Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I understand.” His voice was level. “We all have those we wish to reach, by any means possible. Some are separated from us by death, some by their refusal to listen, or our inability to speak.”


Impulsively, she took his hand, threading her fingers through his. His black gloves were striking against her scarlet ones. Black and red as the pieces on a chessboard. She said, “Matthew. When we return to London—for someday, we will—you must talk to your parents. They will forgive you. They are your family.”

His eyes seemed more black than green. He said, “Do you forgive your father?”

The question hurt. “He never asked for my forgiveness,” she said. “Perhaps, if he had—and perhaps that is what I want to hear, why I wish I could speak to him one more time. For I wish I could forgive him. It is a heavy weight to bear, bitterness.”

His hand tightened on hers. “And I wish I could take the weight for you.”

“You carry enough already.” The carriage began to slow, rolling to a stop before the cabaret. Light spilled from the open doors of the demon’s mouth. Cordelia squeezed Matthew’s hand and drew her own back. They were here.

The same bearded, heavy-shouldered guard stood beside the cabaret door as Cordelia approached; Matthew was a few steps behind her, having paused to pay the driver. As she drew near the entrance, Cordelia saw the guard shake his head.

“No entrance for you,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Paladin.”





6 THROUGH BLOOD




Whose hearts must I break? What lie must I maintain?

Through whose blood am I to wade?

—Arthur Rimbaud, “A Season in Hell”



Cordelia’s blood turned to ice. But no one knows, she thought. No one knows. It was a secret, that she was bound to Lilith. She and Matthew had spoken of Cortana here, last night, but they had not mentioned the Mother of Demons, nor the word “paladin.” She said, “You must be mistaken. I—”

“Non. Je sais ce que je sais. Vous n’avez pas le droit d’entrer,” the guard snapped. I know what I know. You cannot come inside.

“What’s going on?” Matthew asked in French, approaching the door. “You are refusing us entrance?”

The guard retorted; they raced ahead so quickly in French that Cordelia had trouble keeping up. The guard was still refusing; Matthew was telling him there had been a mistake, a misidentification. Cordelia was a Shadowhunter in good standing. The guard shook his head stubbornly. I know what I know, was all he would say.

Cordelia pressed her palms together, trying to still the trembling in her hands. “I wish only to speak to Madame Dorothea,” she said, her voice cutting through the men’s argument. “Perhaps you could bring a message to her—”

“She is not here tonight.” A young man entering the club indicated the program affixed to the door; indeed, Madame Dorothea’s name was not on it. Instead, a snake charmer was advertised as the amusement for the evening. “I am sorry to disappoint such a beautiful mademoiselle.”

He tipped his hat before entering the club, and Cordelia saw the moonlight gleam gold off his eyes. Werewolf.

“Look here,” Matthew said, about to start in on the guard again—he was waving his walking stick about, in a dramatic manner he probably enjoyed at least a little bit—but Cordelia put her hand on his arm.

“There is no point,” she said. “Not if she is not here. Matthew, let’s go.”

Paladin. The word echoed in Cordelia’s ears, long after Matthew and she had climbed into a fiacre. Even as they rattled quickly away from Montmartre, she still felt as if she were standing in front of the cabaret, hearing the guard refuse her entrance. I know what I know. You cannot come inside.

Because you are corrupted within, said a small voice inside her. Because you belong to Lilith, Mother of Demons. Because of your own foolishness, you are cursed. No one should be around you.

She thought of Alastair. We become what we are afraid we will be, Layla.

“Cordelia?” Matthew’s worried voice seemed to come from far away. “Cordelia, please. Talk to me.”

She tried to look up, to look at him, but the darkness seemed to swirl around her, visions of accusing faces and disappointed voices echoing in her head. It was as if she had been flung back to that night in London, that night her heart had broken into a thousand pieces, driving her out into the night and the snow. The terrible feeling of loss, of crushing disappointment in herself, rose like a wave. She raised her hands as if she could ward it off. “The carriage—stop the carriage,” she heard herself say. “I can hardly breathe. Matthew—”

The window opened, letting in cold air. She heard Matthew rap on the driver’s window, bark out instructions in French. The horses came to a hasty stop, setting the fiacre to swaying. Cordelia threw the door open and almost leaped out, nearly tripping over the heavy hem of her gown. She heard Matthew scramble down after her, hastily paying the driver. “Ne vous inquiétez pas. Tout va bien.” It’s all right, everything is fine. He hurried to catch up with her as she took a few steps before fetching up blindly against a lamppost.

“Cordelia.” He laid his hand on her back as she struggled to catch her breath. His touch was light. “It’s all right. You’ve done nothing wrong, darling—”

He broke off, as if he hadn’t meant the endearment to come out of his mouth. Cordelia was past caring. She said, “I have. I chose to become her paladin. They’ll all find out—if that guard knows, everyone will know soon enough—”

“Not at all.” Matthew spoke firmly. “Even if there is a rumor in Downworld, that doesn’t mean it will spread to Shadowhunters. You’ve seen how little interest Nephilim take in Downworlder gossip. Cordelia, breathe.”

Cordelia took a deep breath. Then another, forcing the air into her lungs. The spots that had dotted her vision began to fade. “I can’t keep it from them for all time, Matthew. It’s lovely to be here with you, but we can’t stay forever—”

“We can’t,” he said, sounding suddenly weary, “and just because I don’t want to think about the future doesn’t mean I don’t know there is a future. It will come to us soon enough. Why run to embrace it?”

She gave a dry little laugh. “Is it so terrible? Our future?”

“No,” he said, “but it isn’t Paris, with you. Here, come with me.”

He held out his hand and she took it. He led her to the center of the Pont Alexandre—it was past midnight, and the bridge was deserted. On the left bank of the Seine, she could see Les Invalides, with its gold dome, rising against the night sky. On the right bank, the Grand and Petit Palais glowed richly with electric light. Moonlight poured over the city like milk, making the bridge shimmer, a bar of white gold laid across the river. Gilt-bronze statues of winged horses, supported on tall stone pillars, watched over those who crossed. Below the span of the bridge, the river water sparkled like a carpet of diamonds, touched by starlight along its wind-whipped currents.

She and Matthew stood, hand in hand, watching the river flow beneath the bridge. The Seine rolled on from here, she knew, piercing the heart of Paris like a silver arrow just as the Thames did London. “We are not here just to forget,” Matthew said, “but also to remember that there are good and beautiful things in this world, always. And mistakes do not take them from us; nothing takes them from us. They are eternal.”

She squeezed his gloved hand with her own. “Matthew. Do you listen to yourself? If you believe what you say, remember that it is true for you, too. Nothing can take the good things of the world from you. And that includes how much your friends and family love you, and always will.”

He looked down at her. They stood close; Cordelia knew any passersby would assume they were lovers, seeking a romantic spot to embrace. She didn’t care. She could see the pain in Matthew’s face, in his dark green eyes. He said, “Do you think James—”

He broke off. Neither of them had mentioned James’s name since they had come to Paris. Quickly, he went on, “Would you care to walk back to the hotel? I think the air would clear our heads.”

A set of stone steps led from the bridge down to the quai, the riverfront walkway that followed the Seine. During the day, Parisians fished off the edges; now, boats were tied up along the side, bobbing gently in the current. Mice darted back and forth across the pavement, looking for scraps; Cordelia wished she had some bread to scatter for them. She said as much to Matthew, who opined that French mice were probably terrible snobs who only ate French cheeses.