Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices 3)

"Will--," she whispered, and he stood up, lifting her in his arms, still kissing her. She held tight to his back and shoulders as he carried her over to the bed and laid her down on it. She was already barefoot; he kicked off his boots and climbed up beside her. Part of her training had been in how to remove gear, and her hands were light and quick on his gear, undoing the clasps and pulling it aside like a shell. He batted it aside impatiently, and knelt upright to undo his weapons belt.

She watched him, swallowing hard. If she was going to tell him to stop, now was the moment. His scarred hands were nimble, undoing the fastenings, and as he turned to drop the belt over the side of the bed, his shirt--damp with sweat, and sticking to him--slid up and showed her the hollow curve of his stomach, the arched bone of his hip. She had always thought Will was beautiful, his eyes and lips and face, but she had never particularly thought of his body that way. But the shape of him was lovely, like the planes and angles of Michelangelo's David. She reached out to touch him, to run her fingers, as soft as spider silk, across the flat hard skin of his stomach.

His response was immediate and startling. He sucked in his breath and closed his eyes, his body going very still. She ran her fingers along the waistband of his trousers, her heart pounding, hardly knowing what she was doing--there was an instinct here, driving her, that she couldn't identify or explain. Her hand curved about his waist, thumb flicking against his hipbone, drawing him down.

He slid down over her, slowly, elbows resting on either side of her shoulders. Their eyes met, held; they were touching all along their bodies, but neither of them spoke. Her throat ached: adoration, heartbreak, in equal measure. "Kiss me," she said.

He lowered himself slowly, slowly, until their lips just brushed. She arched upward, wanting to meet his mouth with hers, but he drew back, nuzzling at her cheek, now his lips pressing the corner of her mouth--and then along her jaw and down her throat, sending little shocks of astonished pleasure through her body. She had always thought of her arms, her hands, her neck, her face, as separate--not that her skin was all the same delicate envelope, and that a kiss placed on her throat might be felt all the way down to the bottom of her feet.

"Will." Her hands pulled at his shirt, and it came away, the buttons tearing, his head shaking free of the fabric, all wild dark hair, Heathcliff on the moors. His hands were less sure on her dress, but it came away as well, off over her head, and was cast aside, leaving Tessa in her chemise and corset. She went motionless, shocked at being so undressed in front of anyone but Sophie, and Will took a wild look at her corset that was only part desire.

"How--," he said. "Does it come off?"

Tessa couldn't help herself; despite everything, she giggled. "It laces," she whispered. "In the back." And she guided his hands around her until his fingers were on the strings of the corset. She shivered then, and not from cold but from the intimacy of the gesture. Will pulled her against him, gentle now, and kissed the line of her throat again, and her shoulder where the chemise bared it, his breath soft and hot against her skin until she was breathing just as hard, her hands smoothing up and over his shoulders, his arms, his sides. She kissed the white scars the Marks had left on his skin, winding herself around him until they were a heated tangle of limbs and she was swallowing down the gasps he made against her mouth.

"Tess," he whispered. "Tess--if you want to stop--"

She shook her head silently. The fire in the grate had nearly burned down again; Will was all angles and shadows and soft and hard skin against her. No.

"You want this?" His voice was hoarse.

"Yes," she said. "Do you?"

His finger traced the outline of her mouth. "For this I would have been damned forever. For this I would have given up everything."

She felt the burn behind her eyes, the pressure of tears, and blinked wet eyelashes. "Will ..."

"Dw i'n dy garu di am byth," he said. "I love you. Always." And he moved to cover her body with his own.

Late in the night or early in the morning, Tessa woke. The fire had burned down entirely, but the room was lit by the peculiar torchlight that seemed to go on and off without rhyme or reason.

She drew back, propping herself on her elbow. Will was asleep beside her, immured in the unmoving slumber of the utterly exhausted. He looked at peace, though--more so than she had ever seen him before. His breath was regular, his eyelashes fluttering slightly in dreams.

She had fallen asleep with her head on his arm, the clockwork angel, still around her throat, resting against his shoulder, just to the left of his collarbone. As she moved away, the clockwork angel slipped free and she saw to her surprise that where it had lain against his skin it had left a mark behind, no bigger than a shilling, in the shape of a pale white star.

20

THE INFERNAL DEVICES

Like wire-pulled automatons,

Slim silhouetted skeletons

Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,

And danced a stately saraband;

Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

--Oscar Wilde, "The Harlot's House"

"It's beautiful," Henry breathed.

The Shadowhunters of the London Institute--along with Magnus Bane--stood in a loose half circle in the crypt, staring at one of the bare stone walls--or, more precisely, at something that had appeared on one of the bare stone walls.

It was a glowing archway, about ten feet in height, and perhaps five across in width. It was not carved into the stone but rather was made of glowing runes that twined into one another like the vines of a trellis. The runes were not from the Gray Book--Gabriel would have recognized them if they had been--but were runes he had never seen before. They had the foreign look of another language, yet each was distinct and beautiful and spoke a murmuring song of travel and distance, of whirling dark space and the distance between worlds.

They glowed green in the darkness, pale and acidic. Within the space created by the runes the wall was not visible--only darkness, impenetrable, as if of a great dark pit.

"It truly is amazing," Magnus said.

All but the warlock were dressed in their gear and were bristling with weapons--Gabriel's favorite double-edged longsword was slung over his back, and he was itching to get his gloved hands on the hilt. Though he liked the bow and arrow, he had been trained in the longsword by a master who could trace his own masters back to Lichtenauer, and Gabriel fancied the longsword his specialty. Besides, a bow and arrow would be much less use against automatons than a weapon that could chop them into component parts.

"All down to you, Magnus," Henry said. He was glowing--or, Gabriel thought, it could have been the reflection of the lighted runes against his face.

"Not at all," Magnus replied. "If not for your genius, this could never have been created."

"While I am enjoying this exchange of pleasantries," Gabriel said, seeing that Henry was about to respond, "there do remain a few--central--questions about this invention."

Henry looked at him blankly. "Such as what?"

"I believe, Henry, that he is inquiring whether this ... doorway--," Charlotte began.

"We've called it a Portal," said Henry. The capitalization of the word was very clear in his tone.

"Whether it works," Charlotte finished. "Have you tried it?"

Henry looked stricken. "Well, no. There hasn't been time. But I assure you, our calculations are faultless."

Everyone but Henry and Magnus looked at the Portal with refreshed alarm. "Henry ...," Charlotte began.

"Well, I think Henry and Magnus should go first," Gabriel said. "They invented the blasted thing."

Everyone turned on him. "It's like he's replaced Will," said Gideon, eyebrows up. "They say all the same sort of things."

"I am not like Will!" Gabriel snapped.

"I should hope not," said Cecily, though so quietly that he wondered if anyone else had heard her. She was looking especially pretty today, th

ough he had no idea why. She was dressed in the same plain black woman's gear as Charlotte; her hair was secured demurely behind her head, and the ruby necklace at her throat glowed against her skin. However, Gabriel reminded himself sternly, since they were most likely about to direct themselves all into mortal danger, thinking about whether Cecily was pretty ought not to be foremost on his mind. He told himself to stop immediately.

"I am nothing like Will Herondale," he repeated.