Can i read clockwork angel online

And then the angel began to shift and change. Its wings trembled, and its closed eyelids opened on bits of whitish quartz. From them poured thin beams of whitish light. Like in paintings of the star over Bethlehem, the light rose and rose, radiating spikes of light. Slowly it began to coalesce into a shape—the form of an angel. It was a shimmering blur of light so bright, it was difficult to look at directly.

Tessa could see, through the light, the faint outline of something like a man. She could see eyes that were without iris or pupil—inset bits of crystal that gleamed in the firelight. Its hands were folded over the hilt of a graceful sword. Its blank shining eyes rested on her. Why do you try to destroy me? Its voice was sweet, echoing in her mind like music. I protect you.

She thought of Jem suddenly, propped on his bed of pillows, his face pale and gleaming. A shape detached itself from the shadows and moved toward Will. He started forward, then paused. He stared at Will, or rather through Will. With a shrug and a blink, the policeman moved past Will, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about swearing off the gin before he truly started seeing things.

Where are you, you disloyal bastard? Follow the witchlight. He was bareheaded, which drew the eye immediately to his hair. It was an odd bright silver color, like an untarnished shilling.

His eyes were the same silver, and his fine-boned face was angular, the slight curve of his eyes the only clue to his heritage. There were dark stains across his white shirtfront, and his hands were thickly smeared with red. Will tensed. What happened? In the far corner of it was a crumpled shape—only a shadow in the darkness, but when Will looked closely, he could make out the shape of a pale hand, and a wisp of fair hair.

So no, I am not worried. Under Covenant Law, the Clave is responsible for parentless Shadowhunter children under the age of eighteen. You as well, Miss Gray, however temporarily. His blue eyes lit when he smiled. To draw those magical symbols, and the rest of it? Not the way you and Henry do. Remind me to find a book about her for you. Regardless, she was a powerful warrior queen. When she was finally defeated, she took poison rather than let herself be captured by the Romans. She was braver than any man.

I like to think Charlotte is much in the same mold, if somewhat smaller. Warrior feelings. Once the laces of a boot; once a single earring, stained with blood. Tessa took the bow. She remembered books she had read, novels in which characters were on trial, standing quaking in the dock at the Old Bailey and praying for a verdict of not guilty.

She often felt she was on trial herself in this room, without knowing of what crime she stood accused. And of the only two people in the world she trusted, one was dead and the other imprisoned. Black had been leaning down over her, her breath as bitter as vinegar, her eyes alight. You did well today, Theresa, she had said. Very well. That evening when Tessa had gone up to her room, there had been gifts for her, two new books on her bedside table. There was a copy of Great Expectations and—of all things— Little Women.

Tessa had hugged the books to herself and, alone and unwatched in her room, had let herself cry. It had grown easier since then, the Changing. She drew on those memories now, tightening her grip on the ragged bit of pink fabric she held. She opened her mind and let the darkness come down, let the connection that bound her to the hair ribbon and the spirit inside it—the ghostly echo of the person who had once owned it—unravel like a golden thread leading through the shadows.

The room she was in, the oppressive heat, the noisy breathing of the Dark Sisters, all of it fell away as she followed the thread, as the light grew more intense around her and she wrapped herself in it as if she were wrapping herself in a blanket. Her skin began to tingle and to sting with thousands of tiny shocks. This had been the worst part, once—the part that had convinced her she was dying. Now she was used to it, and bore it stoically as she shuddered all over, from her scalp to her toes.

The clockwork angel around her throat seemed to tick faster, as if in rhythm with her speeding heart. The pressure inside her skin built—Tessa gasped—and her eyes, which had been closed, flew open as the sensation built to a crescendo—and then vanished.

Tessa blinked dizzily. The first moment after a Change was always like blinking water out of your eyes after submerging yourself in a bath. She looked down at herself. Her new body was slight, almost frail, and the fabric of her dress hung loose, pooling on the floor at her feet. Her hands, clasped in front of her, were pale and thin, with chapped tips and bitten nails.

Unfamiliar, alien hands. What is your name? Black demanded. She had risen to her feet and was looking down at Tessa with her pale eyes burning. She looked almost hungry. The girl whose skin she wore answered for her, speaking through her the way spirits were said to speak through their mediums—but Tessa hated to think about it that way; the Change was so much more intimate, so much more frightening, than that.

Emma, the voice that came from Tessa said. Born in Cheapside, Emma had been one of six children. Her father was dead, and her mother sold peppermint water from a cart in the East End. Emma had learned to sew to bring in money when she was still a small child. Nights, she spent sitting at the little table in her kitchen, sewing seams by the light of a tallow candle.

Sometimes, when the candle burned down and there was no money for another, she would go out into the streets and sit below one of the municipal gas lamps, using its light to sew by. Is that what you were doing out on the street the night you died, Emma Bayliss? She was smiling thinly now, running her tongue over her lower lip, as if she could sense what the answer would be. Tessa saw narrow, shadowy streets, wrapped in thick fog, a silver needle working by faint yellow gaslight.

