Close, side by side, from morn till night,
Kissing and dalliance their delight,
Whilst thou from human solace flying
With unrequited love art dying.
—Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun
The proprietor would not let Lucie up to the Merry Thieves’ private rooms at the Devil Tavern, so she was reduced to sending a message through Polly, the werewolf barmaid. She sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and fumed as a mixture of Downworlders and magicians stared at her curiously: a small, bonneted girl with Nephilim runes, clutching an axe. In the corner, a kelpie who seemed to be marinating in a tank of gin gave her a beady look.
“Drain of pale?” inquired a wild-haired vampire, offering her a half-drunk bottle of gin.
“She doesn’t drink.” It was Thomas, glowering. The vampire shrank back. Christopher appeared at Thomas’s shoulder, blinking.
“I knew you’d be here,” said Lucie triumphantly.
“We very nearly weren’t,” said Christopher. “We decided to use the laboratory upstairs instead of at Grosvenor Square since Matthew and James weren’t going to be here to be bothered or blown up—”
Thomas shushed him. “Christopher, enough. Lucie, what’s going on? Did something happen?”
After dragging the two of them outside, Lucie did her best to explain the situation without mentioning Jesse. She blamed Jessamine instead, and a gossip network between ghosts that she had invented on the spot. Fortunately, neither Christopher nor Thomas was the suspicious type.
“We need Matthew, and he’s bloody gone off to Anna’s,” said Thomas, after telling her the little they knew—the letter that had come for James at Matthew’s house, his determination to meet Grace, the time of the meeting set for ten o’clock. “He’ll know where James has gone. James said it was where the two of them used to practice balance.”
“But what if we’re too late?” said Christopher, vibrating with anxiety.
Lucie checked the clock that hung before the church of St. Dunstan-in-the-West, across the dark line of Fleet Street. They were quite near the Institute here. She could see its distinctive spire rising above the roofs of London. “Nine o’clock,” she said. “One of you must have a carriage. We’ll go to Anna’s.”
Which was how they found themselves a quarter of an hour later on Percy Street, Thomas helping Lucie down from his family’s Victoria. The street was empty of pedestrians, though there were lights on in many windows. Lucie made out a shape sitting on Anna’s stairs in the dark. She felt no surprise—ladies were always making cakes of themselves on Anna’s doorstep.
Then Lucie made out broad shoulders on the silhouette and realized that the person on Anna’s doorstep was a man.
He bolted upright, and the light from the arc lamps fell on him. On Percy Street, the streetlights were older and less reliable, their fierce yellow burn stripping the world down to harsh lines. Lucie saw bright hair and a scowling face.
“Alastair?” Thomas sounded astonished.
Christopher groaned as Alastair Carstairs raced down the street toward them, a whirlwind in an unbuttoned town coat. Beneath the coat his waistcoat was disarranged, and one side of his high wingtip collar was askew.
“You’ve lost your hat, Alastair,” said Lucie.
Alastair said, “I have lost my sister!”
Lucie went cold. “What do you mean? Has something happened to Cordelia?”
“I don’t bloody know, do I?” said Alastair. “I let her go take tea with Anna Lightwood and now I return to pick her up at the agreed-upon time and they are both gone. I should never have left her alone with—”
“Be very careful what you say about Anna,” said Christopher. Lucie thought she ought to have found it funny: Christopher, who was never angry, speaking in those icy tones to Alastair. But somehow, it was not funny at all.
Alastair advanced upon Christopher dangerously, but Thomas caught his arm as he went by. Lucie watched with great satisfaction as Alastair was brought to a complete standstill, without Thomas having to exert any particular effort. The muscles of Alastair’s arm tensed beneath his coat sleeve as he strained against Thomas’s grip. Alastair was tall enough, and looked strong enough, but he couldn’t make any headway.
“Steady, Alastair,” said Thomas. “I know you are worried about your sister. We are worried about James. Better we discuss setting matters right than brawl in public.”
Alastair tilted his chin to meet Thomas’s eyes, the line of his jaw a hard slash. “Let me loose,” he snarled. “And cease constantly addressing me by my first name. You are not a scrubby schoolboy trailing after me any longer.”
Thomas, his cheeks flaming red, whipped his hand back as if he’d been burned.
“Stop it!” Lucie snapped. Thomas had only been trying to be kind. “Matthew is most likely with Anna and Cordelia. He can chaperone—”
Alastair’s expression went flat. “You think I would be relieved to hear she’s with Matthew? You think I don’t know a drunk when I see one? Believe me, I do. If he puts Cordelia in harm’s way—”
There was the sudden and welcome rattle of wheels on stony road. They all whirled to see the Consul’s carriage rolling up to Anna’s house. The carriage door opened and disgorged Cordelia and Matthew, who was holding a rolled-up piece of velvet.
The two of them froze at the sight of the visitors. “What are you doing here?” Matthew said. “Has something happened to Barbara and the others?”
“No,” Thomas said hastily. “Nothing like that. But it is urgent. James is in danger.”
James walked through the night from the King’s Road toward the Thames. Matthew had often taken him on impromptu tours of Chelsea, past Queen Anne–style buildings with their grand sweeps of stone steps and terra-cotta panels turning gold in the sunshine, pointing out the residences of famous poets and artists who had lived scandalous lives. Now the lit windows of the houses shone dimly through a heavy mist, which grew heavier as James approached the river.
