Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

The party was a torrent of color and brightness and warmth, and then the sound of breaking glass tore through it all.

She remembered the loud crash at her wedding when her father had crumpled drunkenly to the floor, knocking over plates and dishes as he fell, and thought, Someone has broken something.

And then came the scream. An awful, heartrending scream. A flash of movements. The crash of instruments as the musicians fled their small stage; the twang of a violin string breaking. A scramble as Shadowhunters retreated from the dance floor, some reaching for weapons, though most would have come unarmed.

The blade of a sharp, familiar voice, cutting through the noise and motion like a knife.

“STOP,” Tatiana Blackthorn cried. She stood atop the stage, wearing a faded, bloodstained dress, her hair wild, a bundle cradled against her chest. Her voice carried as if supernaturally amplified. “You will stop this instant—stop moving, stop speaking, and drop every weapon—or the child dies.”

By the Angel. The bundle was a child. The scream had been Cecily Lightwood’s. Gripped in Tatiana’s arms was tiny Alexander Lightwood, his blue velvet suit crumpled, a sharp silver blade at his throat.

Utter silence descended. Cecily shuddered silently in Gabriel Lightwood’s arms, her hand clamped over her mouth, her body shaking violently with the effort not to scream. Anna stood white-faced on the dance floor, Ari’s hand on her arm, holding her back.

James, Thomas, Alastair. The Lightwoods, the Fairchilds, the Herondales. The Inquisitor and his wife. All stood staring, helpless as Cordelia was helpless. She still could not see Lucie or Jesse anywhere. Good, she thought. Better that Tatiana not lay eyes on Jesse.

Everyone was silent. The only sound in the room was Alexander’s crying, until—

“Tatiana!” cried Will, in a ringing voice. “Please! We will listen to whatever you have to say, only put down the child!”

Cordelia’s mind raced. Hadn’t Tatiana been found, bleeding and injured, in Cornwall only a few days ago? Hadn’t the Silent Brothers said she was too weak to risk moving her? And yet here she was, not just healed but looking as though she had never been hurt at all; there wasn’t so much as a scratch on her face. And the bloody dress, while torn, was her old costume; it was what she preferred to wear.

“None of you have ever listened!” Tatiana shouted, and Alexander began sobbing. “Only by taking something of yours can I even get your attention!”

“Tatiana,” said Gideon, loudly but calmly. “We are your brothers. Your friends. We will listen to you now. Whatever it is you need, we can help—”

“Help?” Tatiana shouted. “None of you have ever helped. None of you would ever help me. Here gathered together are Lightwoods, Herondales, Carstairs, none of whom have lifted a hand to help me in my direst times of trouble—”

“That’s not true!” came a voice, and Cordelia turned in surprise to see that it was James, his golden eyes flashing like fire. “You think we haven’t read your notes? That we don’t know how often help was offered to you? How often you scorned it?”

“It was always poison,” she hissed. “When my son died, I hoped that in recognition of the loss I had sustained, the terrible tragedy of his loss, my fellow Shadowhunters might support me. Might help. But if it had been up to you all, his body would have been burned in days! Before anything could be done!”

The answer to this—that death did not give back what it had taken—was so obvious that nobody even bothered to speak it.

“I sought help in the places you forbid to me,” Tatiana said. “Yes. You cast me out to look among demons for help.” She swept her gaze across the whole Enclave assembled before her. “Eventually the Prince Belial heard my pleas, and when I begged for my son’s life back, he promised it to me. But still the Nephilim resented that I might have anything—anything but failure in this life. And when you discovered my poor attempts to help my son, you threw me in the Adamant Citadel, to make the very weapons by which you keep me held down.

“And all this time!” Tatiana shot out a finger, pointing it directly at… Tessa. All eyes turned to regard her; she stood unmoving, meeting Tatiana glare for glare. “All this time these Herondales have been the allies of Belial. All along, since long before I ever knew him. Tessa Gray is his daughter,” she cried, her voice rising to a triumphant climax, “and while I am punished for merely talking to him, the Herondales prosper!”

