Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cornwall Gardens was not a short walk from Thomas’s house—easily forty-five minutes, an hour if one stopped to enjoy the park along the way—but Thomas didn’t mind. It was a rare sunny winter’s day in London, and even though it was still cold, the air was clear and bright, seeming to throw every tiny detail of the city into relief, from the colorful advertisements on the sides of omnibuses to the darting shadows of tiny sparrows.

The darting shadows of tiny sparrows, he thought. Thomas, you sound like an idiot. Blast. What would Alastair think if he turned up at Cornwall Gardens with a ridiculous smile on his face, twittering about birds? He would send Thomas away, sharpish. Sadly, even that thought did not break Thomas’s good mood. His thoughts seemed all awhirl; it was necessary to go back to the beginning to sort them out.

At breakfast—where he had been calmly, innocently eating toast—a runner had come for him with a message; his parents had been surprised, but not nearly as surprised as Thomas.

The message was from Alastair.

It took a full five minutes for Thomas to digest the fact—the message was from Alastair, Alastair Carstairs, not some other Alastair—and it contained the following information: Alastair wanted to meet with Thomas at Cornwall Gardens, as soon as possible.

Message digested, Thomas bolted upstairs so quickly he knocked over a teapot and left his confused parents staring at Eugenia, who merely shrugged as if to say one could never truly hope to unravel the beautiful mystery that was Thomas. “More eggs?” she suggested, holding out a plate to her father.

Thomas, meanwhile, had worked himself into a panic over what to wear, despite the fact that it was difficult finding clothes that fit someone of his height and breadth, and that as a result, he possessed a fairly dull wardrobe of browns and blacks and grays. Remembering that Matthew had said that a particular green shirt brought out the color in Thomas’s hazel eyes, Thomas put it on, brushed his hair, and left the house—only to return a moment later, due to having forgotten his scarf, his shoes, and his stele.

Now, as the clay-red brick of Knightsbridge, crowded with shoppers, slowly melted into the quiet streets and dignified white edifices of South Kensington, Thomas reminded himself that just because Alastair had sent him a message did not necessarily mean anything. It was possible that Alastair wanted something translated into Spanish, or needed a very tall person’s opinion on a matter. (Though Thomas could not imagine why this would be the case.) It was even possible he wanted, for some reason, to talk about Charles. The thought made Thomas’s skin feel as if it were tying itself into knots. By the time he arrived at the Carstairs’ house, he was subdued—or he was, at least, until he turned onto the walk and caught sight of Alastair, messy-haired and in shirtsleeves, standing outside his front door and holding a very recognizable sword.

Alastair’s expression was a grim one. He looked up as Thomas approached. Thomas noticed two things immediately: firstly, that Alastair, with his smooth, light brown skin and graceful build, was still vexingly beautiful. And secondly, that Alastair’s arms were covered in vicious-looking scratches, his shirt stained with black, acidic-looking patches.

Demon ichor.

“What happened?” Thomas stopped in his tracks. “Alastair—a demon? In the middle of the day? Don’t tell me—” Don’t tell me that they’re back. They’d been plagued some months ago with demons that had possessed the ability to appear in daylight, but that had been because of Belial’s meddling. If it was happening again…

“No,” Alastair said quickly, as if he sensed Thomas’s alarm. “I had, rather stupidly, gone into the mews house to look for something. It was dark in there, and one of the demons had apparently decided to lurk in wait.”

“One of what demons?” Thomas said.

Alastair waved a vague hand. “It was a good thing I had Cortana with me,” he said, and Thomas, surprised all over again, said, “Why do you have Cortana with you?”

Cortana was Cordelia’s sword, passed down through generations of the Carstairs family. It was a precious heirloom, forged by the same Shadowhunter smith who had created Durendal for Roland, and Excalibur for King Arthur. Thomas had rarely seen Cordelia without it.

Alastair sighed. Thomas wondered if he was cold standing about with his sleeves rolled up, but decided not to mention it because Alastair had lean, muscular forearms. And maybe the cold didn’t bother him anyway. “Cordelia left it behind when she went to Paris. She thought she should give it up because of the paladin business.”

“It’s odd,” Thomas ventured, “isn’t it, Cordelia going to Paris with Matthew?”

“It’s odd,” Alastair allowed. “But Cordelia’s business is her own.” He turned Cortana over in his hand, letting the watery sunlight spark off the blade. “Anyway—I’ve been keeping the sword close to me as much as I can. Which is fine during the day, but not so much once the sun sets. Bloody demons seem to swarm to it like a beacon every time I step outside.”

“Are you sure they’re attacking you because of the sword?”

“Are you suggesting it’s my personality?” Alastair snapped. “They weren’t attacking me like this before Cordelia handed the sword off to me, and she gave it to me because she didn’t want anyone to know where it was. I suspect these ratty demon creatures are intended as spies, sent by someone looking for Cortana—Lilith, Belial, there’s really an appalling pantheon of villains to choose from.”

“So whoever it is—whoever’s looking for it—they know you have it?”

“They certainly suspect I have it,” said Alastair. “I think I’ve killed all the demons before they could report back definitively. Nothing nastier has shown up to attack me yet, in any case. But it’s not a sustainable way to live.”

Thomas shifted his feet. “Did you, ah, ask me here to help?” he said. “Because I’d be happy to help. We could put a guard on you. Christopher and I could take it in turns, and Anna would surely help—”

“No,” said Alastair.

“Just trying to be helpful,” said Thomas.

“I didn’t ask you here for help. You just happened to turn up right after—” Alastair made a gesture apparently intended to encompass demons hiding in stables, and slid Cortana back into its scabbard at his hip. “I asked you here because I wanted to know why you sent me a note calling me stupid.”

“I didn’t,” Thomas began indignantly, and then recalled, with a moment of freezing horror, what he had written in Henry’s laboratory. Dear Alastair, why are you so stupid and so frustrating, and why do I think about you all the time?

Oh no. But how—?

Alastair produced a burnt piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Thomas. Most of the paper had been charred beyond legibility. What was left read:

Dear Alastair,

why are you so stupid

I brush my teeth

don’t tell anyone

—Thomas