The riverside at Chelsea Embankment was a promenade under plane trees heavy with leaves, visible only as dark clouds above James’s head, their wet trunks illuminated by the ghostly globes of the cast-iron lampposts that lined the river’s edge. The Thames, beyond the river wall, was barely distinguishable in the thick fog: only the sound of a petrol-powered police boat chugging past and the gleams of a bobby’s lantern on its wake betrayed the river’s presence.
James was early. He started walking slowly toward the arch of Battersea Bridge, trying to quell his impatience and worry. Grace. He recalled their kiss in the park, the inchoate agony that had risen up inside him. As if he were being stabbed through with a needle. A premonition of demons, perhaps, the unknown danger so close, the shadow realm just touching this one. It was hard to know, but then it was hard to know anything that had to do with Grace. There were times when he thought of her that he felt such pain that all his bones seemed strung on a single wire, and he imagined that if the wire was pulled taut, it would kill him.
“How much is love meant to hurt?” he had asked his father once.
“Oh, terribly,” his father had said with a smile. “But we suffer for love because love is worth it.”
Suddenly she was there, as if she had appeared between one moment and another, standing beneath an ornate triple-headed lamppost at the near end of the bridge: a small, misty figure in the fog, dressed as she always was in light colors, her face a pale moon in the lamplight. James broke into a run, and she dashed down the steps of the bridge toward where he stood on the embankment.
When they reached each other, she threw her arms around him. Her hands were cool against the back of his neck, and he felt dizzy and assailed by memories: the crumbling walls of Blackthorn Manor, the shadows in the forest where they’d sat and talked together, her hand fastening the silver bracelet around his wrist.…
James drew away enough to look down into her face. “What happened?” he said. “Your letter said you were in danger.”
She dropped a hand now to circle his wrist, her fingers sliding over the band of metal as if to make sure it was still there. Her fingers pressed against his pulse point. “Mama is mad with rage. I don’t know what she will do. She told Charles—”
“I know what she told Charles,” he said. “Please tell me you were not worried about me, Grace.”
“You came to the house to see me,” she said. “Did you know that Cordelia was there?”
He hesitated. How could he say that he hadn’t come to the house to see her? That there had been a moment—a terrible moment—when Cordelia had mentioned that Grace was in the house, and he’d realized he had not thought of her? How was it possible to feel such agony when someone’s name was mentioned, yet forget them in duress? He recalled Jem having told him that stress could do terrible things to one’s mind. Surely that was all it was.
“I didn’t know until I arrived and saw her and Lucie,” he said. “I gather they wanted to see that you were all right. When I came, I heard the noises in the greenhouse, and—” He broke off with a shrug. He hated lying to Grace. “I saw the demon.”
“You were being brave, I know, but Mama does not see it that way. She thinks you came only to humiliate her and remind the world of her father’s misdeeds.”
James badly wanted to kick a lamppost. “Let me talk to her. We could sit down, all of us, my father and you and your mother—”
“James!” Grace looked almost furious for a moment. “What my mother would do to me if I even suggested such a thing—” She shook her head. “No. She watches everything I do. I was barely able to get out tonight. I had thought that coming to London might soften her toward you, but she has become harder than ever. She says the last time Herondales were at Chiswick House, her father and husband died. She says she will not let you destroy us.”
Tatiana is utterly mad, James thought helplessly. He had not realized it had gone so much beyond spite. “Grace, what are you saying?”
“She says she will bring me back to Idris. That she was wrong to let me attend parties and events that you and your sister would be at, and the Lightwoods—she says that I will be corrupted and ruined. She will lock me away, James, for the next two years. I will not see you, not be able to write to you—”
“That is the danger you meant,” he said softly. He understood. Such loneliness would seem like danger to Grace. It would seem like death. “Then come to us at the Institute,” he said. “The Institute is there to provide sanctuary to Nephilim in distress. My parents are kind people. We would protect you from her—”
Grace shook her head hard enough to dislodge her small, flower-trimmed hat. “My mother would only petition to have the Clave return me to her, and they would do it as I am not eighteen yet.”
“You don’t know that. My parents have influence within the Clave—”
“If you truly love me,” she said, her gray eyes flaring, “then you will marry me. Now. We must elope. If we were mundanes, we could run to Gretna Green and marry, and nothing could tear us apart. I would belong to you, and not to her.”
James was stunned. “But we are not mundanes. Their marriage ceremony would not be considered valid by the Clave. Marry me in a Shadowhunter ceremony, Grace. You don’t need her permission—”
“We cannot do that,” Grace protested. “We cannot remain in the Shadowhunter world where my mother can reach us. We must escape her influence, her ability to punish us. We must be married in Gretna and if needs be, we will let our Marks be stripped.”
“Let our Marks be stripped?” James went cold all over. Having your Marks stripped was the most severe punishment a Shadowhunter could endure. It meant exile and becoming a mundane.
He tried to imagine never seeing his parents again, or Lucie, or Christopher or Thomas. Having the bond that tied him to Matthew severed, like having his right hand sliced off. Becoming a mundane and losing everything that made him a Shadowhunter. “Grace, no. That isn’t the answer.”