There was a terrible silence. Even Alexander had stopped crying; he was only making breathless choking noises that were somehow worse than sobs.

Someone—Eunice Pounceby, Tessa thought—said in a quiet voice, “Mrs. Herondale, is this true?”

Will looked over with exasperation. “Are you truly asking? No, of course the Herondales have never been allied with any demon, the whole notion is—”

“Is it true,” interrupted the Inquisitor, in a voice that reminded everyone present that he was the Inquisitor, “that Tessa is the daughter of the Prince of Hell Belial?”

Will and Tessa looked at each other; neither spoke. Cordelia felt sick. Their silence was as damning as any confession could be, and here it was, witnessed by the whole Enclave.

To Cordelia’s relief, Charlotte stepped forward. “It has never been a secret,” she said, “that Tessa Gray is a warlock, and any warlock must have a demon parent. But neither has it been a secret, or a question, that she is equally a Shadowhunter. Those issues were debated, and resolved, years ago, when Tessa first came to us. We are not about to reconsider them again now just because a madwoman demands it!”

“The spawn of a Prince of Hell,” jeered Tatiana, “running the London Institute! The fox in the house of the chicks! The viper in the bosom of the Clave!”

Tessa turned away, her hands over her face.

“This is ridiculous.” Gideon spoke up. “Tessa is a warlock. She is no more allied with her demon parent than any other warlock. Most warlocks never know, and do not want to know, what demon is responsible for their birth. Those who do know despise that demon.”

Tatiana laughed. “Fools. The Angel Raziel would turn his face in shame.”

“He would turn his face in shame,” snapped James, “if he saw you. Look at you. A knife to the throat of a baby, and you dare to throw accusations at my mother—my mother, who has only ever been good and kind to everyone she has ever known?” He whirled on the assembled Shadowhunters. “How many of you has she helped? Lent you money, brought medicine when you were sick, listened to your troubles? And you doubt her now?”

“But,” said Eunice Pounceby, her eyes troubled, “if she’s known all these years that her father was a Prince of Hell, and not said it—then she’s lied to us.”

“She hasn’t known all these years!” It was Lucie. Cordelia felt a wave of relief at the sight of her. Lucie was alone—Jesse was nowhere in sight. “She only just found out! She didn’t know what to say—”

“More lies from those who have deceived you!” Tatiana retorted. “Ask yourself this! If the Herondales are so innocent, why would they have kept this lineage a secret from all of you? From the whole Clave? If they truly had no relationship with Belial, why would they have feared to speak of him? Only to hide behind closed doors, chortling with Belial and taking orders from him. And the Lightwoods and the Fairchilds are no better,” Tatiana went on, apparently relishing her captive audience. “Of course they’ve known the truth all this time. How could they not? And they have hidden the secret, protected the Herondales—lest they be tainted and their careers and influence harmed by the knowledge of the infernal spawn they have put in charge of all of you. The warlock shape-shifter and her children—who have their own powers, you know! Oh yes! The children too have inherited dark powers from their grandfather. And they roam free, while my own daughter rots in the Silent City, imprisoned though she has done nothing wrong—”

“Nothing wrong?” It was James, to Cordelia’s surprise; there were scarlet spots burning on his cheeks, a deadly intensity to his voice. “Nothing wrong? You know better than that, you monstrous, vicious—”

Tatiana screamed. It was a wordless noise, a long terrible howl, as if perhaps some part of her realized that the person speaking to her had more reason than anyone else alive to know what she truly was. She screamed—

And Piers Wentworth rushed toward Tatiana. “No!” Will shouted, but it was too late, Piers was blustering forward, flinging himself up onto the stage; he reached for Tatiana, whose mouth was open like a terrible black hole, his fingers were inches from Alexander—

Cordelia felt a rush of something cold go through the room. Behind Tatiana, the ballroom windows swung open, dangling on their hinges; Piers fell to his knees, shouting in rage, his hands closing on empty air.

Tatiana had vanished, and Alexander with her.



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