Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Grace had worried that Christopher would leave after she’d told him she needed to confess to Cordelia. But he didn’t—he remained, and seemed pleased when she handed over the notes she had taken regarding his experiments in sending messages through the application of runes and fire. She had watched him as he read, concerned that he would be offended—she was not a scientist, and having never been educated properly as a Shadowhunter, she knew only the most basic runes, while Christopher’s knowledge of the Gray Book seemed comprehensive.

But, “This is interesting,” he said, pointing to a note she had made about the application of a new kind of metal to steles. It turned out that what he found helpful was not intricate knowledge, but the willingness to sit with an idea, to turn it over in her mind and examine it from all angles. At some point she realized that it was not only Christopher’s curiosity and imagination that made him a scientist: it was patience. The patience to keep pressing against a problem until it yielded, rather than giving in to the frustrations of failure.

And then, as Christopher was jotting down a summary of their most recent idea, a knock came at the barred door, and suddenly Brother Zachariah was there, his parchment robes flowing silently around him.

And he was speaking in both their heads, and the words were a jumble of nightmare images. The Christmas party, invaded. Grace’s mother, bearing a sharp silver dagger, the blade to the throat of a little boy. The little boy who was Christopher’s brother. Tatiana vanishing, taking Alexander with her, the whole of the Enclave in pursuit.

There was a crash as Christopher shot to his feet, sending his glass of champagne flying. Without stopping to gather up his notes, or even to look at Grace, he bolted from the room. Zachariah regarded Grace for a moment in silence, then followed Christopher, closing the door behind him.

Grace sat on the bed, her blood turning to ice. Mother, she thought. I had made a friend. I had…

But that was just it, wasn’t it? Her mother would never allow Grace to feel anything, to think anything, to have anything that wasn’t about her. Grace was sure Tatiana had no idea that she’d ever spoken to Christopher Lightwood—but even so, Tatiana had made certain that she never would again.



* * *



“It was too easy,” Cordelia said in a low voice.

“I’m not sure I can agree with that,” Alastair replied. They were sitting in the drawing room at the Institute. Alastair was industriously applying a second iratze to Cordelia’s hand, though the first one had already caused Cordelia’s cuts to scab over. He did not seem to have minded Cordelia getting blood all over his new jacket, and he held Cordelia’s hand with gentle care. “Being attacked by Mantids, which are quite revolting up close, and barely getting there in time to stop Tatiana from putting a rune on the child that would have killed him—” He finished her iratze and held out Cordelia’s hand to examine his work. “It wasn’t easy.”

“I know.” Cordelia looked around the room—everyone was milling about, talking in low voices: Will and Tessa, Lucie and Jesse and Thomas, Matthew and James. Only Ari sat by herself in an armchair, looking down at her hands. Anna had run back to the Institute with Alexander, not waiting for Tatiana to be dealt with, and was in the infirmary with him and her parents. He was being looked after by Brother Shadrach, who had said that while the injury might heal slowly, the rune had not been completed: no lasting harm had been done.

Cordelia knew Will would have preferred to have Jem looking after his nephew, but James had summoned Jem to arrest Tatiana at the house on Bedford Square and escort her to the Silent City, and Jem was busy with that. Meanwhile, Bridget had put out rather mad sandwiches (mince pie and pickle, sugar icing and mustard) and a great deal of very hot, very sweet tea, which she seemed to feel was the cure for shock, but nobody was eating or drinking much.

“But how did she get out? I don’t understand what happened,” Thomas was saying. “Tatiana was found barely alive on Bodmin Moor. She was awaiting transport at the Cornwall Institute. In the Sanctuary. How did she get to London so quickly, and without any sign of being hurt?”

“It wasn’t Tatiana,” Tessa said. “I mean, in Cornwall. It was never her.”

Will nodded wearily. “We heard from the Silent Brothers—too late, alas. It was all a trick.” He drew a hand across his eyes. “The thing Pangborn found on the moors was an Eidolon demon. Brother Silas was sent to retrieve Tatiana, but when he arrived at the Cornwall Institute, all he found was a bloodbath. The demon slaughtered everyone in the place before it fled. A reward for its service to Belial, no doubt. It did not spare even the mundane servants. The body of a young girl was found on the front steps, horribly mutilated—she had crawled there, no doubt trying to summon help.” His voice shook. “Awful stuff, and all simply to fool us into believing Tatiana was not at large.”

Silently Tessa took Will’s hand and held it in her own. Will Herondale was like his son, Cordelia thought; both felt things strongly, however they might try to hide it. When they had all returned to the Institute, bloody and scratched but with the news that Tatiana had surrendered, Will had rushed over to make sure Lucie and James were all right. Once he had reassured himself, he looked down at James and said in a flat, humorless voice, “You did good work, James, but you broke a promise to do it. This night’s events may have worked out, but they very easily could have gone terribly wrong. You might have been hurt, or your sister, or you might bear the responsibility for someone else’s death or wounding. Don’t do something like this again.”

“Forgive me,” James had said, standing very straight, and Cordelia recalled him saying to her, I’ll have to beg his forgiveness later. He could have protested, she had thought; he could have told Will that they could not in good conscience have failed to act on Jesse’s convictions. But he said nothing. He was proud and stubborn, Cordelia thought, just as she herself was. And she thought of Lucie.

You—you’re so proud, Cordelia.

It had not been a compliment.

Will had only touched James on the cheek, still frowning, and led them all upstairs to the drawing room. Cordelia glanced over at Lucie now, but she was in quiet conversation with Jesse and Thomas.

“But what about the wards?” Ari asked. “At the Cornwall Institute. I understand that they let the demon into the Sanctuary, but shouldn’t the wards have prevented it, or sent up some kind of warning?”

“It seems Pangborn had let the wards around his Institute lapse.” Will shook his head. “We all knew he was old, probably too old to have the job he did. We should have done something.”

“It was a clever trick,” said Matthew, who was leaning back in an armchair. He had used all his chalikars in the Mantid battle, and there were bruises on his neck and collarbones. “But if it had not been Pangborn’s weakness, Belial would have found some other way to play it.”

“It meant we let our guard down,” said Tessa. “At least where Tatiana was concerned. The Institute is well warded against demons, but not against Shadowhunters.”

“Even really evil Shadowhunters,” added Lucie fiercely. “They should have stripped her Marks at the Adamant Citadel.”

“I’m sure they will now,” said James, “since the Mortal Sword will drag the truth out of her and reveal all her past crimes. Perhaps we’ll finally discover something useful about Belial’s plans as well. I am sure they do not end here.”

“Speaking of Belial,” Will said in a heavy voice, “the Inquisitor has called a meeting for tomorrow. To discuss the issue of our family.”

“I do not see how our family is any of his business,” James began hotly, but to Cordelia’s surprise, Lucie cut in.

“He is going to make it his business, James,” she said. “The Institute may be the only home we’ve ever known, but it doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to the Clave. Everything we have and everything we are is subject to the Clave’s approval. Think how many of the Enclave have always been awful to Mother just because she was a warlock—because she has a demon parent. Before they ever knew he was a Prince of Hell to boot.” Her voice was tight, lacking any of Lucie’s usual optimism; it hurt to hear. “We should have known that they would turn on us the moment they found out about Belial.”

“Oh, Lucie, no.” Cordelia bolted to her feet before she could stop herself. Lucie looked at her in surprise. In fact, Cordelia could feel every eye in the room on her. “The Inquisitor can fuss and fume all he wants,” she said, “but the truth is on your side. The truth matters. And the Enclave will see it.”

Lucie looked at Cordelia calmly. “Thank you,” she said.