Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

The show had clearly not yet begun, and the crowded tables were abuzz with conversation. There was a brief interruption as a variety of heads turned to look at Matthew and Cordelia, leading Cordelia to wonder how often Shadowhunters came here, and whether they were fully welcome.

Then, from the far corner, a chorus of high-pitched voices cried, “Monsieur Fairchild!” In the strange, variegated light of the flames, Cordelia could see that it was a table packed with what she thought were perhaps brownies? Or pixies? In any case, they sported wings of various rainbow colors; each was no more than a foot tall, and there were about twenty of them. They clearly all knew Matthew, and more strikingly, they all seemed very pleased to see him. In the middle of their table (built for customers of human size) was a large punch bowl half-full of a glittering beverage, which a few of them were using as a swimming pool.

“Old friends?” Cordelia said, with some amusement.

“Anna and I once helped them out of a jam,” Matthew said. He waved cheerfully at the faeries. “It’s quite a tale, involving a duel, racing carriages, and a handsome prince of Faerieland. At least, he said he was a prince,” Matthew added. “I always get the feeling that everyone in Faerie is a prince or princess, rather like everyone in Lucie’s books is a secret duke or duchess.”

“Well, don’t keep your handsome prince to yourself.” Cordelia poked him in the shoulder. “I think I’d like to hear this tale.”

Matthew laughed. “All right, all right. In a moment. I must talk with the proprietor.”

He ducked away for a moment to speak to a faun whose antlers seemed far too large to allow him to pass through the building’s front door. There was a great deal of friendly nodding before Matthew returned and offered Cordelia his hand. She allowed herself to be led to a table close to the stage. When they sat, she saw that the glowing lights were not candles, as she’d assumed, but luminous faeries even smaller than the ones who had greeted Matthew.

Will-o’-the-wisps, perhaps? The one at their table was sitting in a glass bowl, legs crossed, wearing a small brown suit. He glowered at them as they sat.

Matthew tapped on the glass. “Not the most exciting job, is it?” he said sympathetically.

The faerie in the glass shrugged and revealed the tiny book he was holding. A small pair of spectacles sat on his nose. “One must make a living,” he said in a distinctly German accent, and went back to reading.

Matthew ordered coffee for both of them, drawing (and ignoring) a stern, disapproving look from the waiter. Cabarets likely made most of their profit from selling drinks, but Cordelia didn’t care; she was proud of Matthew’s efforts to be sober.

Matthew leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said. “Last year Anna and I were at the Abbaye de Thélème, a nightclub with a monastic theme, with cancan dancers dressed as priests and nuns. Very shocking for mundanes, I gather, rather as if I opened a cabaret where Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers posed nude.”

Cordelia laughed, earning a glare from the table faerie. Matthew went on, weaving with words and hands an amusing tale in which a faerie prince pursued by demonic assassins hid beneath his and Anna’s table. “Swiftly,” he said, “we armed ourselves. We had not been allowed to bring weapons inside—house rules—so we had to improvise. Anna slew a demon with a bread knife. I crushed a skull with a cured jambon. Anna hurled a wheel of cheese like a discus. Another evildoer was dispatched with a freshly pulled shot of steaming espresso.”

Cordelia had folded her arms across her chest. “Let me guess. The faerie prince had enraged the Downworlders of France by ordering a steak well done.”

Matthew ignored this. “A demon was set upon by a number of small, noisy dogs whose owner had brought them inexplicably to the cabaret—”

“None of this is true.”

Matthew laughed. “As with all the best stories, some of it is true.”

“Das ist Bl?dsinn,” muttered the lamp faerie. “Seems a load of nonsense to me.”

Matthew picked up the lamp and moved it to another table. By the time he returned, the waiter had served them coffee in tiny pewter cups. As Matthew slid back into his seat, he said, in a low voice, “Have you a stele with you? Or any weapons?”

Cordelia tensed. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Matthew said, playing with the handle of his coffee cup. “I realized I have just finished telling you a tale of improvised weapons, but you…”

“Cannot wield a weapon at all, lest I do it in her name.” Cordelia tried and failed to keep the bitterness from her voice; she did not want to speak the name of Lilith aloud, nor did she wish to give Lilith, even indirectly, the satisfaction of her fury. “But I do miss Cortana. Is that odd, to miss a sword?”

“Not if the sword has a great deal of personality—which Cortana does.”

She smiled, grateful at his understanding. She did not think he would like that she had given the sword to Alastair for safekeeping. Her brother and Matthew continued to dislike each other. So she had kept it to herself; besides, she had no idea where Alastair had hidden it. Before she could say anything else, the lights began to go down above them, and to come up on the empty stage.

Conversation died down, and a silence hung in the air, suddenly eerie. Into that silence came the tapping of shoes, and after a few moments a woman emerged onto the stage. Warlock, Cordelia guessed; she had that indefinable aura about her, of controlled power. Her hair was iron gray, knobbed into a chignon at the back of her head, though her face was youthful enough. She wore a deep blue velvet robe, embroidered all over with the symbols of the planets and stars.

A blue silk blindfold was tied around her eyes, but it didn’t appear to prevent her from knowing when she had reached the middle of the stage. She reached her arms out toward the audience and opened her hands, and Cordelia gasped. In the middle of each palm was a long-lashed human eye, bright green and sharply knowing.

“Quite a warlock mark, don’t you think?” Matthew whispered.

“Is she going to tell fortunes?” Cordelia wondered.

“Madame Dorothea is a medium,” said Matthew. “She claims she can speak to the dead—which all spiritualists claim, but she is a warlock. It’s possible there’s something to it.”

“Bon soir, mes amis,” said the warlock. Her voice was deep, strong as coffee. For such a small woman, her voice carried loudly to the back of the room. “I am Madame Dorothea, but think of me as Charon, child of Night, who plies his ferryboat over the river that divides the living and the dead. Like him, I am equally at home with life and death. The power I have through these”—and she held up her hands—“my second set of eyes, allows me to glimpse the worlds between, the worlds beyond.”

She moved to the edge of the stage. The eyes set into her palms blinked, turning back and forth within their sockets, examining the audience.