Idly, Will wondered what Old Molly had done to get herself buried here, far from consecrated ground. Overhead the clouds had closed in on one another again, blocking out the moon. She grinned, her eyes flickering, and he caught a glimpse of the skull beneath the half-transparent skin. Her feet were bare and filthy, despite the fact that they never touched the ground. She moved toward the gate with that gliding motion peculiar to ghosts. Only her eyes were hollow, twin blue flames flickering in their depths. Her body was solid, her hair twisted in a thick yellow-gray coil over one shoulder, her rough, red hands braced on her hips. Even as moonlight speared through a gap in the clouds, she hardly looked transparent. Old Molly was a strong spirit, one of the stronger Will had ever encountered.

'You're looking particularly fine this evening, if I do say so. The hairs on the back of Will 's neck prickled and stood up as the blue mist formed slowly into the shape of an old woman in a ragged dress and white apron, her head bent. When ghosts rose, they drew energy from their surroundings, depriving the air around them of heat. Will put his hands to the bars of the gate the cold of the metal seeped through his gloves, into his bones, and he shivered. Slowly the mist began to coalesce, taking on an eerie blue glow. With a grimace Will reached out one of his own gloved hands and lifted the knocker, letting it fall once, twice, three times, the hollow clank resounding through the night.īeyond the gates mist rose like steam from the ground, obscuring the gleam of bone against the rough ground. As Will neared the gates, something else no mundane would have seen materialized out of the fog: a great bronze knocker in the shape of a hand, the fingers bony and skeletal. The entrance to the cemetery was halfway down the block: a pair of wrought iron gates set into a high stone wall, though any mundane passing by would have observed nothing but a plot of overgrown land, part of an unnamed builder's yard.

He did his best to block out the noises, hunching his shoulders so that his collar covered his ears, head down, a fine mist of rain dampening his black hair. This was not a peaceful buriall ground, but Will knew that it was not his first visit to the Cross Bones Graveyard near London Bridge.

As he approached the old cemetery, their voices rose in a ragged chorus-wails and pleading, cries and snarls. Not all Shadowhunters could hear ghosts, unless the ghosts chose to be heard, but Will was one of those who could. Where it parted, Will Herondale could see the street rising ahead of him, slick and wet and black with rain, and he could hear the voices of the dead. The fog was thick, muffling sound and sight.

Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare