock woman, raking a blood-red nail across Jems cheek. "No need for pretense. "