Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Here was no hidden shade, the kind that went unseen. This was the spirit of Rupert Blackthorn, half-translucent but entirely recognizable. As Lucie watched, he began to solidify—she could see his face now, so much like Jesse’s, and his old-fashioned clothes, and his pale, half-clenched hands. Even little details—a pair of unlaced boots—had become as clear as if he had been drawn onto the air with shimmering ink.

The Watcher that had been approaching her stopped in what seemed like real confusion, its head tilting, as if to say, What is this? The other Watchers were still fighting; Lucie could hear the crash of weapons, the sound of boots on ice, though she did not dare to look away from Rupert’s ghost.

The ghost raised his head. His lips parted and he spoke, his voice ringing out even over the storm. “Tatiana?”

Tatiana turned, looked up—and cried out. She had been staring at the unmoving Watcher in puzzlement, no doubt wondering what had given it pause. Now her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

“Rupert!” she gasped. She took a step forward, as if to rush toward the ghost, but her legs did not hold her. She sank to her knees, her hands clasped together; it looked horribly as if she were praying. “Oh, Rupert! You are here! Belial has fulfilled his vow to me!” She made a sweeping gesture, drawing his attention to the Watchers, the fight, the armed Shadowhunters. “Oh, behold, my love,” she said. “For this is our revenge.”

“Revenge?” Rupert was looking at his wife in what was plainly horror. Because she was so much older, Lucie wondered, or because of the lines of bitterness, rage, and hatred scored into her face?

Lucie could not help but look toward Jesse, who was standing utterly still, the Blackthorn sword lowered at his side. His expression as he regarded the ghost of his father—Lucie could not bear it. She tore her gaze away. She could not see Grace, but the others were still fighting—all save Anna and Christopher, who had retreated to a darker corner of the steps. Even as she watched, a Watcher approached Jesse, no doubt having noticed his stillness; it raised its blazing staff and swung at him. He barely parried, and Lucie’s heart thumped with terror.

She wanted to go to Jesse—wanted to race toward him, fight at his side. It was her fault his reaction time was slow; he was likely in a state of shock. But she could not move. She was all that was holding Rupert Blackthorn here on this earth. She could feel the starry void trying to pull him back, trying to fling him out of this world and into the other. It was taking every bit of her will to hang on.

“Rupert?” Tatiana’s voice rose to a whine. “Are you not pleased? Did Belial not tell you of our great victory? We will destroy the Nephilim; we will rule London, together—”

“Belial?” Rupert demanded. He had become less translucent; he was still without color, a strange monochrome figure, but Lucie could not see through him, and the expression on his face was easy to read. Anger, mixed with disgust. “I have not returned at the request of a Prince of Hell. I was drawn from my resting place by the cry of a Shadowhunter in battle. One who needed my help.”

Tatiana’s eyes flicked to Lucie. There was rage in them, and a hatred so intense it was nearly impossible to comprehend. “That’s impossible,” she snarled. “You cannot be raised, not by some stupid little brat—”

“Put an end to this, Tati,” Rupert snapped. “Send these—creatures—away.”

“But they are fighting for us.” Tatiana staggered to her feet. “They are on our side. Belial has promised us a great future. He has sworn he will raise you, Rupert, that you will once more be by my side—”

“Tell them to stop before they kill our son!” Rupert roared.

Tatiana hesitated—then flung out her hand. “Stop,” she called, as though the word was being dragged out of her. “Servants of Belial. Stop. Enough.”

All together, just as they had begun fighting, the Watchers stopped. They stood like frozen soldiers; they could have been made out of tin, but Lucie could see that the eerie green light moved behind their eyelids still.

The Nephilim, still holding their weapons, were staring from Lucie to Rupert in amazement. Anna had her back against a stair railing, Christopher propped against her shoulder. Both were pale. Grace was kneeling at the top of the steps, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself. Lucie thought that she was looking at Christopher, but she couldn’t be sure. And Jesse—Jesse was staring at his father, his knuckles white where he gripped his sword’s hilt. Lucie could not read the look on his face; too much of her attention was still on Rupert. Some strange magic was present, drawing on him, trying to pull him away from here, away from her.

“My darling,” Tatiana crooned, her voice echoing in the sudden stillness, now that the fighting had stopped. “How is this possible? You have been bound, bound for so long, bound in the shadows where even the other dead cannot see you. Belial promised that as long as he kept you there, he could bring you back.”

Jesse was shaking his head, in horror and disbelief. “No,” he whispered. “No, that can’t be.”

Bound in the shadows, Lucie thought. What had happened to Rupert? What binding was there on him, that was not present with other ghosts? Was it that binding that now tried to pull him away from the courtyard?

But Rupert did not seem to be wondering what she meant. He was shaking his head slowly. His dark hair was in his eyes—it was the kind of fine, straight hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, just like Jesse’s. It made Lucie’s heart ache. Rupert had been so close to Jesse’s age when he had died. “Do you remember when we met?” Rupert said, his gaze fixed on his wife. “At the Christmas ball? You were so delighted that I only wanted to dance with you. That I snubbed all the others.”

“Yes,” Tatiana whispered. She wore an expression that Lucie had never seen on her before. Open, loving. Vulnerable.

“I thought your delight was because you were lonely and hurt,” Rupert went on. “But I was wrong. I did not understand that in your heart, you were bitter and vindictive. Enough to set a pack of monsters on Shadowhunter children—”

“But these are the children of those who let you die, Rupert—”

“Your father murdered me!” the ghost cried, and Lucie thought the ground shook with the force of it. “The Herondales, the Lightwoods—they did not cause my death. They avenged it. They arrived too late to save me. There was nothing they could have done!”

“You cannot believe that,” Tatiana moaned. “All these years I have worked for your vengeance, as well as mine—” She started up the steps, her arms outstretched, as if she meant to gather Rupert into her arms. She had taken only a few strides when she staggered back, as though she had collided with an invisible wall. She raised her hands, scrabbling against a barrier Lucie could not see.

“Oh, let me in,” Tatiana wailed. “Rupert. Let me touch you. Let me hold you—”

Rupert’s face twisted in disgust. “No.”