Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Malcolm, is there anyone else besides you who has access to this information about the American branch of the Blackthorns?” said Magnus. “If anyone were to suspect—”

“We should organize this plan,” said James. “Sit down and think of every objection, every question anyone might have about Jesse’s story, and come up with answers. This must be a complete deception, with no weak spots.”

There was a chorus of agreement; only Jesse did not join it. After a moment, when it was quiet again, he said, “Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me.”

Magnus mimed raising a glass in his direction. “Jeremy Blackthorn,” he said. “Welcome, in advance, to the London Enclave.”



* * *



That night Cordelia put on her red velvet dress and her fur-trimmed cloak, along with a pair of elbow-length silk gloves, and joined Matthew in a fiacre bound for Montmartre. Paris slid by outside the windows as they rode, passing up the Rue de la Paix, lights glimmering from the rows of shopwindows, squares of illumination in the darkness.

Matthew had matched his waistcoat and spats to Cordelia’s dress—scarlet velvet, which flashed like rubies as they passed beneath the light of intermittent gas lamps. His gloves were black, his eyes very dark as he watched her. “There are other clubs we could investigate,” he said as the carriage rattled past the church of Sainte-Trinité with its great rose window. “There is the Rat Mort—”

Cordelia made an amused face. “The Dead Rat?”

“Oh, indeed. Named after and featuring the mummified body of a rodent put to death for annoying the customers.” He grinned. “A popular place to eat lobster at four in the morning.”

“We can certainly go—after L’Enfer.” She raised her chin. “I am quite determined, Matthew.”

“I understand.” His voice was level. “We all have those we wish to reach, by any means possible. Some are separated from us by death, some by their refusal to listen, or our inability to speak.”

Impulsively, she took his hand, threading her fingers through his. His black gloves were striking against her scarlet ones. Black and red as the pieces on a chessboard. She said, “Matthew. When we return to London—for someday, we will—you must talk to your parents. They will forgive you. They are your family.”

His eyes seemed more black than green. He said, “Do you forgive your father?”

The question hurt. “He never asked for my forgiveness,” she said. “Perhaps, if he had—and perhaps that is what I want to hear, why I wish I could speak to him one more time. For I wish I could forgive him. It is a heavy weight to bear, bitterness.”

His hand tightened on hers. “And I wish I could take the weight for you.”

“You carry enough already.” The carriage began to slow, rolling to a stop before the cabaret. Light spilled from the open doors of the demon’s mouth. Cordelia squeezed Matthew’s hand and drew her own back. They were here.

The same bearded, heavy-shouldered guard stood beside the cabaret door as Cordelia approached; Matthew was a few steps behind her, having paused to pay the driver. As she drew near the entrance, Cordelia saw the guard shake his head.

“No entrance for you,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Paladin.”





6 THROUGH BLOOD




Whose hearts must I break? What lie must I maintain?

Through whose blood am I to wade?

—Arthur Rimbaud, “A Season in Hell”



Cordelia’s blood turned to ice. But no one knows, she thought. No one knows. It was a secret, that she was bound to Lilith. She and Matthew had spoken of Cortana here, last night, but they had not mentioned the Mother of Demons, nor the word “paladin.” She said, “You must be mistaken. I—”

“Non. Je sais ce que je sais. Vous n’avez pas le droit d’entrer,” the guard snapped. I know what I know. You cannot come inside.

“What’s going on?” Matthew asked in French, approaching the door. “You are refusing us entrance?”

The guard retorted; they raced ahead so quickly in French that Cordelia had trouble keeping up. The guard was still refusing; Matthew was telling him there had been a mistake, a misidentification. Cordelia was a Shadowhunter in good standing. The guard shook his head stubbornly. I know what I know, was all he would say.

Cordelia pressed her palms together, trying to still the trembling in her hands. “I wish only to speak to Madame Dorothea,” she said, her voice cutting through the men’s argument. “Perhaps you could bring a message to her—”

“She is not here tonight.” A young man entering the club indicated the program affixed to the door; indeed, Madame Dorothea’s name was not on it. Instead, a snake charmer was advertised as the amusement for the evening. “I am sorry to disappoint such a beautiful mademoiselle.”

He tipped his hat before entering the club, and Cordelia saw the moonlight gleam gold off his eyes. Werewolf.

“Look here,” Matthew said, about to start in on the guard again—he was waving his walking stick about, in a dramatic manner he probably enjoyed at least a little bit—but Cordelia put her hand on his arm.

“There is no point,” she said. “Not if she is not here. Matthew, let’s go.”

Paladin. The word echoed in Cordelia’s ears, long after Matthew and she had climbed into a fiacre. Even as they rattled quickly away from Montmartre, she still felt as if she were standing in front of the cabaret, hearing the guard refuse her entrance. I know what I know. You cannot come inside.

Because you are corrupted within, said a small voice inside her. Because you belong to Lilith, Mother of Demons. Because of your own foolishness, you are cursed. No one should be around you.

She thought of Alastair. We become what we are afraid we will be, Layla.

“Cordelia?” Matthew’s worried voice seemed to come from far away. “Cordelia, please. Talk to me.”

She tried to look up, to look at him, but the darkness seemed to swirl around her, visions of accusing faces and disappointed voices echoing in her head. It was as if she had been flung back to that night in London, that night her heart had broken into a thousand pieces, driving her out into the night and the snow. The terrible feeling of loss, of crushing disappointment in herself, rose like a wave. She raised her hands as if she could ward it off. “The carriage—stop the carriage,” she heard herself say. “I can hardly breathe. Matthew—”

The window opened, letting in cold air. She heard Matthew rap on the driver’s window, bark out instructions in French. The horses came to a hasty stop, setting the fiacre to swaying. Cordelia threw the door open and almost leaped out, nearly tripping over the heavy hem of her gown. She heard Matthew scramble down after her, hastily paying the driver. “Ne vous inquiétez pas. Tout va bien.” It’s all right, everything is fine. He hurried to catch up with her as she took a few steps before fetching up blindly against a lamppost.