Or when the moon was overhead
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Lady of Shalott”
The next day proved bright and beautiful. Regent’s Park seemed to shine in the late afternoon sunlight, from the York Gate to the green lawn stretching down to the lake. By the time Cordelia and Alastair arrived, the east bank was already crowded with young Shadowhunters. Colorful woven blankets of bright cerise and sky-blue cotton had been thrown over the grass, and little groups were seated around picnic hampers and crowded down by the lakeside.
Some of the younger set were floating miniature boats on the water, and the white sails of them made the lake look thick with swans. The older girls were in pastel day dresses or skirts with high-necked blouses, the young men in knit sweaters and plus fours. Some were decked out in mundane rowing gear—jackets and trousers in white linen, though white, for Shadowhunters, was traditionally the color of mourning and usually avoided.
Scandalous! Cordelia thought with dark amusement as she and Alastair neared the crowd. It was different from the night before: that had been a gathering of the Enclave, Shadowhunters from the oldest to youngest. These were people her age. Not perhaps the ones who could be most helpful to her father—but everyone here had parents, some of whom were quite influential. Many had older brothers or sisters. The ball might not have gone as Cordelia had wished, but today, she was determined to make her mark.
She recognized Rosamund Wentworth and some of the other girls from the party, deep in conversation. The same anxiety began to rise in her that had risen at the ball: How was one supposed to break into social groups? Make them want you as part of them?
She’d spent the morning with Risa and the Lightwoods’ cook, helping to prepare the vastest, most spectacular picnic basket she thought anyone had ever seen. Taking the rolled-up blanket from under her arm, she spread it out deliberately close to the lake, just before the spot where the grass turned into sand and gravel.
She would put herself right in the middle of the view, she thought, plonking herself down and gesturing for Alastair to join her. Cordelia watched Alastair as he dropped the heavy picnic basket with a muttered curse, then flopped down beside her.
He wore a striped jacket of gray linen, pale against his brown skin. His dark eyes roamed restlessly over the crowd. “I cannot recall,” he said, “why we agreed to this.”
“We cannot spend our lives hiding in our house, Alastair. We must make friends,” said Cordelia. “Recall that we are meant to be ingratiating ourselves.”
He made a face at her as she began unpacking the picnic hamper, setting out freshly cut flowers, cold chicken, game pies, fruit, butter in a jam pot, three types of marmalade, white and brown bread, potted crab, and salmon mayonnaise.
Alastair raised his eyebrows.
“People like to eat,” Cordelia said.
Alastair looked as if he was about to argue, then brightened and scrambled to his feet. “I see some of the boys from the Academy,” he said. “Piers and Thoby are down by the water. I’ll just go ingratiate myself, shall I?”
“Alastair,” Cordelia protested, but he was already gone, leaving her alone on the thick plaid picnic blanket. She put her chin in the air, setting out the rest of the food—strawberries, cream, lemon tartlets, and stone ginger beer. She wished Lucie were here, but since she hadn’t arrived yet, Cordelia would have to stick it out on her own.
You are a Shadowhunter, she reminded herself. One of a long line of Persian Shadowhunters. The Jahanshah family had fought demons for longer than people like Rosamund Wentworth could imagine. Sona claimed they had the blood of the famous hero Rostam in them. Cordelia could manage a picnic.
“Cordelia Carstairs?” Cordelia glanced up to see Anna standing above her, elegant as ever in a pale linen shirt and buff trousers. “May I join you?”
“Of course!” Delighted, Cordelia made space. She knew Anna was a topic of legend and admiration: she did as she liked, dressed as she liked, and lived where she liked. Her clothes were as spectacular as the stories about her. If Anna chose to sit with her, Cordelia could not be seen as dull.
Anna sank gracefully to her knees, reaching into the basket to retrieve a bottle of ginger beer. “I suppose,” she said, “we have not been officially introduced. But after the drama of last evening, I feel as if I know you.”
“After hearing about you from Lucie for so many years, I feel as if I know you.”
“I see you have ranged your food about you like a fortress,” Anna said. “Very wise. I think of each social occasion as a battle to be entered, myself. And I always wear my armor.” She crossed her legs at the ankle, showing her knee-high boots to advantage.
“And I always bring my sword.” Cordelia tapped the hilt of Cortana, currently half-concealed beneath a fold of blanket.
“Ah, the famous Cortana.” Anna’s eyes sparkled. “A sword that bears no runes, yet can kill demons, they say. Is that true?”
Cordelia nodded proudly. “My father slew the great demon Yanluo with it. They say the blade of Cortana can cut through anything.”
“That sounds very useful.” Anna touched the hilt lightly and withdrew her hand. “How are you finding London?”
“Honestly? It is overwhelming. I have spent most of my life traveling, and in London I only know James and Lucie.”
Anna smiled like a sphinx. “But you brought enough food to provision an army.” She cocked her head to the side. “I’d like to invite you to tea at my flat, Cordelia Carstairs. There are some matters we should discuss.”
Cordelia was stunned. What could glamorous Anna Lightwood possibly have to discuss with her? The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it had to do with her father, but before she could ask, Anna’s face lit up and she began waving at two approaching figures.
Cordelia turned to see Anna’s brother Christopher and Thomas Lightwood picking their way along the edge of the lake. Thomas towered over Christopher, who appeared to be chatting to him amiably, the sun glinting off his spectacles.
Anna’s smile took on a curl at the edges. “Christopher! Thomas! Over here!”
Cordelia plastered on a bright smile as they came closer. “Do come say hello,” she said. “I’ve lemon tartlets, and ginger beer, if you like.”
The boys glanced at each other. A moment later they were settling onto the blanket, Christopher nearly upsetting the picnic basket. Thomas was more careful with his long arms and legs, as if nervous he might knock something over. He wasn’t beautiful like James, but he would certainly suit a lot of girls. As for Christopher, his fine-boned resemblance to Anna was even clearer up close.
“I see why you called for our help,” Thomas said, his hazel eyes sparkling as he took in the picnic spread. “It would be staggeringly difficult for you to consume all this by yourselves. Best to call in the reserves.”
Christopher snagged a lemon tart. “Thomas used to be able to clear out our larder in an hour—and the eating contests he had with Lucie, I shudder to report them.”
“I may have heard a bit about that,” said Cordelia. Thomas adores ginger beer, Lucie had told her once, and Christopher is obsessed with lemon tarts. She hid a smile. “I know we’ve met before on occasion, but now that I’m officially in London, I hope that we’ll become friends.”
“Absolutely certainly,” said Christopher, “especially if there will be more lemon tarts in the offing.”
“I doubt she carries them everywhere with her, Kit,” said Thomas, “stuffed into her hats and whatnot.”
“I keep them in my weapons belt instead of seraph blades,” said Cordelia, and both boys laughed.
“How is Barbara, Thomas?” asked Anna, as she picked up an apple. “Is she well after last night?”
“She seems quite recovered,” Thomas said, gesturing to where Barbara was walking down by the lake with Oliver. She was twirling a bright blue parasol and chatting animatedly. Thomas bit into a meat pie.
“If you were a truly dedicated brother, you would be at her side,” Anna said. “I would hope that if I collapsed, Christopher would weep inconsolably and be incapable of consuming meat pies.”
“Barbara doesn’t want me near her,” Thomas said, unperturbed. “She’s hoping Oliver will propose.”
“Is she?” said Anna, her dark eyebrows winging upward in amusement.
“Alastair!” Cordelia called. “Do come eat! The food is vanishing!”
But her brother—who was not, Cordelia noticed, chatting with boys from the Academy, but was standing alone by the lakeside—only cast her a glance that indicated that she was tiresome.
“Ah,” said Thomas, in a slightly too casual voice. “Alastair is here.”
“Yes,” said Cordelia. “He’s the man of our house at the moment, since my father is in Idris.”
Christopher had produced a small black notebook and was scribbling in it. Anna was gazing down at the lake, where several of the young ladies—Rosamund, Ariadne, and Catherine among them—had decided to take a turn. “He has my sympathy,” said Thomas, with an easy smile. “My father is often in Idris as well, with the Consul—”
I know, Cordelia thought, but before she could ask him anything, she heard Lucie calling her name. She looked up to see her future parabatai heading toward them, holding a straw hat in place with one hand and a basket in the other. Behind her was James, his hands in the pockets of his pin-striped trousers. He wore no hat, and the wind tugged at his already tousled black hair.
“Oh, lovely!” Lucie said, upon seeing Cordelia’s mountain of food. “We can combine our winnings. Let’s see what you have.”
Anna and Christopher made space as Lucie dropped to her knees and began unpacking yet more food—cheese and jam tarts, sandwiches and lemonade. James sat down by Christopher, glancing idly at his notebook. He said something in a low voice, and Thomas and Christopher laughed.
Cordelia felt her breath catch in her throat. She hadn’t really spoken to James since they’d danced the night before. Unless one counted him asking her to remove his stele from his jacket. She remembered the way his hands had been fisted at his sides. He seemed a different person now.
“What did it turn out to be, last night?” she said to Lucie. “The demon business in Seven Dials.”
James glanced over at her. His smile was easy—too easy, Cordelia thought. As if he were an actor on a stage, told to look as if he were enjoying himself. “Shax demons all up and down Monmouth Street. They had to call on Ragnor Fell to help glamour the place so the mundanes wouldn’t notice what was going on.”
Thomas frowned. “It’s odd,” he said, “after so long, we encountered that demon the other night, and now yesterday—”
“You encountered a demon?” Lucie demanded. “When was that?”
“Er,” said Thomas, his hazel eyes darting around. “I may have been wrong. It may not have been a demon. It may have been a textbook about demons.”
“Thomas,” said Lucie. “You are the most dreadful liar. I want to know what happened.”
“You can always get the truth out of Matthew,” said James. “You can wheedle anything out of him, you know that, Luce.” He glanced around the lake. “Where is Matthew? Isn’t he meant to be coming?”
He looked over at Cordelia, and she felt a sudden rush of anger. She’d been quiet—now that she’d managed to lure all these people to her Picnic Blanket of Machinations, how was she meant to bring up her father? But James’s words brought back the night before in a sharp flash of memory. He was asking her if she knew where Matthew was because she’d danced with Matthew, and she’d danced with Matthew because James had abandoned her and Matthew had stepped in.
Cordelia rose to her feet, nearly knocking over a bottle of ginger beer. She took a deep breath, brushed off her blue serge skirt, and said, “James, I’d like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
Everyone looked astonished, even Lucie; James only nodded.
“Lead the way,” he said.
There was a small Italian folly near the lake, complete with white pillars. Cordelia led James away from the crowd of picnickers in silence, passing a few groups of strolling mundanes; now she climbed the few steps of the folly to its central pavilion, turned, and faced him.
“Last night,” she said, “you were most appallingly rude to me, and I would like an apology.”
He looked up at her. So this was what it would be like to be taller than James, she thought. She didn’t mind it. His expression was calm, unreadable even. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, but it was entirely closed off, letting no one in. It was an expression she had seen on James’s face before: she had always thought of it privately as the Mask.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to apologize?”
Maybe it wasn’t better to be taller than him, she thought. When he looked up at her, he had to do it through his eyelashes, which were thick and black as the silk fringes on a scarf. “I am trying to think of the best way to do it. What I did—leaving you on the dance floor—was unforgivable. I am trying to think of a reason you ought to forgive me anyway, because if you did not, it would break my heart.”
She cleared her throat. “That is a decent start.”
His smile was faint, but real, breaking through the Mask. “You’ve always had a charitable nature, Daisy.”
She pointed her finger at him. “Don’t you Daisy me,” she said. “Have you taken the time to understand what it is to be a girl in such a situation? A girl cannot ask a gentleman to dance; she is at the mercy of the choice of the opposite sex. She cannot even refuse a dance if it is asked of her. To have a boy walk away from her on the dance floor is humiliating. To have it happen when one is wearing a truly frightful gown, even more so. They will all be discussing what is wrong with me.”
“Wrong with you?” he repeated. “There is nothing wrong with you. Everything you say is true, and I am a fool for not having thought of it before. All I can do is swear to you that you will never lack at any social event in future, someone to stand up with or dance attendance on you. You might not credit it, having met Thomas and Christopher and Matthew, but they are quite popular. We can make you the toast of the season.”
“Really?” she said. “Thomas and Christopher and Matthew are popular?”
He laughed. “Yes, and I can make you a further promise as well. If I offend you again, I will wear a truly frightful gown to the next significant social gathering.”
“Very well.” She put her hand out. “We can shake on it like gentlemen do.”
He stepped forward to shake her hand. His warm fingers curled around hers. His lips, slightly curved, looked incredibly soft. He appeared to be searching her face with his gaze; she wondered what he was looking for.
“James,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Rather than you wearing a frightful dress,” she said, “perhaps there is another way you could help me.”
“Anything.” He had not let go of her hand.
“You could tell me which of the young men of the Enclave are eligible,” she said. “If I had need of—of marrying, which of them are kind, and would not be terrible company.”
He looked stunned. “You cannot get married—”
“Why not?” She drew her hand back from his. “Do you think I would be an undesirable match?”
He had gone a strange color; she had no idea why until she looked behind her and realized that a carriage had just drawn up near the folly.
The carriage’s doors were painted with the four Cs of the Shadowhunter government: Clave, Council, Covenant, Consul. Matthew was in the box seat, reins in hand, the wind blowing through his blond curls.
Behind him, laughing, was Matthew’s brother, Charles, and beside him, Grace, in a straw bonnet and a blue dress trimmed in matching Cluny lace.
Cordelia glanced back at James and saw something in his eyes flicker—a sort of dark light behind the irises. He was watching Charles help Grace down from the carriage. Matthew was scrambling out of his driver’s seat, leaving the reins loose, casting about for his friends.
“What is it between you and Grace Blackthorn?” Cordelia said quietly. “Do you have an understanding?”
“Understanding” was something of a broad term. It could mean a secret engagement, or as little as a declaration of serious romantic interest. But it seemed to fit as well as anything else.
The odd light was still in James’s eyes, darkening their gold to smoked glass. “There are those close to me I would give up my life for,” he said. “You know that.”
The names were unspoken but Cordelia knew them: Lucie, Will, Tessa, Christopher, Matthew, Thomas. Jem Carstairs.
“Grace is one of them,” said James. “We are neighbors in Idris. I have seen her every summer for years. We love one another—but it is a secret. Neither my parents nor her mother are aware of our bond.” He lifted his wrist, the bracelet there gleaming for a moment in the sun. “She gave me this when we were thirteen. It is a promise between us.” There was an odd distance in his voice, as if he were reciting a story he had heard, rather than recalling a memory. Shyness, perhaps, at revealing something so intimate?
“I see,” said Cordelia. She looked over at the carriage. Ariadne had come up to Charles and they were greeting each other; Grace had turned and was gazing toward the folly.
“I had thought we would not go to Idris this year,” James said. “I wrote to Grace to tell her, but her mother kept the letter from her. We were each left wondering at the silence of the other. I only discovered she had come to London yesterday, at the ball.”
Cordelia felt numb. Well, of course he had run off, then. Every summer he had seen Grace save this one; how he must have missed her. She had always known James possessed a life she knew little of with his friends in London, but she had not realized how very much she didn’t know him. He might as well be a stranger. A stranger in love with someone else. And she, Cordelia, the interloper.
“I am glad we are friends again,” Cordelia said. “Now you must wish to speak to Grace alone. Just signal her to join you here—everyone is distracted. You will be quite unnoticed.”
James began to speak, but Cordelia had already turned and made her way back toward the lake and the picnickers. She could not bear to pause and listen to him thank her for going away.
Lucie didn’t blame Cordelia for wanting to tell James off; he’d been terribly rude the night before. Even if a girl was just your friend, you shouldn’t leave her in the middle of a dance. Besides, it gave the Rosamund Wentworths of the world too much scope for nasty gossip. She reminded herself to tell Cordelia about what had happened to Eugenia Lightwood as soon as they were alone.
In fact, there was a great deal she wished to discuss with Cordelia when they were alone. Last night I met a ghost that no one else could see. The ghost of a boy who is dead, but not quite dead.
She had opened her mouth a few times to mention Jesse to James or her parents, then decided against it. For a reason she couldn’t quite understand, it felt private, like a secret she had been charged with. It was hardly Jesse’s fault she could see him, and he had saved her all those years ago in Brocelind. She remembered telling him that when she grew up, she wanted to be a writer. That sounds wonderful, he had said in a wistful tone. At the time she’d believed he was stricken with envy about her glorious future career. It was only now that it occurred to her he might have been talking about growing up.
“I see Cordelia is returning,” said Anna. She was leaning back on her elbows, the sunshine bright on her dark hair. “But without James. Interesting.”
Anna, like Lucie, found everything about human behavior interesting. Sometimes Lucie thought Anna ought to be a writer too. Her memoirs would be sure to be scandalous.
Cordelia was indeed making her way back toward them, stepping carefully between the brightly colored picnic blankets. She sank down beside Lucie, fanning herself with her straw bonnet. She was wearing another ghastly pastel dress, Lucie noticed. She wished Sona would let Cordelia dress as she wished.
“Did James get what he deserved?” Lucie asked. “Did you keelhaul him?”
Cordelia’s smile was bright. “He is thoroughly abashed, I assure you. But we are good friends again.”
“Where is he, then?” Thomas inquired. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and Lucie could just glimpse the edge of the colored ink design on his left forearm. It was unusual for Shadowhunters to get tattoos, as their skin was so often Marked by runes, but Thomas had done just that in Spain. “Did you bury his body in the park somewhere?”
“He went to speak to Grace Blackthorn,” said Cordelia, selecting a bottle of lemonade. Lucie glanced at her sharply—she herself had only realized the night before that the girl James was in love with was Grace, not Daisy. She hoped she hadn’t put silly thoughts into Cordelia’s head by rattling on in the park about how James might be in love with her.
Cordelia certainly didn’t seem bothered, and she’d brushed off the whole idea in Kensington Gardens. She probably thought of James as a cousin. It was certainly a setback to Lucie’s hopes. It would have been delightful to have Daisy as a sister-in-law, and she could not imagine that Grace would be delightful in the same way. She couldn’t recall ever having seen her smile or laugh, and she would be unlikely to be charmed by Will’s songs about demon pox.
“I didn’t realize she was here.” Christopher helped himself to a sixth lemon tart.
“She is,” Matthew said, appearing out of the thicket of parasols and picnickers. He slid gracefully into a sitting position beside Anna, who glanced at him and winked. Matthew and Anna were especially close: they enjoyed many of the same things, like fashionable clothes, disreputable salons, shocking art, and scandalous plays. “Apparently, Charles promised last night to bring her here in our carriage. We had to detour out to Chiswick to fetch her.”
“Did you get a look at Lightwood—at Chiswick House?” asked Thomas. “I hear it’s in utter disrepair.”
Matthew shook his head. “Grace was waiting for us at the front gates when we arrived. I did think it a bit odd.”
Chiswick House had once belonged to Benedict Lightwood and was meant to pass to his sons, Gabriel and Gideon. Everything changed after Benedict’s disgrace, and in the end the newly named Chiswick House had been given to Tatiana, even though she had married a Blackthorn.
Tatiana had famously let the place fall to pieces—perhaps because after Jesse had died, she had not felt there was anyone of Blackthorn blood to whom the house could be left. Grace was Tatiana’s adopted ward, not her daughter by blood. When Tatiana died, the house would pass back into the hands of the Clave, who might even return it to the Lightwoods. Tatiana would probably rather burn it down than have that happen.
Jesse had said that both his mother and sister could see him. How strange that must be, for him and for them. She recalled the night before: Jesse saying that death was in the ballroom. But it hadn’t been, she thought. There had been a demon occurrence in the city, but it had been handled easily.
But what if he had not meant death was there last night? What if he had meant that a greater danger surrounded them all?
Lucie shivered and glanced down toward the lake, where everything was comfortingly ordinary—Charles and Ariadne chatting with Barbara and Oliver; Alastair skipping stones across the lake with Augustus Pounceby. Rosamund and Piers Wentworth looking smug about something. Catherine Townsend sailing a small boat with remarkable skill.
She heard Cordelia, beside her, murmur to Matthew about how it seemed as if it might rain. A few dark clouds scudded across the sky, casting shadows across the silvery surface of the water. She caught her breath. She was imagining things, surely—the reflections of the clouds could not be getting thicker, and darker.
“Cordelia,” she whispered. “Do you have Cortana?”
Cordelia looked puzzled. “Yes, of course. Under the blanket.”
“Reach for it.” Lucie rose to her feet, aware of Cordelia drawing her shining gold blade without another question. She was about to call out when the lake water burst apart as a demon broke the surface.
“That was Cordelia Carstairs,” said Grace. She had approached James when he signaled, but had paused a few feet away, her expression troubled.
James had rarely seen her in the sunlight; she reminded him of a pale, night-blooming flower easily singed by the sun. Her hat shaded her eyes, and her ivory kidskin boots were planted in the long grass. He had always wondered that Tatiana bothered to make sure Grace had well-made and fashionable clothes when she cared about so little else.
“Yes?” James said. It wasn’t like Grace to be jealous, and he wasn’t sure that she was. She looked worried, but that could be many things. “You know the Carstairs have long been my friends.” He held out his hand, the silver bracelet on his wrist sparking in the sun. “Grace. You are far away, and we have been far away from each other long enough.”
She took a step toward him and said, “Do you remember when you told me all about Cordelia? That summer after you had the scalding fever?”
He shook his head, puzzled. He remembered the fever, of course, and Cordelia’s voice through the dizziness. She had been kind to him, though he did not recall telling Grace about it. “No,” he said. “Not specifically, but I have always told you everything, so it would hardly be surprising.”
“Not just that she was with you when you were ill,” Grace said. “But about her. About Cordelia.”
“About Cordelia?” He lowered his hand, recalling Brocelind Forest, the light filtering down through the green leaves, the way he and Grace had rested in the grass and told each other everything. “I do not think I know that much about her,” he said, realizing with an odd pang that it was true. He supposed he could tell Grace that Cordelia had asked him to help her find an eligible man, but for some reason, he did not want to. “She and her family have always been reticent. Lucie knows her much better than I do. I do remember a time.…”
“What is it?” Grace had come close to him. He could smell her perfume as she looked up at him: it was always the same scent of violets. “What do you remember?”
“Lucie fell from the side of a cliff once,” he said slowly. It was an oddly dim memory. There had been a field of daisies—Cordelia had been very brave—it was how she had gotten her nickname. Daisy. “In France. Cordelia was with her. It would have been a bad fall, but Cordelia caught her wrist and held on to her for hours until we found them. I’ll always be grateful to her for saving my sister.”
It seemed to James that Grace relaxed slightly, though he could not have guessed why. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you with your friend,” she said. “It’s just been so long since we’ve been alone.”
A strange pang of something like unease went through James. “You had wanted to meet Matthew and Christopher and Thomas,” he said. “I could take you.…”
She shook her head, and he was struck as always by her beauty. It was cold and perfect—no, she was not cold, he reminded himself. She held herself tightly closed, for she had been hurt badly by the loss of her parents, by Tatiana’s whims and cruelty. But that was not the same as coldness. There was color in her cheeks now, and her eyes glittered fiercely.
“I want you to kiss me,” she said.
He never thought of saying no.
The sun was bright as he reached for her, so bright it hurt his eyes. He drew her toward him: she was small and cool and slight, delicate as a bird. Her hat slipped from her head as she tilted her face up toward his. He felt the rustle of lace against his hands as they circled her waist, and the cool, soft press of her lips against his.
The sun was a burning needle transfixing them both to the spot. Her chest rose and fell against his; she was trembling as if she were cold. Her hands gripped his shoulders. For a moment, he only felt: their lips against each other’s, the taste of her like sugar pastilles on his tongue.
His eyes began to burn, though they were closed. He felt breathless and sick, as if he’d dived under salt water and come up for air too late. Something was wrong. With a choked gasp of nausea, he broke away from Grace.
Her hand went to her mouth. There was a look on her face he had not expected—a look of undeniable panic.
“Grace—” he began, when the air was suddenly cut through by the sound of screams, coming from the lake. And not just one person screaming, as Oliver had called out last night, but multiple voices, crying out in fear.
James caught hold of Grace and pushed her toward the folly. She had no idea how to fight—had never been trained. She was still looking at him in horror. “Stay here,” he demanded, and bolted toward the lake.
Cordelia didn’t see it happen. By the time she had unsheathed Cortana, the demon had sprung from the water and directly onto Piers Wentworth. He went down with a howl of pain, kicking and thrashing.
There was instantly a melee. Shadowhunters were screaming—some had leaped for Piers, including Alastair and Rosamund, and were trying to peel the creature from his body. Charles had shoved Ariadne behind him—she looked exasperated—and was shouting for everyone to get away from the lake. Barbara was screaming, words that sounded like “What is it? What is it?”
