Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“That is true for you,” Matthew observed. “I saw your face when you spoke of the bracelet, of Grace. It was as if a wound had reopened for you. But for me—I am not the one who suffered, James. My mother suffered. My family suffered. I caused it. I am not the victim.” He sucked in a breath. “I think I might be sick again.”


James ruffled Matthew’s hair gently. “Try to keep the water down,” he said. “Math—What I hear is a story of someone making a terrible mistake. You were young, and it was a mistake. It had no evil in it, no volition to harm your mother or anyone. You were rash and trusted wrongly. There was no malice.”

“I’ve made many bad decisions. None of them have ever had consequences like this.”

“Because,” said James, “you ensure that the worst results of your decisions always fall upon yourself.”

Matthew was silent for a moment. “I suppose that’s true,” he said.

“Your bad decision did have terrible, unforeseeable consequences,” James went on. “But you are not the devil incarnate, or Cain condemned to wander.” His voice softened. “Imagine me a few years ago. Imagine I came to you and told you this story, that I was the one who made the mistake. What would you say to me?”

“I would tell you to forgive yourself,” said Matthew. “And to tell the truth to your family.”

“You have brutalized yourself for years over this,” said James. “Try now to be as kind to yourself as you would have been to me. Remember that your sin is your silence, not what you did. All this time you have pushed Charlotte and Henry away, and I know what it has cost you. What it has cost them. Matthew, you are also their child. Let them forgive you.”

“That first night,” Matthew said, “after it happened, I took a bottle of whiskey from my parents’ cupboard and drank it. I was vilely sick afterward, but for the first few moments, when it dulled the sharpness of my thoughts and senses, the pain faded. Went away. I felt a lightness of heart, and it is that I have been seeking again and again. That surcease.”

“Your heart will always want that oblivion,” said James. “You will always have to fight it.” He laced his fingers through Matthew’s. “I will always help you.”

Several dark shapes flew by overhead, shrieking. Matthew watched them go, frowning. “Belial will return tomorrow,” he said. “I do not think he will leave you alone for long.”

“No,” James said. “Which is why I have been thinking. I have a plan.”

“Really?” Matthew said. “Well. Thank the Angel.”

“You won’t like it,” James said. “But I must tell it to you, regardless. I will need your help.”



* * *



Time in Edom was a strange thing. It seemed to stretch out forever, like sticky taffy, yet at the same time Lucie feared it was moving too fast: that night might fall at any moment, forcing her and Cordelia to take shelter and wait. She didn’t want to stay here a moment longer than she had to, and more than that, she feared what was happening to Matthew and James.

Her chest felt tight as she and Cordelia toiled up another sand dune. The sand, dust, and soot in the air made it hard to breathe, but it was more than that: it was the weight of death all around her. As she followed the sensation that drew them closer to Idumea, it pressed down on her like a stone. Her joints ached, and there was a dull pain behind her eyes. It was as though something primordial within her cried out against Edom; she was a Shadowhunter, and in her flowed the blood of angels. She had never thought what it might mean to be in a place where long ago all angels had been slain.

Heat shimmered on the horizon. At the top of the dune, they paused to orient themselves, and to drink a little water. Both of them had brought flasks, but Lucie doubted what they had would last them more than a day or two.

She squinted into the distance. Stretching out before them, at the base of the dune, was a plain of black, glittering sand, like beads of jet. Where it met the horizon, something solid rose against the sky—jagged like the peaks of hills, but far too regular to be natural.

Cordelia had tied a scarf around her hair; her eyebrows were whitened with ash. “Is that Idumea?”

“I think those are towers,” Lucie allowed, wishing her Farsighted rune was working. She thought she was looking at towers and walls, but it was impossible to be entirely sure. She dusted biscuit off her hands and said, “It’s in the direction of Idumea, at least. We’ll have to go that way regardless.”

“Hmm.” Cordelia looked thoughtful but didn’t object. They clambered down the dune’s far side and started across the sea of black, quickly discovering that it was a mixture of sand and pitch: tarry, sulfur-smelling muck that stuck to their boots and sucked at their feet with every step.

“I haven’t felt this trapped since Esme Hardcastle tried to find out how many children I intend to have with Jesse,” said Lucie, yanking her foot free.

Cordelia smiled. “She did that to you, too?”

“Esme thinks she knows exactly who is going to marry who, and who is going to die when. Some people she thinks are alive are dead, and there are people who are dead who she is convinced are actually alive. This is going to be quite the family tree. It will confuse scholars for decades.”

“Something to look forward to,” Cordelia agreed. She hesitated a moment before she spoke again. “Luce, you can sense things about this world. Do you feel… anything about James and Matthew?”

“No,” Lucie said. “But I think that’s a good thing. I can sense the dead. If I don’t sense them, then…”

“They’re still alive.” Cordelia was clearly clutching at the idea; Lucie didn’t want to say she wasn’t as reassured herself.

They had nearly reached the end of the black sand. Cordelia was frowning. “I don’t think this is Idumea. It’s just…”

“A wall,” Lucie finished. They were in its shadow now, looking up. It rose perhaps thirty feet in the air, a construction of smooth gray stone that stretched in either direction as far as she could see. There were no other buildings or ruins to be seen: what Lucie had thought were towers were the wall’s battlements high above. It was completely smooth, dashing any thought of climbing it. They would have to find a way through.

They began to pace the length of the wall, heading away from the sun, which hung halfway to the horizon now, searing across the level sand. It didn’t take them long to find a gate: an elaborate carved arch that opened into the dark interior of the wall.

There was something Lucie didn’t like about that darkness. It felt cave-like, and she realized they had no idea how thick the wall was. They could be walking into a tunnel, or any sort of trap. Sand blew across the entrance, dimming the interior even further.