Read The Infernal Devices 01 - Clockwork Angel for Free Online

back. Tessa pushed her hair back impatiently over her shoulders and shook herself free of Emma, letting the Change wash away from her until her hair slid through her fingers, thick and familiar to the touch. Glancing at the mirror across the room, she saw that little Emma Bayliss was gone and she was herself again.
    A noise behind her made her whirl. The knob of the bedroomdoor was turning, twisting back and forth as if the person on the other side were having difficulty getting it open.
    Mrs. Dark,
she thought. The woman was back, to whip her until she was bloody. Back, to take her to the Magister. Tessa hurried across the room, seized the porcelain jug from the washstand, and then scuttled to the side of the door, the jug gripped hard in her whitened fist.
    The knob turned; the door opened. In the dimness all Tessa could see was shadows as someone stepped into the room. She lunged forward, swinging the jug with all her strength—
    The shadowy figure moved, as quick as a whip, but not quite quick enough; the jug slammed into the figure’s outstretched arm before flying from Tessa’s grasp to crash into the far wall. Broken crockery rained down onto the floor as the stranger yelled.
    The yell was undeniably a masculine one. So was the flood of cursing that followed.
    She backed away, then dashed for the door—but it had slammed shut, and tug as she would on the knob, it wouldn’t budge. Bright light blazed through the room as if the sun had risen. Tessa spun, blinking away the tears in her eyes—and stared.
    There was a boy standing in front of her. He couldn’t have been much older than she was—seventeen or possibly eighteen. He was dressed in what looked like workman’s clothes—a frayed black jacket, trousers, and tough-looking boots. He wore no waistcoat, and thick leather straps crisscrossed his waist and chest. Attached to the straps were weapons—daggers and folding knives and things that looked like blades of ice. In his right hand he held a sort of glowing stone—it was shining, providing the light in the room that had nearly blinded Tessa.His other hand—slim and long-fingered—was bleeding where she had gashed the back of it with her pitcher.
    But that wasn’t what made her stare. He had the most beautiful face she had ever seen. Tangled black hair and eyes like blue glass. Elegant cheekbones, a full mouth, and long, thick lashes. Even the curve of his throat was perfect. He looked like every fictional hero she’d ever conjured up in her head. Although she’d never imagined one of them cursing at her while shaking his bleeding hand in an accusing fashion.
    He seemed to realize she was staring at him, because the cursing stopped. “You cut me,” he said. His voice was pleasant. British. Very ordinary. He looked at his hand with critical interest. “It might be fatal.”
    Tessa looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you the Magister?”
    He tilted his hand to the side. Blood ran down it, spattering the floor. “Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent.”
    “Are you the Magister?”
    “Magister?” He looked mildly surprised by her vehemence. “That means ‘master’ in Latin, doesn’t it?”
    “I …” Tessa was feeling increasingly as if she were trapped in a strange dream. “I suppose it does.”
    “I’ve mastered many things in my life. Navigating the streets of London, dancing the quadrille, the Japanese art of flower arranging, lying at charades, concealing a highly intoxicated state, delighting young women with my charms …”
    Tessa stared.
    “Alas,” he went on, “no one has ever actually referred to me as ‘the master,’ or ‘the magister,’ either. More’s the pity …”
    “Are you highly intoxicated at the moment?”Tessa meant the question in all seriousness, but realized the moment the words were out of her mouth that she must have sounded awfully rude—or worse, flirtatious. He seemed too steady on his feet to really be drunk, anyway. She’d seen