But Cordelia could think of only one thing: Alastair. She raced toward the shore. She could see Alastair’s bright hair among the scrum of people. As she neared them, she saw Piers lying motionless by the water’s edge: the rim of the water was scarlet, and more scarlet was billowing into the lake. Rosamund was on her knees beside him, screaming. The demon had vanished, though Cordelia had not seen anyone kill it.
Alastair had backed away from Piers; Ariadne was on her knees next to the fallen boy, her dress in the blood and sand. As Cordelia drew near to her brother, she saw that there was blood on him, too. She reached him among the chaos, breathless.
“Alastair—”
There was a stunned look on his face. Her voice shook him awake: he caught at her free arm and pulled her toward the grass. “Cordelia, get back—”
She looked around wildly. Shadowhunters were running everywhere, knocking over hampers and trampling picnic food underfoot. “What happened, Alastair? What was it?”
He shook his head, his expression bleak. “I have absolutely no idea.”
James raced down the slope of the green hill toward the lake. The sky had darkened, stained everywhere with clouds: in the distance he could see mundanes hurrying away from the park, wary of approaching rain. The water of the lake had turned from silver to gray, rippled with strong wind. A small crowd had formed at the lake’s edge. The picnic had been abandoned: bottles and hampers had been kicked over, and everywhere Shadowhunters were seizing up weapons. James caught sight of Matthew and Lucie among the throng: Matthew was handing Lucie an unlit seraph blade from his own belt. He thought he caught sight of Cordelia’s red hair, close to the lakeside, just as Barbara came racing up to him.
Her eyes were wide and terrified; Oliver was racing behind her, determined to catch her up. She reached James first. “Jamie—Jamie—” She caught at his sleeve. “It was a demon. I saw it attack Piers.”
“Piers is hurt?” James craned his neck to see better. He had never liked Piers Wentworth, but that didn’t mean he wanted anything to happen to him.
“Barbara.” Oliver reached them, out of breath from lack of training. “Darling. Demons cannot withstand sunlight. You know that.”
Barbara ignored her suitor. “James,” she whispered, dropping her voice. “You can see things other people can’t, sometimes. Did you see anything last night?”
He looked at her in surprise. How did she know he’d fallen briefly into the shadow realm? “Barbara, I don’t—”
“I did,” she whispered. “I saw—shapes—ragged black shapes—and I saw something catch hold of me and drag me down.”
James’s heart began to pound.
“I saw one again, just now—it leaped on Piers, and it disappeared, but it was there—”
Oliver shot James an irritable look. “Barbara, don’t overexcite yourself,” he began, just as Matthew appeared, making a beeline for James. Behind Matthew, the crowd was parting: James could see Anna with Ariadne and Thomas, all kneeling around the body of Piers on the ground. Thomas had torn off his jacket and pressed it against Piers’s throat; even from here, James could see the blood.
“Where’s Charles?” James said, as Matthew approached: Charles was, after all, the closest thing to the Consul that they had here.
“Went to put up wards to keep the mundanes away,” Matthew said. The wind was rising, skirling the leaves on the ground into minor cyclones. “Right now, someone needs to get Piers to the infirmary.”
“Piers is alive?” James asked.
“Yes, but it doesn’t look good,” said Matthew, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “They’re putting iratzes on him, but they’re not working.”
James met Matthew’s gaze with his own. There were only a few kinds of wounds that healing runes couldn’t help. Wounds infected by demon poison were among them.
“I told you,” Barbara cried. “The demon clawed at his throat—” She broke off, staring toward the far edge of the grassy area, where trees bordered the lake.
James followed her gaze and stiffened in horror. The park was a gray landscape through which the wind rushed: the lake was black, and the boats on it twisted and sagged strangely. Clouds the color of bruises scudded across a steel-colored sky. The only brightness he could see was a clear golden light in the distance, but it was trapped among the crowd of Nephilim like a firefly trapped in a jar; he couldn’t identify what it was.
The boughs of the trees whipped back and forth in the rising wind. They were full of shapes—ragged and black, just as Barbara had said. Clawed shadows torn from a greater darkness. How many, James couldn’t tell. Dozens, at least.
