Clockwork Angel: Will's Point of View

     
     It was so much more satisfying to wander about the vast streets of London when Will had a purpose. Normally he just meandered along aimlessly till he exhausted himself, formulating some ridiculously extravagant story of his humorous, blind drunkenness or a particularly exciting assignation with a certain young lady. Now, when he strode up to the towering, shadowy brothel, he felt the sense of excitement that accompanied these little missions. Approaching the ancient door, he slowly pulled out his stele, meaning to carve an Opening Rune upon it's weathered surface. Suddenly, there was a loud, screeching yowl when his foot collided with a dark furry object and Will stumbled, feeling a sharp pain in his ankle. It was a cat, probably Siamese by the looks of it, and it's squashed in face beheld furious blue eyes, which glinted when he glanced at his ankle. It had bitten him with its minuscule fangs. "Bloody hell!", Will muttered and rose his voice to call after the blasted cat, which had raced away in triumph. "You better run, you scrawny little bastard!" It stiffened, and looked rather offended. Will grinned, but immediately felt foolish for hurling insults at a cat. He tensed suddenly when he heard quick, excited footsteps directed toward him from the gloom of the alleyway. Not wanting to be discovered this early in his investigation, he dashed around the side of the brothel and, without hesitation, dove headfirst through one of the cracked, grimy windows.

    It shattered when he crashed through and he landed in a half-crouch, quickly analyzing his surroundings and swearing fluently at the same moment. He reached for his witchlight and instantly, the cool stone exploded into greenish light. The room was richly furnished, the bedchamber of a king. Or queen, Will thought, as he spied the long white dress in the otherwise empty wardrobe. Leaving the room, the door creaked slightly as he sprang through it, landing soundlessly like a cat on the polished wood floor of a hallway. He heard distant voices echoing from somewhere in the house, so he set off swiftly in the opposite direction. He tread as lightly and as quickly as possible, checking each bare, deserted room as he went by. Apparently, business must had been suspended for the time being, Will thought with wry amusement. When he approached the end of yet another deserted hallway, he noticed a slight movement under the door of a room. Got you, he thought, grinning tightly as he reached for the knob. Swinging it open, he advanced into the room.

    Will hadn't any idea of what to expect, but he was most definitely not expecting a large, heavy looking clay jug to arise out from the shadows and come crashing down upon him. He whipped out of the way, but despite his quick Shadowhunter reflexes, it still managed to embed thick chunks of clay shards in his left palm. Good thing I'm right handed, he thought grimly, as he swore and grunted in pain. If it comes to a fight I will still be able to-- his train of thought suddenly broke off as he saw his attacker come into full view. Still clutching his witchlight, its eerie glow fell upon and illuminated a young teenage girl. Her rather tall slender frame shook slightly he studied her intently. Her bloodied hands gripped the handle of the jug tightly, for it had not completely shattered, and she seemed to be keeping it to defend herself. Will's eyes traveled up her bruise covered arms, lingering on her bloodied wrists, then brushed over her tattered blue gown, so filthy it looked gray. She had long, curling brown hair, that framed a heart shaped face. She was very pale, and when he looked into her eyes, he saw they were a beautiful, clear blue gray. They were also burning with hostility.

     Will hid his surprise and said stated mildly, "You cut me. It might be fatal." The girl, who he realized was strikingly lovely, gazed at him with wide eyes, her hostility gone and replaced by fear.
"Are you the Magister?" she demanded, still fearful. Her accent was distinctly American, not the British that an ordinary Londoner spoke.

   Ignoring her odd question, he closely examined his injured hand. "Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent!"

   "Are you the Magister!?" , she said with such an intensity that Will straightened up and looked at her. She was tense, her jaw set, and her tone had demanded an answer.

   "Magister?" ,Will echoed, feeling a bit lost. "That means "master" in Latin, doesn't it?" He expected her to look murderous at his evasion to a straightforward answer, but she looked simply bewildered.

   "I.., I suppose it does." She looked as lost as he felt.

   "I have mastered many things in my life," Will told her. "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..." The girl was staring at him, her fine eyebrows raised and an incredulous expression on her face. "Alas, no one has actually ever referred to me as "the magister" or even "the master". Mores the pity..."

    He would have gone on, but the girl cut him off "Are you highly intoxicated at the moment?", she asked, so seriously that Will laughed. He had heard somewhere that Americans tended to be more blunt, and she certainly was.

    "How very direct," Will said, amused," but I suppose all you Americans are, aren't you?" She appeared to be rather taken aback that he knew of her homeland, so he went on, "Yes, your accent gives you away. What's your name then?"

    He was curious after all. He wondered what her name would be like. He couldn't imagine that she could be named something horrid like-- "What's my name?" She said in disbelief, interrupting his train of thought.

   "Don't you know it?" He found that he already enjoyed teasing her, a daunting prospect. He ignored his pestering conscience, and watched her struggle with her words for a moment.

    "You-- you've come bursting into my room, scaring me to death, and them demand to know my name?" She said with incredulity. "What on earth's your name? And who are you anyway?"

    Well, it was a reasonable question. "My name is Herondale. William Herondale," Will said cheerfully, "but everyone calls me Will."