Cassie is really spoiling us! These ID cookies are so awesome and action packed...
Enjoy!
(I count the one on the website as #1. :) So wrapping up Deleted Scene week with a scene from Infernal Devices. Chapter One.)
The demon exploded in a shower of ichor and guts.
William Herondale jerked the dagger he was holding back, but it was too late: the viscous acid of the demon’s blood had already begun to eat away at the shining blade. He swore and tossed the weapon aside; it landed in a filthy puddle and commenced smoldering like a doused match. The demon itself, of course, had vanished: dispatched back to whatever hell dimension it had come from, though not without leaving a mess behind.
“Jem!” Will called, turning around. “Where are you? Did you see that? I got him with one blow! Not bad, eh?”
But there was no answer to Will’s shout; his hunting partner had been standing behind him in the narrow alley a few moments ago, guarding his back, Will was positive, but now he was alone in the shadows. Will frowned in annoyance — it was much less fun showing off without Jem to show off to. Still scowling, Will headed back toward Narrow Street and the dim gleam of gaslight at the alley’s mouth.
Narrow Street cut through the center of Limehouse, between the wharves beside the river and the cramped slums spreading east toward Whitechapel and Shadwell. It was as narrow as its name suggested and, at the moment, deserted. Limehouse was a something of a bad neighborhood, full of gambling houses, opium dens, and brothels; consequently, it was one of Will’s favorite places in London. He didn’t even mind the smell of it — smoke and dirt mixed with the river-water smell of the Thames.
He scrubbed the sleeve of his coat across his face, trying to rub away the ichor that stung and burned his skin. The cloth came away stained green and black. There was a cut on the back of his hand, too, a nasty one. He could use a healing rune. One of Jem’s, preferably — he was particularly good at drawing iratzes.
A shape detached itself from the shadows and moved toward Will. He started forward, then paused — it wasn’t Jem, but rather a mundane policeman, wearing a bell-shaped helmet and a puzzled expression. He stared at Will, or rather through Will — however accusomed you were to glamour, Will thought, it was always a strange experience being looked through as if you weren’t there. He was seized with the sudden urge to nick the policeman’s truncheon and watch while the poor fool flapped around trying to figure out where it had gone, but Jem had scolded him the few times he’d done that before and while Will never really could understand Jem’s moral objections to the whole enterprise, it wasn’t worth making him upset.
With a shrug and a blink, the policeman moved past Will, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about laying off the gin before he started really seeing things. Will stepped aside to let the man pass, and raised his voice to a shout:
“James Carstairs!” Will called, again. “Oi! Where are you, you malingering bastard?”
This time, a faint reply answered him. “Over here — follow the witchlight.”
Will moved toward the sound of Jem’s voice. It seemed to be coming from a dark opening between two warehouses; a faint gleam was visible within the shadows, like the darting light of a will-o-the-wisp. “Did you hear me before? That Shax demon thought it could get me with its bloody great pincers, but I chased it into an alley, and —”
“Yes, I heard you.” The young man who appeared at the mouth of the alley was pale in the lamplight — paler even than he usually was, which was quite pale indeed. He was bareheaded, which drew the eye immediately to his hair: it was a rare bright silver color, the shade of an untarnished coin. 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 shirt front, and his hands were thickly smeared with red.
Will’s pulse jumped. “You’re bleeding. What happened? Are you —”
Jem waved away his concern. “It’s not my blood.” He turned his head back toward the alley behind him. “It’s hers.”
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