Matthew was staring, his face white. He can see what I see, James realized. He can see them too.
Springing down from the trees, the demons rushed at them.
The demons raced like hellhounds across the grass, leaping and surging, utterly silent. Their skin was rough and corrugated, the color of onyx; their eyes flaming black. They tore through the park under the dark, cloud-blackened sky.
Beside Cordelia, Alastair ripped a seraph blade from the pocket of his jacket and held it up. “Micah!” he cried—every seraph blade needed to be given an angel’s name to be activated.
The low gleam of the blade became a bonfire. There was a sudden riot of illumination as seraph blades blazed up everywhere; Cordelia could hear the names of angels being called, but the Shadowhunters’ voices were slow with astonishment. It had been a long time of relative peace, and no one expected demonic activity during the day.
Yet it was here. The demons surged like a wave and crashed down upon the Nephilim.
Cordelia had never expected to find herself in the middle of a battle. To slay a few demons here and there on patrol was something she had hoped for, but this—this was chaos. Two demons with feral, doglike faces flung themselves at Charles and Ariadne; he stepped in front of her and was knocked aside. Cordelia heard someone call out Charles’s name: a moment later the second demon was upon Ariadne. Its jaws closed on her shoulder and it began to drag her body across the grass as she kicked and struggled.
Cordelia started toward her, but a shadow rose up in front of her, a black shadow with dripping jaws and eyes like red coals. There was no room in her to scream. Her sword whirled in a blazing arc. Gold sliced across shadow: ichor spilled, and she nearly stumbled. She whirled to see that Anna had raced to Ariadne’s side, a long silver dagger in her hand. She plunged it into the attacking demon’s back, and it vanished in a spray of ichor.
More demons surged forward. Anna cast a helpless look at Ariadne lying in the bloodstained grass and turned back with a cry; she was soon joined by others—Thomas, his bolas sailing through the air, and Barbara and Lucie, armed with seraph blades.
A demon lunged for Alastair: Cordelia brought Cortana down in a great curving arc, severing its head.
Alastair looked peevish. “Really,” he said. “I could have done that on my own.”
Cordelia considered killing Alastair, but there was no time—someone was screaming. It was Rosamund Wentworth, who had refused to move from her brother’s side. She crouched over his bleeding body as a demon snapped its jaws at her.
James raced toward her across the grass, seraph blade blazing at his side. He sprang into the air, landed on the demon’s back, and thrust his seraph blade into its neck. Ichor spilled as the demon vanished. Cordelia saw him spin around, his eyes searching the grass and finding Matthew. Matthew, who had a curved blade in his hand, stood by Lucie, as if he meant to drive off any demon who came near her.
James ran toward Matthew and his sister, just as another scream tore the air.
It was Barbara. One of the shadow demons pounced, slamming Oliver to the ground and closing its jaws around Barbara’s leg. She cried out in agony and collapsed.
A second later James was there; he flung himself at the creature on top of Barbara, knocking it to the side. They rolled over and over, the Shadowhunter and the demon, as screams tore through the crowd of assembled Shadowhunters.
Matthew dived forward, executing a perfect midair flip, and kicked out. His boot connected with the demon, knocking it free from James. Matthew landed as James sprang up, seizing a dagger from his belt. He flung it, and it sank into the demon’s side; spitting and hissing, the demon vanished.
And there was silence.
Cordelia didn’t know if the demons had been defeated, or if they had scurried away in retreat or victory. Perhaps they had done all they had meant to do in the way of damage. There was no way of knowing. Frozen in shock, battered and bloody, the group of Shadowhunters who had come to Regent’s Park for an afternoon picnic stared at each other across the bloody grass.
The picnic area was in shreds: patches of grass burned with ichor, hampers and blankets scattered and destroyed. But none of that mattered. What mattered were the three still figures that lay in the grass, unmoving. Piers Wentworth, his shirt drenched in blood, his sister sobbing at his side. Barbara Lightwood, being lifted into Thomas’s arms—Oliver had his stele out and was drawing healing rune after healing rune on her dangling arm. And Ariadne, crumpled in a heap, her pink dress stained with red. Charles knelt with her, but her head was in Anna’s lap. Dark blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
The demons might have gone, but they had left devastation behind.