“Nephilim?” he said, his voice gruff and thickly accented. “Is it you?” “Dear God,” said Will, putting his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture. “It’s the Ancient Mariner who stoppeth one of three.” “Ah’m ’ere at t’bequest of Aloysius Starkweather. Art t’lads he wants or not? Ah’ve not got all night to stand about.” “Important appointment with an albatross?” Will inquired. “Don’t let us keep you.” “What my mad friend means to say,” said Jem, “is that we are indeed Shadowhunters of the London Institute. Charlotte Branwell sent us. And you are . . .?”