“It isn’t the answer for you,” she said coolly, “for you have always been a Shadowhunter. I have never been trained, never borne but a few Marks. I know nothing of the history, I have no warrior partner nor friends—I might as well have been raised a mundane!”
“In other words,” said James, “you would be losing nothing, and I would be losing everything.”
Grace stepped out of James’s arms. Pain took her place, the ache of being without her. It was physical, inexpressible, and unexplainable. It was simply what it was: when she was not there, he felt it like a wound.
“You would not be losing me,” said Grace.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, as steadily as he could through the pain. “But we have only to wait a little while and we can be together without also losing everything else.”
“You don’t understand,” Grace cried. “You can’t. You don’t know—”
“Then tell me. What is it? What don’t I know?”
Her voice was hoarse. “I must have you do this for me, James,” she said. “I must. It is so important. More than you can know. Only say you will. Only say it.”
It seemed almost as if she were begging him to say it even if he did not mean it, but what would be the point of that? No. She must want him to mean it. To be willing to do it: risk the end of the only life he knew, risk never seeing any of those he loved again. He closed his eyes and saw, against the backs of his eyelids, the faces of his parents. His sister. Jem. Thomas. Christopher. Matthew. Matthew, who he would be damaging in a way that might never be repaired.
He struggled to say the words, to shape them. When he finally spoke, his voice was as hoarse as if he had been screaming. “No. I cannot do it.”
He saw her flinch back. “This is because you did not come to Idris,” she said, her lips trembling. “At the beginning of this summer. You—you forgot me.”
“I could never have forgotten you. Not after weeks, or months, or years, Grace.”
“Any man would marry me,” she went on. “Any man would do this if I asked him. But not you. You have to be different.” Her mouth twisted. “You are made of different stuff than other men.”
James flung up a hand in protest. “Grace, I do want to marry you—”
“Not enough.” She took a step back from him—then her eyes widened suddenly, and she screamed. James’s body moved faster than thought. He flung himself at Grace and they both hit the pavement hard. Grace gasped and pressed herself against the river wall as a demon shot past them, a hairbreadth away.
And it was a demon. A dark, twisted shape like a mangled tree root, eyeless and noseless but with thorn-sharp brown teeth, its body coated with black slime. It had no wings, but long, bent legs like a frog’s: it sprang at them again, and this time James yanked a blade from his belt and flung it. Runes flashed across the blade like fire as it sailed through the air and struck, nearly blowing apart the demon’s chest. Ichor splattered, and it vanished back to its own dimension.
Grace had scrambled to her feet; he pulled her up the steps and onto the bridge, for a better vantage point. “A Cerberus demon,” she said, blinking. “But it was dead—the one in the greenhouse was dead—that’s why I thought I could leave—” She sucked in her breath. “Oh, God. There are more of them coming.”
She thrust out her hands as if she could push them away. They were coming, indeed: dark shapes were appearing through the fog from the middle of the bridge, crawling and leaping like hellish frog-monsters, slithering and slipping across the wet road. As one hopped toward them, it shot out a long, black, sticky tongue, snatched up an unfortunate pigeon, and deposited the bird into its fanged mouth.
James fired off throwing knives: one, two, three times. Every time, a demon fell. He pressed a knife into Grace’s hand, his eyes entreating her—she backed up against the railing of the bridge, the blade gripped in her shaking hand. A demon reached for her and she stabbed out; it made an eerie howling sound as black-red ichor streamed from its shoulder. It hopped away from her, hissing, and lunged again. She ducked. James flung a knife and destroyed the thing, but he knew he was nearly out of blades. When they were gone, he would have only one weapon left: a seraph blade.
It would not be enough to protect himself and Grace. Nor could they run. The demons would easily catch them.
Two creatures dived for them. James hurled his last blade, dispatching one Cerberus demon in a rain of ichor. The other fell beside it, cloven in two by a dainty throwing axe.
James froze. He knew that axe.
Whirling, he saw Lucie running full tilt toward him from the road. And she was not alone.
Cordelia was there, Cortana gleaming in her hand. Matthew was beside her, armed with Indian chalikars: circular throwing knives edged with razor-sharp steel. Then came Christopher with two crackling seraph blades and Thomas, wielding his bolas. One flick of the ropes, and one twist of Thomas’s powerful arm, and a demon sailed clear off the bridge and into the river.
Alastair Carstairs was also with them. As James stared, he leaped onto the iron railing of the bridge, balancing just as James and Matthew had once done in practice. A long-bladed spear was in his hand. Two sweeps sliced one of the creatures in half. It exploded into nothingness, splattering Alastair with ichor, which struck James as a positive development on two fronts. Alastair leaped down from the railing with a disgusted noise, and charged into the fray.
As the Shadowhunters spread out around them, a cry rose from the demons—a thick, clogged sound. If a corpse rotting in the dirt had a sound, James thought, that was what it would have been. He sprang backward, swung around, and delivered a spinning kick to an oncoming demon. There was a blur of gold, and the demon vanished; James looked up to see Cordelia standing over him, Cortana in her hand. Its blade was smeared with demon blood.
