Clockwork Princess

“You’ll have to do better than your friends.”
    They lunged at him, claws out, and Will went down hard onto the cobblestones, his head cracking against the stone. A set of claws raked his shoulder; he rolled sideways under a flurry of blows and lashed upward with his dagger. There was a high yelp of pain that ended on a whine, and the weight on top of Will, which had been moving and struggling, went limp. Will rolled to the side and sprang to his feet, spinning around.
    The wolf he had stabbed lay open-eyed, dead in a widening pool of blood and rainwater. The two remaining werewolves were struggling to their feet, caked in mud and drenched in water. Will was bleeding from his shoulder where one of them had dug deep furrows with his claws; the pain was glorious. He laughed through the blood and the mud as the rain sluiced the blood from the blade of his dagger. “Again,” he said, and barely recognized his own voice, strained and cracked and deadly.
“Again.”
    One of the werewolves spun and bolted. Will laughed again and moved toward the last of them, who stood, frozen, clawed hands extended—with bravery or terror, Will wasn’t sure, and didn’t care. His dagger felt like an extension of his wrist, part of his arm. One good blow and a jerk upward, and he would rip through bone and cartilage, stabbing toward the heart—
    “Stop!”
The voice was hard, commanding, familiar. Will cut his eyes to the side. Striding across the courtyard, his shoulders hunched against the rain, his expression furious, was Woolsey Scott. “I command you, both of you, stop this instant!”
    The werewolf dropped his hands to his sides instantly, his claws vanishing. He bent his head, the classic gesture of submission. “Master—”
    A boiling tide of rage poured over Will, obliterating rationality, sense, everything but rage. He reached out and jerked the werewolf toward him, his arm wrapping the man’s neck, blade against his throat. Woolsey, only a few feet away, came up short, his green eyes shooting daggers.
    “Come any closer,” Will said, “and I’ll cut your little wolfling’s throat.”
    “I told you to stop,” Woolsey said in a measured tone. He was wearing, as he always was, a beautifully cut suit, a brocade riding coat atop it, everything now liberally soaked with rain. His fair hair, plastered to his face and neck, was colorless with water. “Both of you.”
    “But
I don’t have to listen to you
!” Will shouted. “I was winning!
Winning!
” He glanced about the courtyard at the three scattered bodies of the wolves he had fought—two unconscious, one dead. “Your pack attacked me unprovoked. They broke the Accords. I was defending myself. They broke the
Law
!” His voice rose, harsh and unrecognizable. “I am owed their blood, and
I will have it
!”
    “Yes, yes, buckets of blood,” said Woolsey. “And what would you do with it if you had it? You don’t care about this werewolf. Let him go.”
    “No.”
    “At least let him free so he can fight you,” Woolsey said.
    Will hesitated, then released his grip on the werewolf he held, who faced his pack leader, looking terrified. Woolsey snapped his fingers in the wolf’s direction. “Run, Conrad,” he said. “Fast. And now.”
    The werewolf didn’t need to be told twice; he turned on his heels and darted away, vanishing behind the stables. Will turned back to Woolsey with a sneer.
    “So your pack are all cowards,” he said. “Five against one Shadowhunter? Is that how it is?”
    “I didn’t tell them to come out here after you. They’re young. And stupid. And impetuous. And half their pack was killed by Mortmain. They blame your kind.” Woolsey stepped a little closer, his eyes raking up and down Will, as cold as green ice. “I assume your
parabatai
is dead, then,” he added with shocking casualness.
    Will was not ready to hear the words at all, would never be ready. The battle had cleared his head of the pain for a moment. Now it threatened to return, all-encompassing and terrifying. He gasped as if Woolsey had punched him, and took an involuntary step back.
    “And you’re trying to get yourself killed because of it, Nephilim boy? Is that what’s going on?”
    Will swiped his wet hair out of his face and looked at Woolsey with hatred. “Maybe I am.”
    “Is that how you respect his memory?”
    “What does it matter?” Will said. “He’s dead. He’ll never know what I do or what I don’t do.”
    “My brother is