Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Alastair frowned at him. “That coat is huge on you,” he said. “Your neck must be absolutely freezing.”


To Thomas’s surprise, Alastair drew off his own scarf and looped it around Thomas’s neck. “Here,” he said. “Borrow this. You can give it back to me next time I see you.”

Thomas smiled without being able to help it. He knew this was Alastair’s way of saying thank you. The scarf smelled of Alastair, of expensive triple-milled soap. Alastair, who was still holding the ends of the scarf, and looking Thomas directly in the eyes, his gaze unwavering.

A light flurry of snow drifted around them. It caught in Alastair’s hair, his lashes. His eyes were so black that the pupils almost lost themselves in the soft darkness of the irises. He smiled a little, a smile that made desire beat through Thomas’s blood like a pulse. He wanted to pull Alastair against him, right here in front of the Institute, and wind his hands into the clouds of Alastair’s dark hair. He wanted to kiss Alastair’s upturned mouth, wanted to explore the shape of it with his own, those little curls at the corners of Alastair’s lips, like inverted commas.

But there was Charles. Thomas still had no idea what was going on between Alastair and Charles; hadn’t Alastair been visiting Charles just this past day? He hesitated, and Alastair—sensitive as always to the slightest hint of rejection—dropped his hand, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

“Alastair,” Thomas said, feeling hot and cold and vaguely sick all at once, “I have to know, if—”

A cracking noise split the air. Thomas and Alastair leaped apart, reaching for their weapons, just as a Portal began to open in the center of the courtyard—a massive one, much larger than the usual. Thomas glanced in Alastair’s direction and noted that Alastair had dropped into a fighting stance, a short spear held out before him. Thomas knew they were both thinking the same thing: the last time something had appeared suddenly in the Institute courtyard, it had been a tentacled Prince of Hell.

But there was no sudden rush of seawater, no howl of demons. Instead Thomas heard the stamping hooves of horses, a shout of warning, and the Institute carriage came crashing through the Portal, barely remaining on all four of its wheels as it came. Balios and Xanthos looked very pleased with themselves as the carriage spun in midair and landed, with a jarring thud, at the foot of the steps. Magnus Bane was in the driver’s seat, wearing a dramatic white opera scarf and holding the reins in his right hand. He looked even more pleased with himself than the horses.

“I wondered if it was possible to ride a carriage through a Portal,” he said, jumping down from the seat. “As it turns out, it is. Delightful.”

The carriage doors opened, and rather unsteadily, Will, Lucie, and a boy Thomas didn’t know clambered out. Lucie waved at Thomas before leaning against the side of the carriage; she was faintly green about the gills.

Will went around the carriage to unstrap the luggage, while the unfamiliar boy—tall and slender, with straight black hair and a pretty face—put a hand on Lucie’s shoulder. Which was surprising—it was an intimate gesture, one that would be considered impolite unless the boy and girl in question were close friends or relatives, or had an understanding between them. It seemed, however, unlikely that Lucie could have an understanding with someone Thomas had never seen before. He rather bristled at the thought, in an older-brother way—James didn’t seem to be here, so someone had to do the bristling for him.

“I told you it would work!” Will cried in Magnus’s direction. Magnus was busy magicking the unfastened baggage to the top of the steps, blue sparks darting like fireflies from his gloved fingertips. “We should have done that on the way out!”

“You did not say it would work,” Magnus said. “You said, as I recall, ‘By the Angel, he’s going to kill us all.’?”

“Never,” said Will. “My faith in you is unshakable, Magnus. Which is good,” he added, rocking back and forth a little, “because the rest of me feels quite shaken indeed.” He turned to Thomas, looking as if he’d entirely expected to find him loitering about the Institute steps. “Hello, Thomas! Good to see you’re here. Someone ought to run up and tell Tess we’ve arrived.”

Thomas blinked. Will hadn’t greeted Alastair, which Thomas thought was rather rude until he looked around and realized that Alastair was no longer there. He’d slipped away, sometime between the arrival of the carriage and now.

“I will,” Thomas said, “but—where’s James?”

Will exchanged a look with Magnus. For a moment, Thomas felt a spasm of real terror. He did not think, after Barbara, after everything that had happened, that he could bear it if James—

“He’s all right,” Lucie said quickly, as if reading the look on Thomas’s face.

“He’s gone to Paris,” said the strange boy. He too was looking at Thomas sympathetically, which Thomas found a bit much. He didn’t even know who this stranger was, much less desire his concern.

“Who are you?” he demanded shortly.

There was a moment’s hesitation, shared by Magnus, Will, Lucie, and the stranger—a hesitation that seemed to close Thomas out. He felt his stomach knot, just as Will said, “Thomas. I see we owe you an explanation; I think we owe one to all those close to us. Come into the Institute. It’s time we called a meeting.”



* * *



Cordelia froze. She thought for a moment she was still in the dream, that James was a vision, a horror her mind was conjuring up. But no, he was here, impossibly, he was here in their suite, his face blank but hell burning behind his gold eyes. And Matthew had seen him too.

Matthew let go of Cordelia. They stepped away from each other, but Matthew didn’t hurry; he wasn’t trying to pretend something else had been happening. And indeed, what would have been the point? It was humiliating; Cordelia felt foolish, exposed, but surely James didn’t care?

She put her hand out and took Matthew’s, curling her fingers around his. He was ice-cold, but he said, cordially enough, “James. I didn’t think to see you here.”

“No,” James said. His voice was even, his face expressionless, but he was white as chalk. His skin looked as if it had been stretched too tightly over his bones. “Clearly not. I had not thought—” He shook his head. “That I would be interrupting anything.”

“Did you get my letter?” Matthew said. Cordelia looked at him sharply; it was the first she’d heard of a letter to James. “I explained—”