There was no time to thank her. Another demon lunged; James seized his seraph blade. “Zerachiel!” he cried, and the blade became a wand of fire.
His friends were in the thick of battle—save Grace, who had backed away, clutching the dagger. James spared a bitter thought for Tatiana, who had never been willing to let Grace train to fight, before spinning to fend off a reaching demon. Before he could, a crackling seraph blade sliced sideways into the creature’s flesh. It hopped back, hissing like a pot on the boil, leaving James with a clear line of sight to Christopher. He stood holding the seraph blade, which sputtered like a frying potato.
“Christopher,” said James, “what is that thing?”
“A seraph blade! I have tried to enhance it with electricity!”
“Does that work?”
“Not at all,” confessed Christopher, just as a demon flew shrieking at his face. He stabbed it, but his seraph blade leaped with an erratic line of fire. Lucie and Thomas were both there before the demon could touch Christopher, Lucie’s axe and Thomas’s bolas almost meeting in the creature’s flesh. It winked out of existence, but another took its place immediately, rising above them like a menacing cloud.
Abandoning the seraph blade, Christopher seized a dagger from the inside of his waistcoat and stabbed it into the creature. It staggered back, just at the moment that a long spear soared through the fog and slammed into it. It folded like a letter and vanished, leaving a smear of ichor behind.
James looked over wildly and saw Alastair Carstairs, holding a matching spear in his left hand and looking thoughtfully at the spot from which the demon had just vanished.
“You’re carrying spears?” James demanded.
“I never leave the house without my spears!” cried Alastair, causing them all to stare, even Grace.
James had questions, but no chance to ask them. He heard his sister shout, and he dashed forward only to find Lucie and Cordelia fighting back-to-back, a dagger in Lucie’s hand and Cortana in Cordelia’s. Cortana formed a wide golden sweep, and every creature who managed to sneak past Cordelia’s guard, Lucie stabbed. Matthew stood atop the railing, hurling one chalikar after another to provide cover for the girls.
A demon loomed suddenly behind Thomas, whose bolas was wrapped around another demon: possibly around its throat, though with these creatures it was hard to tell.
“Lightwood!” shouted Alastair. “Behind you!”
James knew it was Alastair, because nobody else would be such a fool as to shout that in the middle of a fight. Of course Christopher turned, and of course Thomas, who the shout was aimed at, did not. James dived for Thomas, rolling on the ground to reach him faster, just as the demon lunged. Its teeth and claws raked Thomas’s arm, drawing blood. There was no room for Thomas to use his bolas. He yelled and punched the demon: it staggered and James, rising to his feet, stabbed it through the back.
But there was no time to rest: more demons had come. Matthew leaped down from the railing and ran toward them. He threw himself to the ground and slid the last few feet across the wet pavement—a great sacrifice for Matthew, who loved his clothes—hurling a chalikar into the mass of demons. One went down, but there seemed a dozen others. Alastair was hurling spears with deadly accuracy, Cordelia was laying about her with Cortana like a warrior goddess. They were all fighting well, and yet—
The largest demon rose up in front of James. Without a second’s hesitation, he plunged his seraph blade into the creature. Ichor splashed black against his hand, spattering the ground at his feet. The demon gurgled and seemed to crumple, its froglike legs giving out under it. James raised his blade to dispatch it, just as it looked up at him with its deadly black eyes.
He saw himself reflected in those eyes as if they were mirrors. He saw his own black hair, his pale face, the gold of his pupils. He saw the same expression he had seen on the face of the Deumas in the alleyway near Fleet Street.
Recognition.
“Herondale boy,” the demon said, in a voice like the last hiss of dying fire in a grate. “I know you. I know all about you. The blood of demons burns in your veins. Why would you slay those who worship your mother’s father? Why destroy your own kind?”
James froze. He could see several of the others twist to look over at him: Matthew looked furious, the others horrified. Lucie had her hand over her mouth. Alastair, who stood the closest to him, was staring with wide dark eyes.
James exhaled a shuddering breath. “I am not your kind,” he said.
“You do not know what you are.”
Enough, James thought. This is enough. “If you worship my grandfather,” he said savagely, “then go, in his name. Not back to Chiswick House—back to the dimension you came from.”
The demon hesitated, and as it did, all the other demons went still. Every figure at the riverside was turned toward James.
“We will go, then, as you say, to show that we honor your blood,” said the demon. “But there is one condition. If you or your friends speak a word of what happened here, tonight, to any member of the Clave, we will return. And your families will pay in blood and death for your betrayal.”
“Don’t you dare—!” James began.
The demon grinned. “In the name of Hell’s most cunning prince,” it said, in a voice so low only James could hear it.
Then it vanished—they all vanished. As quickly as the world had exploded into motion and noise, it went still again. James could hear the river, the harsh breath of Alastair nearby, the pounding of his own heart.
He dropped his still-burning blade to the ground. He saw Lucie and Cordelia lower their weapons. Thomas and Matthew staggered to their feet; there was a cut along Matthew’s face, and Thomas’s shirt was torn, his arm bleeding badly.
They were all staring at James. He felt numb.
He had known his grandfather was a Greater Demon. But Princes of Hell were another matter. They were fallen angels. As powerful as Raziel, but evil and rotten to the core.
