Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cordelia was glad to get off the street. They ducked down the narrow aisle of Tyler’s Court, and her heart sank as she saw that the door to the Hell Ruelle hung wide open, like the gaping mouth of a corpse.

“Better draw a weapon,” she whispered, and Lucie slipped a seraph blade from her weapons belt, nodding. Cordelia was armed—she knew it was simply too dangerous not to be—but she had not raised a weapon since she had killed Tatiana. She hoped she would not have to; the last thing she needed now was to summon Lilith forth.

She had half expected, after seeing the open door, to find the Ruelle deserted. To her surprise, once inside, she heard voices coming from the inner part of the salon. She and Lucie moved slowly along the corridor toward the main room of the Ruelle, and paused in shock when they entered.

The room was full of Downworlders, and at first glance the Hell Ruelle seemed to be going on as usual. Cordelia looked around in astonishment—there were entertainers on the stage, and an audience seated at tables before it, seeming to watch the performers avidly. Faeries passed among them, carrying trays on which glasses of red wine rested like flutes of rubies.

And yet. Where normally the walls were covered with art and adornments, all of that was gone. Cordelia did not think she’d ever seen the Ruelle so bare of color and decoration.

She and Lucie began walking carefully toward the stage, which brought them among the crowded tables. Cordelia thought of Alice, disappearing down the rabbit-hole. Curiouser and curiouser. The Downworlders were not watching the performance: they were staring fixedly ahead of themselves, each lost in a separate vision. There was an acrid smell of spoiled wine in the air. Nobody took any notice of Cordelia and Lucie. They might as well have been invisible.

On the stage a strange sort of performance was unfolding. A troupe of actors had assembled there, in mismatched, moth-eaten costumes. They had placed a chair at the center on which sat a vampire. He was dressed as a mundane’s idea of the devil: all red clothing, horns, a forked tail curled around his feet. Before him stood a tall faerie wearing a bishop’s miter and holding a circle of rope, caked with dirt, that had been woven to resemble a crown. The faerie did not look at the vampire but only stared into space, but as they watched, he lowered the crown onto the vampire’s head. After a moment, he took it back off, and then made to crown the vampire a second time. There was a fixed smile on his face, and he was murmuring, almost too quietly to be heard; as they drew closer, Cordelia was able to make out the words. “Sirs, I here present unto you your undoubted king. Wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”

The vampire giggled. “What an honor,” he said. “What an honor. What an honor.”

The other actors on the stage stood to the side and applauded politely without stopping. From here Cordelia could see their hands, which were red and raw: how long had they been applauding this bizarre coronation? And what was it supposed to mean?

Around the tables, a few Downworlders were upright, but most were slumped over at their seats. Lucie stepped in a puddle of dark liquid and quickly hopped away, but it was too thin to be blood—wine, Cordelia realized, as a faerie waiter wandered by with a bottle, stopping here and there to pour more wine into already-full glasses. The alcohol sloshed and spilled over the tablecloths and onto the ground.

“Look,” Lucie murmured. “Kellington.”

Cordelia had hoped to encounter Malcolm, or even one of the Downworlders who were friendly with Anna, like Hyacinth the faerie. But she supposed Kellington would do. The musician was sitting by himself at a table near the stage, barefoot, his shirt splashed with wine stains. He didn’t look up as they approached. His hair was matted on one side: blood or wine, Cordelia couldn’t tell.

“Kellington?” Cordelia said gingerly.

The werewolf looked up at her slowly, his gold-tinged eyes dull.

“We’re looking for Malcolm,” Lucie said. “Is Malcolm Fade here?”

In a monotone, Kellington said, “Malcolm is in prison.”

Cordelia and Lucie exchanged alarmed looks. “In prison?” Cordelia said.

“He was caught by the Nephilim when he was only a boy. He will never escape them.”

“Kellington—” Lucie started to say, but he droned on, ignoring her.

“When I was a boy, before I was bitten, my parents would take me to the park,” he said. “Later they died of scarlet fever. I lived because I was a wolf. I buried them in a green place. It was like a park, but there was no river. I used to make paper boats and float them on the river. I could show you how.”

“No,” Lucie stammered, “that’s all right.” She drew Cordelia away, her face troubled. “This is bad,” she said quietly. “They’re no better off than the mundanes.”

“Worse, maybe,” Cordelia agreed, glancing around nervously. Kellington had picked up a small knife from his table. Slowly, he cut the back of his hand, watching in fascination as the wound swiftly healed. “Maybe we should go.”

Lucie bit her lip. “There’s a chance—maybe—that Malcolm is in his office.”

Even if he was, Cordelia doubted Malcolm would be in any fit state to help them. But she couldn’t say no to the look of hope on Lucie’s face. As they left the main room, they passed a table of vampires; here the spilled liquid was blood, dried to brown, and she had to catch herself to keep from retching. The vampires lifted goblets of blood long hardened to their lips over and over, swallowing air.

Malcolm’s office seemed undisturbed, though it had the same atmosphere as the rest of the Hell Ruelle: dark, unlit, and damp. Cordelia lit her witchlight and raised it, illuminating the room; it seemed safe enough to use it here. She doubted the Watchers had any interest in the Ruelle.

“No Malcolm,” Cordelia said. “Should we go?”

But Lucie was at Malcolm’s desk, holding her own witchlight over it, flipping quickly through the papers stacked there. As she read them, her expression changed, from curiosity to concern, and then to anger.

“What is it?” said Cordelia.

“Necromancy,” said Lucie, letting the pile of papers she was holding fall to the surface of the desk with a smack. “Proper necromancy. Malcolm promised me he wasn’t going to try to raise Annabel from the dead. He swore to me!” She turned to face Cordelia, her back against the desk. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it doesn’t matter right now. I just…”

“I think we both know that when you lose someone you love,” Cordelia said carefully, “the temptation to do anything to get them back is overwhelming.”

“I know,” Lucie whispered. “That’s what frightens me. Malcolm knows better, but it doesn’t matter what he knows. It’s what he feels.” She took a deep breath. “Daisy, I need to tell you something. I…”

Oh no, Cordelia thought with alarm. Was Lucie about to confess to something awful? Had Malcolm been teaching her dark magic?

“I have a problem,” Lucie said.