Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Have you tried? Have you tried to use it?”


“I have,” Lucie said slowly. “Jessamine allowed me to attempt it. But it didn’t work, and—I’m glad of it. I am sorry if I cannot help you, but I am not sorry the power is gone. It would not have been a kindness to use it on Annabel. I understand you still grieve for her, but—”

Malcolm glanced at her and then away, so quickly that Lucie was only conscious of the flaring fury in his eyes, the twist of his mouth. He looked as if he would slap her if he could. “You understand nothing,” he hissed, “and like all Shadowhunters, when you make a promise to a Downworlder, you will inevitably break it.”

Shaken, Lucie said, “Could I not help you some other way? I could try to get some kind of restitution from the Clave, an apology for what was done to Annabel—”

“No.” He flung himself to his feet. “I will get my own restitution. The Nephilim have reached the end of their usefulness for me.” He looked past Lucie, then, at Jesse. Jesse with his black hair and green eyes, Jesse with his resemblance to the family portraits in Chiswick House. Was Malcolm thinking how much Jesse looked like Annabel, like all his ancestors? His face was without emotion—the fury had gone from it, leaving only a sort of calculating blankness. “I will not trust a Shadowhunter again,” he said, and without another glance at her, walked away.

She sat for a moment on the bench, unmoving. She could not help but blame herself. She should never have made foolish promises, should not have said she would use her power, even after what had happened to Gast. She had not meant to take advantage of Malcolm—she had meant to keep her end of the bargain, however she might have regretted making it. But she knew he would never believe that.

Jesse was on his feet when she returned to the picnic blanket. He caught her hand, his expression troubled. “I was about to come over there—”

“It’s all right,” Lucie said. “He’s upset with me. I did make him a promise and break it. I feel awful.”

Jesse shook his head. “There’s nothing you could have done. You did not know the power would be extinguished,” he said. “In the end, his anger is not at you. It is at what happened a long time ago. I only hope he can let go of it. Nothing can be done for Annabel now, and dwelling on the past will poison his future.”

“When did you get so wise?” she whispered, and Jesse drew her into the circle of his arms. For a moment they stayed as they were, reveling in each other’s closeness. It was a wonder to be able to hold Jesse, to touch him without awful darkness surrounding her, Lucie thought. And, more practically, it was rather nice to be in Jesse’s arms without her parents watching them like hawks. Though they lived together in the Institute, they were strictly forbidden from visiting each other’s rooms unless the doors were left open; no amount of complaining on Lucie’s part would budge Will. “I’m sure you and Mother got up to all sorts of scandalous things when you lived together in the Institute,” Lucie had said.

“Exactly,” Will replied darkly.

Tessa had laughed. “Maybe when you’re engaged, we can loosen the rules,” she said cheerfully.

It was not Jesse’s fault they were not engaged, Lucie thought now; she’d told him they could marry when she sold her first novel, and he seemed to think that was a fine timeline. She was working on it now: The Beautiful Cordelia and Secret Princess Lucie Defeat the Wicked Powers of Darkness.

Jesse had suggested she shorten the title. Lucie had said she would think about it. She was beginning to see the value in critique.

She let herself forget her sadness over Malcolm now, as she tipped her face back and smiled up at Jesse.

“You told me once you don’t believe in endings, happy or otherwise,” he said, his calloused hand gently cradling the back of her head. “Is that still true?”

“Of course,” she said. “We have so much yet ahead—good, bad, and everything else. I believe this is our happy middle. Don’t you?”

And he kissed her, which Lucie took confidently to mean that he agreed.



* * *



“I do not see,” Alastair said as Oscar deposited a stick at his feet, “why this hound here got a medal. None of the rest of us got a medal.”

“Well, it isn’t an official medal,” said Thomas, dropping to his knees in the grass to rub Oscar’s head and muddle his ears about. “You do know that.”

“The Consul presented it,” Alastair said, kneeling down as well. He caught at the little medallion attached to Oscar’s collar. It was etched with the words OSCAR WILDE, HERO DOG. Charlotte had presented it to Matthew, saying that as far as she was concerned, Oscar had done as much as any human to save London.

“Because the Consul is the mother of the dog’s owner,” pointed out Thomas, trying—and failing—to prevent Oscar from licking his face.

“Terrible favoritism,” Alastair said.

A year ago, perhaps Thomas would have thought Alastair was being serious; now he knew he was being ridiculous on purpose. He was quite a bit sillier than anyone gave him credit for. A year ago, Thomas would never have been able to picture Alastair down on his knees in the mud and grass with a dog. He would not have been able to picture Alastair smiling, much less smiling at him, and it would have been far beyond his wildest imaginings to picture what kissing Alastair would be like.

Now, he and Alastair would be helping Sona move, along with baby Zachary, to Cirenworth, and after that, Thomas would be joining Alastair to live at Cornwall Gardens. (Thomas still remembered Alastair asking him if he would like it if they lived together; Alastair had been clearly terrified that Thomas would say no, and Thomas had had to kiss him and kiss him until he was pushed up against a wall and breathless before he finally believed that Thomas’s answer was yes.)

Thomas had wondered if he’d be nervous about the move, but found he was only excited at the thought of a home with Alastair. (No matter how much Cordelia teased him that Alastair snored sometimes and left his dirty socks about.) He’d been nervous to tell his parents the truth about himself and his feelings for Alastair too. He’d chosen an ordinary night in February when they were all gathered in the drawing room: Sophie had been knitting something for Charlotte, Gideon had been looking over some papers for the Clave, and Eugenia had been reading Esme Hardcastle’s History of the Shadowhunters of London and screaming with laughter. Everything had been quite entirely ordinary until Thomas had stood up in front of the fireplace and cleared his throat loudly.

Everyone had looked at him, Sophie’s knitting needles arrested in mid-motion.

“I am in love with Alastair Carstairs,” Thomas had said loudly and slowly, so there could be no mistake, “and I am going to spend the rest of my life with him.”

There had been a momentary silence.

“I didn’t think you even liked Alastair,” Gideon had said, looking puzzled. “Not much, at least.”

Eugenia had tossed her book to the floor. Rising to her feet, she regarded her parents—the whole room, in fact, even the cat asleep by the window—with a magnificent righteousness. “If anyone here condemns Thomas for who he is or who he loves,” she had announced, “he and I will leave this house immediately. I will reside with him and renounce the rest of you as my family.”

Thomas was wondering in alarm how he would explain this business of Eugenia residing with him to Alastair, when Sophie put down her reading glasses with a click. “Eugenia,” she had said, “do not be ridiculous. No one here is going to condemn Thomas.”

Thomas had exhaled in relief. Eugenia had looked slightly deflated. “No?”

“No,” Gideon had said firmly.

Sophie looked at Thomas, her eyes full of affection. “Thomas, my darling, we love you and we want you to be happy. If Alastair makes you happy, then we are delighted. Although it would be nice if you introduced us,” she added pointedly. “Perhaps you could bring him to dinner?”

Eugenia might feel let down, but Thomas didn’t. He had always known his parents loved him, but knowing that they loved the whole truth of him felt like putting down something very heavy that he’d been carrying for a long time, without realizing the weight of it.