Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Cordelia.” He laid his hand on her back as she struggled to catch her breath. His touch was light. “It’s all right. You’ve done nothing wrong, darling—”

He broke off, as if he hadn’t meant the endearment to come out of his mouth. Cordelia was past caring. She said, “I have. I chose to become her paladin. They’ll all find out—if that guard knows, everyone will know soon enough—”

“Not at all.” Matthew spoke firmly. “Even if there is a rumor in Downworld, that doesn’t mean it will spread to Shadowhunters. You’ve seen how little interest Nephilim take in Downworlder gossip. Cordelia, breathe.”

Cordelia took a deep breath. Then another, forcing the air into her lungs. The spots that had dotted her vision began to fade. “I can’t keep it from them for all time, Matthew. It’s lovely to be here with you, but we can’t stay forever—”

“We can’t,” he said, sounding suddenly weary, “and just because I don’t want to think about the future doesn’t mean I don’t know there is a future. It will come to us soon enough. Why run to embrace it?”

She gave a dry little laugh. “Is it so terrible? Our future?”

“No,” he said, “but it isn’t Paris, with you. Here, come with me.”

He held out his hand and she took it. He led her to the center of the Pont Alexandre—it was past midnight, and the bridge was deserted. On the left bank of the Seine, she could see Les Invalides, with its gold dome, rising against the night sky. On the right bank, the Grand and Petit Palais glowed richly with electric light. Moonlight poured over the city like milk, making the bridge shimmer, a bar of white gold laid across the river. Gilt-bronze statues of winged horses, supported on tall stone pillars, watched over those who crossed. Below the span of the bridge, the river water sparkled like a carpet of diamonds, touched by starlight along its wind-whipped currents.

She and Matthew stood, hand in hand, watching the river flow beneath the bridge. The Seine rolled on from here, she knew, piercing the heart of Paris like a silver arrow just as the Thames did London. “We are not here just to forget,” Matthew said, “but also to remember that there are good and beautiful things in this world, always. And mistakes do not take them from us; nothing takes them from us. They are eternal.”

She squeezed his gloved hand with her own. “Matthew. Do you listen to yourself? If you believe what you say, remember that it is true for you, too. Nothing can take the good things of the world from you. And that includes how much your friends and family love you, and always will.”

He looked down at her. They stood close; Cordelia knew any passersby would assume they were lovers, seeking a romantic spot to embrace. She didn’t care. She could see the pain in Matthew’s face, in his dark green eyes. He said, “Do you think James—”

He broke off. Neither of them had mentioned James’s name since they had come to Paris. Quickly, he went on, “Would you care to walk back to the hotel? I think the air would clear our heads.”

A set of stone steps led from the bridge down to the quai, the riverfront walkway that followed the Seine. During the day, Parisians fished off the edges; now, boats were tied up along the side, bobbing gently in the current. Mice darted back and forth across the pavement, looking for scraps; Cordelia wished she had some bread to scatter for them. She said as much to Matthew, who opined that French mice were probably terrible snobs who only ate French cheeses.

Cordelia smiled. Matthew’s jokes, the views of Paris, her own good sense—she wished any of it could lighten the weight on her heart. She could not stop imagining what it would be like when her mother found out the truth about her compact with Lilith. When the Enclave found out. When Will and Tessa found out. She knew they were not destined to be her in-laws for much longer, but she found that she cared terribly what they thought of her.

And Lucie. Lucie would be the most affected. They had always planned to be parabatai; she was abandoning Lucie now, without a warrior partner, a sister in battle. She could not help but feel it would be better if Lucie had never known her—what a different life she might have had, a different parabatai, different chances.

“Daisy.” Matthew spoke in a low voice, his hand tightening on hers. “I know you are lost in thought. But—listen.”

There was urgency in his voice. Cordelia closed off thoughts of Lilith, of the Herondales, of the Enclave. She turned to look behind them, down the long tunnel of the quai—the river on one side, the stone retaining wall rising on the other, the city above them as if they had retreated underground.

Shhhh. Not the wind in the bare boughs, but a hiss and a slither. A bitter smell, carried on the wind.

Demons.

Matthew stepped back, placing himself in front of her. There was the sound of a weapon being drawn, the spark of moonlight on metal. It seemed Matthew’s walking stick had a blade cleverly hidden within the hollowed-out wood. He kicked the empty stick aside just as the creatures emerged from the shadows, sliding and slithering over the pavement.

“Naga demons,” Cordelia whispered. They were long and low, bodies whiplike, covered in black, oily scales, like giant water snakes. But when they opened their mouths to hiss, she could see that their heads were more like a crocodile’s, mouths long and triangular and lined with jagged teeth that glowed yellow in the streetlight.

A gray tide surged past her, a skitter of tiny, racing feet. The mice she had seen earlier, fleeing as the Naga demons advanced on the Shadowhunters.

Matthew shrugged off his overcoat, let it drop to the pavement, and lunged. Cordelia stood frozen, watching, as he sliced the head off one demon, then another—her hands curled into fists. She hated this. It ran counter to everything in her nature to hang back while a fight was going on. But if she were to pick up a weapon, she would be vulnerable to Lilith—to Lilith working her will through Cordelia.

Matthew plunged his blade down—and missed. A Naga demon lunged, closing its sharp-toothed jaw around his ankle. Matthew yelled, “My spats!” and stabbed downward. Ichor splashed up and over him; he spun, his blade whirling. A demon hit the pavement with a wet smack, bleeding, its tail lashing. With a yell of pain, Matthew staggered back; his cheek was bleeding from a long cut.

Everything about this was wrong. Cordelia should be there, at Matthew’s side, Cortana in her hand, scrawling its blood-and-gold signature across the sky. Without being able to stop herself, she tore off her cloak, seized up the walking stick Matthew had dropped, and leaped into the fray.