Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cordelia had gone a sickly color. “How could you not tell me that?” she whispered. “You were going to go ahead with the ceremony, then, without warning me? What if something had happened to you during it—what if the ghosts meant harm?”


“I was going to tell you,” Lucie protested. “But then the thing with Lilith happened, and you told me that we couldn’t become parabatai—”

“Yes, because I thought I owed you the truth before we bonded ourselves together.”

Carbas moaned in pleasure. “Don’t stop,” he groaned. “This is wonderful! It’s rare I get two people telling secrets about each other. I haven’t enjoyed a revelation this much since I found out Napoleon always hid his hand inside his jacket because he kept a spare sandwich there.”

He leered again.

“Oh, ugh,” said Lucie, thoroughly revolted. “That’s enough. We’ve done what you asked—by your own rules, you have to let us leave.”

Carbas sighed and looked sadly at the flapping skull, as if seeking sympathy. “Well, if you return this way, do stop by and see old Carbas.” As he spoke, a hidden door in the far wall swung open. Through it Lucie could see the familiar bloody orange light of Edom. “But then again,” Carbas added, as Lucie and Cordelia made their way to the door, “this is Edom. Who are we trying to fool? You’ll be lucky to make it to nightfall, Nephilim. You certainly won’t be coming back here.”





31 BRIGHT VOLUMES




At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

—William Wordsworth, “The Reverie of Poor Susan”



“Are you sure?” said Alastair, unable to hide the doubt in his voice.

“We’re sure,” Anna said. She, Ari, and Alastair stood in the entryway of the Institute. They were all in gear. They had taken just enough time for Anna to pack a small haversack in which she had placed maps, a few flasks of drinking water, and a packet of Jacob’s Biscuits.

“But he’s just a dog,” Alastair objected.

With a deeply offended look, Oscar went to sit on Ari’s feet. “Oscar is not just a dog,” she said, reaching down to scratch the retriever’s head. “He is a member of our team. Without him, we would have had to go through the York Gate.”

“Oscar is the least of our problems,” Anna said. “We have to locate the site of a church that burned down hundreds of years ago, and hope to discover a lost entrance to the Silent City. Oscar’s task is simple by comparison.”

Oscar barked. Alastair sighed. “I hope the hound gets a medal from the Clave after this. Though he’d probably prefer a soup bone.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Ari, lifting one of Oscar’s ears and letting it flop back down. “Isn’t that right, best puppy pup?”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “I think Ari misses Winston,” she said. “Alastair, you’ll need to tell Grace and Jesse—”

“To send fire-messages instructing the Enclave to meet you at the entrance to the Iron Tombs. I know,” Alastair said. “You do realize they haven’t sent a successful message yet, to the Enclave or anyone else.”

“I know,” Anna said. “And if we reach the Iron Tombs and there’s no one there, we’ll know they’ve failed. We’ll start out toward the Adamant Citadel. Once we’re there, we can at least start getting messages to the Clave, and we’ll bring back as many Shadowhunters as we can, as soon as we can.” She did her best to sound as if it would be all right either way; the truth was that she was praying to the Angel that Christopher’s pet project could be made to work.

“Are you sure you want to go now?” Alastair said. “The Silent City could be crawling with Watchers. Thomas and I would go with you—”

“Thomas needs rest,” Anna said firmly. “And we have no time to waste. Every moment we are not taking action is one in which Belial could be breaking down James’s resolve, or enacting some other horrible plan. Besides—you can’t leave Jesse and Grace alone here. They will need you, especially traveling back and forth to Grosvenor Square—”

“I just feel that we’re disappearing one by one, vanishing from London,” Alastair said. He looked oddly vulnerable; Anna suspected he had been more worried about Thomas than he had let on.

“If we succeed,” Anna said, “then we will return in force. And if it doesn’t work, it won’t be this excursion to the Silent City that makes the difference.”

“If we stick together—”

“Alastair,” Anna said, and then, “You’ve surprised me, you know. I used to think you were an uncaring cad. And not in the entertaining, novelish way, but in the selfish, everyday kind of way.”

“I hope this is the part where you explain you’ve changed your mind,” Alastair muttered.

Ari hid a smile behind her hand.

“I started to think better of you when you helped Thomas, after he was arrested. And now, well—there isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck at the end of the world with.” Anna put out her hand. After a moment, with a look of bemusement, Alastair shook it. “I’m glad that you’ll be here, looking after London,” she added. “We’ll see you soon.”

Alastair seemed surprised into speechlessness. Which was all right, as far as Anna was concerned; she’d said what she wanted to say. She and Ari descended the Institute steps, Oscar frolicking at their heels.

Anna was aware that Alastair was watching them go, but she didn’t turn back to look at him. There had been too many goodbyes lately; she didn’t need another.



* * *



“You are right,” Matthew said, after a long silence. “I don’t like your plan.” He was still leaning against James’s chest, though he’d stopped shivering. “I don’t suppose you have a different, less dangerous one.”

“We haven’t much in the way of other choices,” said James. “Belial rules here; this dead land does his bidding. He wants me to wish to join with him, but he is losing patience; if I simply allow it, even reluctantly, he will accept that as what he can get. He has planned too much, worked too hard, to give up now.”

“He will think you’ve given up. Embraced despair.”

“Good,” said James. “He will assume my great weakness has finally caught up with me: that I care too much, or at all, about other people. To him, that is humiliating frailty. He will not imagine a plan behind it.”

Matthew looked back at him. He had begun to shiver again and was plucking restlessly at the fabric of the coat slung over him with his fingers, like a typhus patient. “Belial has sought possession of your body all this time. Why not do this before? Why wait until now?”

“Two reasons. One, I need him to believe I am desperate. And two, I am terrified. The idea of doing this frightens me more than anything else, and yet—”

Matthew jerked in James’s arms. His whole body seemed to tighten, rigid as a plank, before he went limp, gasping.

James gripped his hand tightly. When Matthew had caught his breath, he said, “Kit said—seizures.”

And heart failure, James thought, feeling sick, but he did not say the words aloud. “I should get you more water.”

“James, no—don’t—” Matthew clawed at James’s wrist before his eyes rolled up and his body began to jerk again. Swift, uncoordinated movements like a puppet being pulled too hard by its strings.

Panic bloomed in James’s chest. Kit had been clear: people could die from this. That Matthew would need a fortnight to physically stop drinking, and it had been nowhere near a fortnight. Matthew could die, he thought, die right there in his arms, and they would be split apart. Divided in half. Never again would James have his parabatai—the infuriating, ridiculous, generous, devoted, exasperating other half of his soul.

With a shaking hand, James yanked his stele from his pocket. He caught hold of Matthew’s flailing arm, held it still. Set the tip of the stele to his skin and drew a healing rune.

It flashed and faded, like a sputtering match. James knew, rationally: runes didn’t work here. But he didn’t stop. He could hear Jem’s voice in his head. Soft, steady. You must build a fortress of control around yourself. You must come to know this power, so that you may master it.

He drew a second iratze. It, too, vanished. Then a third, and then a fourth, and he began to lose count as he scrawled over and over on Matthew’s skin, willing his mind to concentrate on holding the iratze there, on keeping it from vanishing, on somehow forcing it to work.

Remember you are the language of angels, he thought, drawing yet another rune. Remember there is no place in the universe you do not have some power.