Hell’s most cunning prince. He couldn’t help but look at Lucie, but it was clear she hadn’t heard the demon’s final words: she was smiling and saying something to Cordelia.
Demons lied. Why should Lucie have to torment herself over a possible untruth? His mind raced ahead: he had to talk to Uncle Jem again, as soon as possible. Jem was the one who had been looking for their grandfather. Jem would know what to do.
It was Christopher who broke the silence. “What just happened?”
“Demons vanished,” said Matthew, dabbing blood from his face. “The leader seemed to feel it was an old friend of James’s grandfather.”
“Oh, the demony grandfather?” said Christopher.
“Yes, obviously the demony one, Christopher,” said James.
“The other one’s Welsh,” said Thomas, as if this explained things. He directed this statement in Alastair and Cordelia’s direction.
“No need to explain about Herondale,” said Alastair, with an unpleasant smile. “I imagine this happens to him fairly often.”
Cordelia stepped on his foot.
Grace had emerged from the shadows. She walked toward the rest of the group, her hands clasped in front of her, her face white and stiff. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to fight—”
“It’s all right,” James said, “it’s all right, we’ll get you trained properly—”
“James! Grace!” It was Lucie. She gestured toward the road; a second later James heard jingling, and saw an old-fashioned pony trap emerging from the fog, drawn by two scrawny brown horses. Sitting in the trap was Tatiana Blackthorn.
She pulled up short and leaped down from the carriage. As always, she presented a bizarre appearance: she was wearing a costume with full skirts and fussy lace, a dress from another age made for a much younger and plumper girl. On her head was a hat piled high with false fruit and stuffed birds. It trembled with her rage as she raked the group with her furious gaze, which came to rest on her daughter.
“Grace,” she snapped. “Get into the trap. Now.”
Grace turned to James; her face was white. In a low voice, he said, “You do not need to do as she says. Come back to the Institute with me. I beg of you.”
Grace’s face was still tearstained, but her expression had closed like a bank vault. “James. I cannot. Walk me to the carriage, please.”
James hesitated.
“Please,” she said. “I mean what I say.”
Reluctantly, James held out his arm for Grace to take. He saw Tatiana’s lips tighten into a thin line. James waited for her to snap, but she stayed silent: she had clearly not expected so many Shadowhunters there. And so many from the families she hated—Herondales, Lightwoods, Carstairs… she would wish to be gone as soon as possible, James suspected.
She glared daggers at James as he walked to the carriage, supporting Grace on his arm. He helped her in, and she sank back against the seat, her eyes closing wearily. James wished he could say something to her about the argument they’d had earlier. He and Grace had never argued before. He wanted to beg her not to go back to Chiswick House, but he suspected it would only make things worse for her if he did.
“I will write to you tomorrow,” he began.
“No,” Grace said through white lips. “No. I require some time, James. I will write to you.”
“That’s enough,” hissed Tatiana, shooing James away from the carriage. “Leave my daughter alone, Herondale. I don’t need you luring her into trouble—”
“The only trouble we encountered was your family’s Cerberus demons,” said James in a low, furious tone. “I suggest you cease with your threats, unless you wish me to tell the Clave about them.”
He couldn’t tell anyone, of course, given the demon’s threat, but Tatiana didn’t know that. Not that it mattered. A low chuckle bubbled its way up from her throat. “My demons?” she echoed. “And where are they now, Herondale?”
“Dead,” James said shortly. “We killed them.”
“How impressive,” she said. “Tattle away, boy. I’ll tell the Clave Grace raised the demons herself. I’ll tell them she’s deep in black magic studies up to her pretty little ears. I’ll turn her loose and throw her back on their mercy with her reputation stained forever. I’ll ruin her life, if you want to play that game.” She jabbed a finger toward his chest. “You care, Herondale. That is your weakness.”
James stepped back in revulsion as Tatiana clambered into the trap. A moment later it was rattling off down the road, the ponies snorting and the reins jangling.
There was a long and awkward silence as the group of Shadowhunters watched the Blackthorn carriage vanish into the fog.
“Well,” said Alastair at last. “I think it’s time for Cordelia and I to be going.”
“I cannot go yet,” said Cordelia. She held out her arm and saw her brother’s eyes widen. A long, bloody cut ran from her elbow to her wrist. She had barely felt it during the battle, but it was beginning to sting. “I need a healing rune. If I return home like this, Mother will faint.”
“Several of us are wounded,” said Christopher. “Unless we want to explain what happened here, and it seems that would be a bad idea, we should probably apply iratzes.” He turned to Thomas. “I will do yours.”
“Please don’t,” said Thomas. Christopher did not always have the best of luck with runes.
“Oh, bloody hell, I’ll do it,” said Alastair, and stomped heavily over to Thomas’s side. Thomas watched in what seemed to be shock as Alastair produced a stele and began to draw on the bare skin of his arm where his shirt had been torn.
Beside Cordelia, Lucie produced her stele with a flourish. “Our first healing rune!” she announced, putting the tip of the stele to Cordelia’s wrist. “A historic moment for a pair of soon-to-be-famous parabatai.”
“I hate to seem ungrateful for the assistance,” said James. “But what on earth brought you all here? How did you know what was going to happen?”
