Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Everyone likes scientists,” said Christopher with supreme confidence, and handed the now-full tin flask to Matthew. “Drink.”


Matthew rather gingerly took the flask from Christopher and brought it to his lips. He swallowed, coughed, and made a face. “Awful,” he proclaimed. “Like a mixture of licorice and soap.”

“That’s good,” Christopher said. “It’s not supposed to be pleasant. Think of it as medicine.”

“So how does this work?” said James. “Does he just drink this muck whenever he feels like it?”

“It’s not muck, and no,” Christopher said. He turned to Matthew. “I’ll bring you a new flask every morning, with less in it each time. You’ll drink a little in the morning and a little in the afternoon, and each day less, and eventually you will feel better and won’t want the flask anymore.”

“How long will this take?” Thomas said.

“About a fortnight.”

“And that’s it?” said Matthew. He already looked better, James thought. Some color had come back to his face, and his hands were steady when he set the flask aside. “It’ll be over?”

There was a short silence. Christopher looked unsure; here, where the subject was no longer dosages and timing, he was on more unsteady ground. James could only think of Elias, and what Cordelia had said about him: the many times he’d tried to stop, the way he’d relapsed after months had gone by without a drink.

It was Thomas who broke the silence.

“Whatever in your mind made you drink in the first place,” said Thomas. “That will still be there.”

“So you’re saying I will still want to drink,” Matthew said slowly, “but I will not need to drink.”

James reached out and ruffled Matthew’s damp hair. “You should rest,” he said.

Matthew leaned into James’s touch. “I would. But I don’t want all of you to leave. It’s selfish, but—”

“I’ll stay,” said James.

“As will I,” said Thomas.

Christopher closed his doctor’s bag with a snap. “We’ll all stay,” he said.

Which was how they ended up sleeping curled on the eiderdown before the fire, like a litter of puppies. Matthew fell asleep almost immediately, and the others shortly after; James, back-to-back with Matthew, had not thought he would sleep, but the crackle of the logs in the fire and the soft breathing of the other Merry Thieves quieted him into an exhausted slumber. Only Oscar did not sleep: he padded a slight distance away and sat down, watching over them throughout the night.



* * *



Cordelia lay awake, tossing and turning on her bed. She missed Curzon Street; she missed her bed there, missed knowing James was only a room away. Here, she had Alastair and her mother, but it was not the same. Returning to Cornwall Gardens felt like trying to turn a key in a lock it no longer fit.

Over and over she heard Hypatia saying, You truly could become the greatest, most effective Shadowhunter that has ever been known. But at what a price! The price of embracing darkness, of accepting Lilith as her master. And had it not been a desire for greatness that had led her down this path? But then, how could it be wrong to want to be an excellent Shadowhunter? How could it be wrong to want to protect the world from Belial?

And not just the world, she knew. Lucie and James. They were targets; their vulnerability pierced her heart. Perhaps Lucie hated her now, and perhaps she had lost James, but everything inside her wanted to protect them.

She wondered what James had thought when he had gotten her message asking him to go to Matthew’s. She hoped he had done it. He and Matthew needed each other desperately, however stubborn they both might be.

She flopped over, knocking her pillow to the floor. Her hair was tangled, her eyes aching with tiredness. Hypatia had told her to fight in Lilith’s service. But that she would never do. Still—the memory of the Gamigin demon in Chiswick returned to her. She was sure that if she’d been able to question it longer, she would have learned more about Belial’s plans.

She sat up, staring sightlessly into the dark. Surely questioning a demon didn’t require lifting a weapon. And as long as she was Lilith’s paladin, she could take advantage of the demons’ fear of her. It would be a way to wrest something good out of her horrible binding to Lilith. A way to help Lucie, James, and the others.

Simply find a place of death or horror, scarred by tragedy, Hypatia had said. And Cordelia knew just the location.



* * *



Thomas was woken at dawn, by Oscar.

The other boys were still asleep, sprawled in a pile on the rug before the now-cold fireplace. Fingers of dawn light crept through the windowpanes, illuminating the curve of James’s shoulder, the glint off Christopher’s glasses, and Matthew’s bright hair.

Oscar was whimpering and fussing, darting between the door and Matthew, his nails clicking on the wood floor. Thomas bent over Matthew; he was fast asleep but breathing regularly, his hand clamped over James’s wrist. If he had not been so exhausted, he would certainly have been awakened by Oscar, which didn’t seem ideal.

Leaving Matthew to rest, Thomas rose to his feet. He glared down at Oscar—who looked up at him with wide brown eyes—said, “Why me?” under his breath, and went to get his coat.

Oscar happily snapped to his leash, they headed downstairs, passing the empty porter’s desk. Outside, Thomas gazed industriously into the distance while Oscar did what he needed to do under a plane tree.

Dawn was just beginning to illuminate the sky. It was a dusky-pink sort of dawn, with streaks of darker red cutting lengthwise through the lower clouds. Marylebone had not yet begun to awaken; there was not even the sound of a distant milk cart rattling along the streets to disturb the quiet.

In the reddish dawn, Whitby Mansions looked even pinker. Around its corner, Thomas noted, quite out of place, a dark shadow lurked.

“Alastair?” Thomas called, and the dark shadow started and turned toward him. Alastair was leaning against the building and appeared to have partially fallen asleep; he rubbed at his eyes, stared at Thomas and Oscar, and muttered something under his breath.

“Alastair.” Thomas approached him, Oscar trotting happily at his side. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I don’t think that dog likes me,” Alastair said, eyeing Oscar suspiciously.

“That doesn’t really answer the question, does it?”

Alastair sighed. He was wearing his dark blue paletot and a gray scarf. His thick black hair touched his collar, and his dark eyes were tired, the lids hanging heavy in a way that was almost seductive, though Thomas knew perfectly well it was only exhaustion. “All right,” he said. “Cordelia told me what happened. And believe it or not, I was worried.”

“About Matthew?” Oscar bounced at his owner’s name. “I’m not sure I do believe you.”