A step, muffled in the fog. Hands that reached out of the shadows and took hold of her shoulders, hands that dragged her, screaming, into the darkness. The needle and thread falling from her hands, the bows ripped from her hair as she struggled. A harsh voice shouting something angry. And then the silver blade of a knife flashing down through the dark, slicing into her skin, drawing out the blood.

She kicked out at the man holding her, succeeding in knocking the dagger from his hand; she caught the blade and ran, stumbling as she weakened, the blood draining out of her fast, so fast.

She crumpled in an alley, hearing the hissing scream of something behind her. She knew it was following her, and she was hoping to die before it reached her—. The Change shattered like glass. With a cry Tessa fell to her knees, the torn little bow falling from her hand. It was her hand again—Emma had gone, like a cast-off skin. Tessa was once more alone inside her own mind.

Dark exhaled, a sound of satisfaction. Well done, Theresa. That was very good. Tessa said nothing. The front of her dress was splotched with blood, but there was no pain. She closed her eyes, spinning in the darkness, willing herself not to faint.

We should have had her do this before, said Mrs. The matter of the Bayliss girl has been bothering me. You remember what happened with the Adams woman. Tessa knew immediately what they were talking about. Weeks ago she had Changed into a woman who had died of a gunshot wound to the heart; blood had poured down her dress and she had Changed back immediately, screaming in hysterical terror until the Sisters had made her see that she herself was unharmed.

Black said. Dark agreed. We have truly worked a miracle here. Oh, absolutely, my dear sister. There was a gloating note in Mrs. What were they talking about? Who was the Magister? She watched through lowered eyelashes as Mrs. Dark jerked the silk bellpull that would summon Miranda to come and take Tessa back to her room. It appeared that the lesson was over for today. Perhaps tomorrow, Mrs. Black said, or even tonight. If we told the Magister she was ready, I cannot imagine he would not hurry here without delay.

Dark, stepping out from behind the desk, chuckled. But Theresa must not be simply ready. She must be. Black, following her sister, muttered a response that was cut short as the door opened and Miranda came in. She wore the same dull look as ever. The sight of Tessa crouched and bloody on the floor seemed to occasion no surprise in her. Then again, Tessa thought, she had probably seen far worse in this room. Take the girl back up to her room, Miranda.

The eagerness was gone from Mrs. Get the things—you know, the ones we showed you—and get her dressed and ready. Dark and Mrs. Make her look pretty. But what did they care whether she looked pretty or not, when they could force her to look any way they wanted? What did it matter what her true appearance was? And why would the Magister care? Black swept from the room, her sister following behind her, as she always did.

At the door Mrs. Dark paused, and looked back at Tessa. Do remember, Theresa, she said, that this day—this very night—is what all of our preparation has been for. She took hold of her skirts in both bony hands. She let the door bang shut behind her. Tessa flinched at the noise, but Miranda, as always, seemed utterly unaffected. In all the time that she had passed in the Dark House, Tessa had never been able to startle the other girl, or surprise an unguarded expression out of her.

Tessa rose to her feet, slowly. Her mind was whirling. Her life in the Dark House had been horrible, but she had—she realized now—grown almost used to it. She had known what to expect each day. She had known the Dark Sisters were preparing her for something, but she had not known what that something was. Why waste all this training on her if she was only going to die?

But something in Mrs. Something had changed. They had achieved what they wanted with her. They were going to be paid. But who was going to do the paying? Miranda, Tessa said. She spoke softly, the way she might have spoken to a nervous cat. Who is the Magister? There was a long silence. Miranda stared straight ahead, her doughy face impassive. The Magister is a very great man, she said.

It will be an honor for you when you are married to him. Tessa echoed. The shock was so intense that she could suddenly see the whole room more clearly—Miranda, the blood-splattered rug on the floor, the heavy brass globe on the desk, still tilted in the position Mrs.

Black had left it in. But—who is he? He is a very great man, Miranda said again. It will be an honor. She moved toward Tessa. You must come with me now. Tessa backed away from the other girl, retreating until the small of her back struck painfully against the desk. She looked around desperately. If she hid behind the desk, Miranda would simply drag her out and haul her to her room. You must come with me now, Miranda repeated; she had almost reached Tessa. You must—.

It connected with a sickening sound. Miranda reeled back—and then straightened. Her cheekbone was flattened, her lip mashed against her teeth.

But there was no blood, no blood at all. She moved toward Tessa, then jerked to the side, twitching and stumbling. Tessa turned from the desk and began to back away as the injured girl spun, faster and faster. She reeled across the room like a staggering drunk, still shrieking, and crashed into the far wall—which seemed to stun her.

She collapsed to the ground and lay still. Tessa raced to the door and out into the corridor beyond, pausing only once, just outside the room, to look back. Tessa darted down the hall, leaving the door hanging open behind her. She dashed for the stairs and hurtled up them, nearly tripping over her skirts and banging her knee painfully on one of the steps.