“I heard about the Cerberus from Jess—Jessamine,” said Lucie, putting the finishing touches on Cordelia’s rune. They were both leaning against the low wall that ran along the Embankment. “Ghosts, they gossip.” She repeated for James the story she’d told the rest of them on the way to Chelsea, finishing with: “So, it seems the demon you killed in the greenhouse had time to multiply, and the new demons came looking for Grace when she left Chiswick.”
“There were certainly a lot of them,” said Cordelia. “Much worse than just the one in the greenhouse.”
“Perhaps they all had secret assignations with Grace,” said Lucie.
Alastair snorted. “That Blackthorn woman must be mad, letting Cerberus demons run wild in her shrubberies,” he said, putting his stele away. Thomas touched his own arm with a sort of wondering look; his wound was already beginning to close up. Alastair might be snappish, but he was handy with a stele.
James and Matthew had sat down on the ground so James could properly steady Matthew’s face with his hand. He drew an iratze lightly on his cheek while Matthew squirmed and complained. “It’s hard to say how much she knew,” James said. “I’m sure she was aware of the original demon in the greenhouse, but likely not its vengeful progeny.”
“She knew enough to come here,” Christopher pointed out. “Though she may just have been following Grace.”
James looked thoughtful; Cordelia could not help but wonder what Tatiana had said to him by the pony trap. He had looked stunned, as if she had hit him in the face.
“They disappeared because you told them to, didn’t they?” Cordelia said.
“So it seems.” James was examining Matthew’s cheek, apparently considering his rune work. Satisfied, he sat back. Matthew produced a flask from his pocket with a relieved air, unscrewed the top, and took a long drink. “They went back to whatever dimension Cerberus demons hail from. In the name of my grandfather.”
He sounded bitter.
“How nice for you to be related to such an important sort of demon,” said Alastair dryly.
“If it actually cared that James was related to an ‘important’ demon, it should have said something to me, too,” said Lucie. “I am his sister. I do not appreciate being overlooked.”
James smiled—which, Cordelia suspected, had been Lucie’s aim. He had a perfectly lethal dimple that flashed when he smiled. Such things should be illegal.
“They’re loyal to the Blackthorn family, in their horrid sort of way,” said Lucie thoughtfully. “That’s why they wanted us not to say anything about what happened tonight.”
“Ah,” said Alastair. “Because the Clave wouldn’t look too kindly on the Blackthorns breeding a pack of Cerberus demons and letting them chase after Herondale, even though he is very irritating.”
“I told you, Benedict Lightwood’s the one that bred them,” Lucie said crossly.
“Unpleasant as all that was,” Matthew said, “there is something comforting about fighting the ordinary kind of demon under cover of darkness, rather than poisonous ones that appear during the day.”
“Oh!” said Cordelia. “That reminds me. We should tell them what Hypatia said, Matthew. That we could speak to Ragnor Fell about the demons in the park.”
Everyone started to sputter questions. Matthew held up a hand. “Yes, we spoke to Hypatia Vex at the Hell Ruelle. She said she would send Ragnor a message. It is hardly a sure thing.”
“Perhaps, but Anna was right,” said Cordelia. “We must speak to more Downworlders regardless. There was much talk of Magnus Bane—”
“Ah, Magnus Bane,” said Matthew. “My personal hero.”
“Indeed, you once described him as ‘Oscar Wilde if he had magic powers,’ ” said James.
“Magnus Bane threw a party in Spain I attended,” said Thomas. “It was a little difficult, since I did not know a soul. I got rather drunk.”
Matthew lowered the flask with a grin. “Is that when you got your tattoo?”
Lucie clapped her hands. “The boys joke about the tattoo Thomas got in Spain, but Thomas will never let me see it. Isn’t that the meanest thing you ever heard, Cordelia? I am a writer. I believe I should have the experience of studying a tattoo at close quarters.”
“I believe you shouldn’t,” said Thomas, with conviction.
“Is the problem that it is in an unmentionable place?” asked Lucie.
“No, Lucie,” said Thomas, with a hunted air.
“I’d like to see it,” said Alastair, in a surprisingly quiet voice.
Thomas hesitated, then unbuttoned the shirtsleeve of his unwounded arm, and rolled it up to his elbow. Everyone leaned forward. Against the pale skin on the inside of Thomas’s muscular arm was a gray-and-black tracery of a compass. North, south, east, and west were delineated by blades like the points of daggers, and at the heart of the compass, unfurling dark petals, was a rose.
Cordelia had thought a tattoo would be rather more like their Marks, but it reminded her of something else instead. It was ink, the way books and poems were made of ink, telling a permanent story.
Lucy applauded. Alastair made an odd sort of noise. He was looking away, as if the sight of Thomas bothered him.
“I think it is lovely, Thomas,” Cordelia said. “North points up your arm, along the vein that runs to your heart.”
“So does that mean you’re close friends with Magnus Bane, Thomas?” said Lucie. “Can you reach out to him for help?”
“He never even made an appearance at the party,” said Thomas, rolling his sleeve down. “But reaching out to Ragnor Fell is a good idea.”
“As long as he will keep all this to himself,” said Christopher, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “We cannot tell any Shadowhunters what happened here tonight. We all heard what that demon said.”
There was a murmur of assent, broken by Alastair. “Cordelia and I must depart,” he said. “As for your little secrets, you cannot trust demons. It does not matter what they claim.”
Cordelia knew that tone in his voice. “Alastair, you must promise to keep everything that happened here tonight to yourself.”
“Why should I promise?” Alastair demanded.
“Because even if demons are liars, the risk is too great,” said Cordelia, a little desperately. “The demon said it would target our families if any of us spoke of what happened tonight. Think of Mother and Father.”
Alastair looked mutinous.
“If you do not promise,” Cordelia added, “I will not go home with you. I will stay out all night and be utterly ruined. I will have to marry Thomas or Christopher.”
“What ho,” said Christopher, looking surprised. Thomas smiled.
“If you have any concern for our family, you must promise,” Cordelia said. “Please, Alastair.”
There was a murmur all around; Lucie looked worried. James was looking at Cordelia with an expression she could not decipher.
Alastair’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, I promise,” he muttered. “Now come away at once. We have much to discuss when we return home.”
It was nearing midnight when the five of them—Lucie, James, Matthew, Thomas, and Christopher—finally returned to the Institute. Lucie regarded the bright-lit windows curiously as they spilled into the courtyard. It was unusual at this hour for all the lamps to be on.
James lifted a finger to his lips before pushing open the wide front doors—they opened to the touch of any Shadowhunter’s hand—and led the way inside and up the stairs.
The first-floor hallway shimmered with witchlights. The door of the parlor stood open, and the sound of a Welsh song rang out into the corridor.
Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus,
Aur y byd na’i berlau mân:
Gofyn wyf am galon hapus,
Calon onest, calon lân.
James and Lucie exchanged a worried look. If Will was singing, that meant he was in a sociable mood and would seize them the moment he saw them and begin reminiscing about Wales and ducks.
“Perhaps,” said James in a whisper, “we should all swiftly exit and ascend to an upper chamber using a window and a grappling hook.”
Tessa appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. At the sight of all five of them, she raised her eyebrows. Lucie and James exchanged a glance: too late for the grappling hook.
Lucie stepped forward and slid an arm around her mother’s waist. “Sorry, Mam, we had a late picnic down by the river. Are we in trouble?”
Tessa smiled. “You are all scamps, but I hope you enjoyed yourselves. We can discuss this later. Your father has a guest. Go in and introduce yourselves. I’ll just pop up to the infirmary and be back.”
James led their expedition into the parlor, Thomas, Matthew, and Christopher all murmuring their greetings to Tessa as they passed. In the parlor, sitting upon two matched gray velvet wing-backed chairs, were Will and a tall green warlock with horns curling in his snowy hair. He wore a dour expression.
Will made the introductions. “Ragnor Fell, my beloved son and daughter. Also a disgraceful pack of home invaders. I think you all know Ragnor Fell, the former High Warlock of London?”
“He taught us in the Academy,” Christopher said.
Ragnor Fell glared at him. “By the name of Lilith,” he drawled. “Hide the breakables. Hide the whole house. Christopher Lightwood is here.”
“Christopher is often here,” said James. “The house remains mostly intact.”
Will grinned. “Mr. Fell is here on a social call,” he said. “Isn’t that nice?”
Will had tried to make clear that the Institute’s doors were open to Downworlders, but few had ever taken him up on that hospitality. Will and Henry talked often of Magnus Bane, but Bane had been in America Lucie’s whole life.
“Mr. Fell expressed a keen interest in Welsh music, so I sang a few songs,” said Will. “Also, we had a few glasses of port. We’ve been enjoying ourselves.”
“I have been here for hours,” said Ragnor, in a dolorous voice. “There have been many songs.”
“I know you enjoyed them,” said Will. His eyes were sparkling. Far above them, Lucie heard an odd sound: as if something in the house had tipped over and crashed. Perhaps a lamp.
“I do feel as if I have been to Wales and back,” said Ragnor. His eyes lit on Matthew. “The Consul’s son,” he said. “I remember you. Your mother is a kind woman—has she quite gotten over her illness?”
“That was some years ago,” Matthew said. He attempted a smile and failed; Lucie bit her lip. Few knew that Charlotte had been quite ill when Matthew was fifteen, and she had lost a baby she was carrying. Poor Matthew, to be so reminded.
Matthew walked over to the mantel and poured himself a glass of sherry with slightly trembling hands. Lucie saw Will’s eyes follow Matthew, but before he could speak, the parlor door opened and Tessa appeared, carrying a lighted taper. Her face was in shadow.
“Will, bach,” she said in a low voice. “Come with me for a moment; I have something to ask you.”
Will sprang to his feet with alacrity. He always did when Tessa was the one who called him away. Lucie knew the love her parents shared was an extraordinary one. It was the kind of love she tried to capture in the pages of her own writing, but she could never find the right words.
As soon as the door shut behind Lucie’s parents, Ragnor Fell wheeled on James.
“I see this generation of Shadowhunters has no more sense than the last,” he said sharply. “Why are you gallivanting around London town at this time of night when I need to speak with you?”
“What, and interrupt your social call?” said James, grinning. “Father said you were listening to Welsh songs for hours.”
“Yes, more’s the pity.” Ragnor made an impatient gesture. “My friend Hypatia let me know that some young Shadowhunters came to her salon tonight asking questions about unusual demons and hinting at a dire future for us all. She mentioned your name.” He stabbed a finger in Matthew’s direction. “She said she owed you lot some sort of debt and asked if I could help.”
“Will you?” Thomas spoke for the first time since they had entered the parlor. “My sister is one of the wounded.”
Ragnor looked astonished. “Thomas Lightwood? Lord, you’re huge. What have the Nephilim been feeding you?”
“I grew a little,” Thomas said, impatient. “Can you help Barbara? The Silent Brothers have put all those injured to sleep, but so far there is no cure.”
Thomas gripped the wooden back of a chair, carved to represent crossed seraph blades. His skin was tanned, but he held the chair so hard his hands were white. Ragnor Fell surveyed the room, his pale eyebrows raised.
“The scarcity of demons in London over the past years has not escaped my notice,” he said. “I have also heard the rumors that a powerful warlock is behind this absence.”
“Do you believe it?” said Lucie.
“No. If we warlocks could easily keep demons out of our cities, we would do it. But it would not require a powerful warlock so much as a corrupt one to play with this kind of magic.”
“What do you mean?” said James. “Surely keeping demons away is a good thing, not a bad one.”
Ragnor nodded his shaggy head slowly. “One would think,” he said. “And yet what we are seeing here is that someone has cleared the minor demons out of London in order to make a path for those even more dangerous.” Ragnor hesitated. “Among warlocks, my name is often invoked when dimensional magic is spoken of—the most difficult and unstable kind of magic, the kind that involves other worlds than ours. I have made myself a student of it, and none knows more than I. Demons cannot appear in daylight. It is a rule of nature. And yet. Are there ways to bring demons into this world that would make them impervious to it?”
“Yes?” Lucie hazarded.
Ragnor glared. “Don’t expect me to tell you what they are,” he said. “Only that they are forbidden by the Spiral Labyrinth, for they involve complex dimensional magic that presents a danger to the fabric of the world itself.” He shook his white mane of hair. “I do not have solid information, only rumors and guesses. I would not betray one of my own kind to a member of the Clave unless I knew for certain that they were guilty of a crime, for the Clave would arrest them first and examine the evidence later. But you… you are children. Not yet in the Clave. If you were to look into this…”
“We won’t tell Father anything you don’t want us to,” James promised. “We won’t tell anyone. We swear it on Raziel’s name.”
“Except Cordelia,” said Lucie hurriedly. “She is to be my parabatai. I cannot hide things from her. But we will not tell anyone else, and certainly not a single adult.”
There was a murmur as the others promised along with her. To swear something, for a Shadowhunter, was a serious thing; to swear on the name of the Angel was even more serious.
Ragnor turned to James. “Few warlocks could perform this magic, and even fewer would be willing. In fact, I can think of only one so corrupt. Emmanuel Gast. Word among the warlocks is, if the price is high enough, there is no work too low for him. I do not know if the rumor is true, but I do know his address.”
Ragnor went to the writing desk in the corner of the room and scratched the address down upon a sheet of paper. Lucie stared at the Waterman’s gold-embossed fountain pen in Ragnor Fell’s heavy hands, an extra joint on each finger making the shadow of his hand upon the page seem almost a claw.
“Thank you,” said James, when the warlock was done.
“I don’t suppose I need to ask you not to tell Gast who sent you,” he said, straightening up from the desk. “If I find out you did, I shall turn you all into a matched set of teacups. As for me, I am going to Capri. My nerves are in a state. If London is to be devoured by demons, I do not wish to be present for the event. Good luck to you all.”
This seemed an odd attitude for a former High Warlock, but Lucie kept her mouth shut as Fell made his way to the door. She thought he might leave without another word, but he lingered a moment.
“I do not entirely know how to treat you Herondales,” he admitted. “A warlock has never had a child before. I cannot help but wonder: What will you become?”
He looked steadily at James, and then at Lucie. The fire crackled in the grate, but neither of them spoke. Lucie thought of the demon at the bridge, telling James it would honor his blood. Her blood.
Ragnor shrugged.
“So be it,” he said, and left.
Lucie dashed over to the writing desk and seized the piece of paper in her hands, then spun around smiling. Thomas and James returned her smile; Thomas with hope, James with weariness. Matthew was gazing bleakly at the glass in his hand.
Then the door opened, and Will and Tessa came in.
Lucie, worried for an instant they had heard some betraying hint of Ragnor Fell’s information, tucked the paper quickly into the pocket of her walking dress. Then she caught sight of their faces, and everything else was forgotten.
It was like the end of summer in Idris. One day she and James would be playing in the forest among the green trees and mossy dells of flowers. Then would come an almost imperceptible change in the air and she would know: there would be frost tomorrow.
Thomas backed up, his face turning white beneath his tan. His shoulder struck Matthew’s and the glass fell from Matthew’s hands. It shattered at their feet, scattering shards across the hearth.
There would be no more waiting for frost, Lucie thought. It was here.
“Thomas, we are so sorry,” said Tessa, reaching out her hands. “Your parents are on their way. Barbara has died.”