The Last Hours: Chain of Iron, page 36
Suddenly Thomas wanted nothing more than to return to his friends. He started walking more briskly, rubbing his gloved hands to warm his stiff fingers as the glow of yellow and pink over the treetops signaled the sun’s approach.
Then a scream shattered the stillness. Thomas broke into a run without thinking, his training propelling him toward the sound before he had a moment to hesitate. He prayed that it was a fight, maybe drunks stumbling out of a pub, or a thief snatching a handbag from an early-morning commuter—
He skidded around a corner onto Sink Street. A woman was sprawled across the threshold of a terraced town house, half in and half out of the iced-over garden. She was facedown on the ground, her garments streaked in blood, gray hair spilling onto the snow. He looked wildly around, but saw no one else. He knelt and gathered the woman into his arms, turning her head to see her face—
It was Lilian Highsmith. He knew her—everyone did. She was an elder of the Clave, a respected figure—and kindly, too. She had kept peppermints in her pocket to give to children. He remembered her handing them to him when he was a little boy, her thin hands ruffling his hair.
She wore a morning dress, as if she had not expected to be outside. The fabric was slashed, blood pouring from multiple gashes in the material. Bloody foam flecked her lips—she was still breathing, he realized. With shaking hands, he drew out his stele, desperately carving iratze after iratze onto her skin. Each flickered and vanished, like a stone sinking into water.
He desperately wished, now, for the patrol he’d seen earlier. They’d barely been a few blocks from here. How could they have missed this?
Lilian Highsmith’s eyelids flickered open. She caught at the front of his coat, shaking her head, as if to say, Enough. Stop trying.
His breath hitched. “Miss Highsmith,” he said urgently. “It’s Thomas—Thomas Lightwood. Who did this to you?”
She tightened her grip on his lapels, pulling him closer with surprising strength. “He did,” she whispered. “But he was dead, dead in his prime. His wife … she wept and wept. I remember her tears.” Her eyes fixed on Thomas’s. “Perhaps there is no forgiveness.”
Her fingers loosened their grip and slowly trailed down his coat, leaving a bloody smear behind. Her face went slack as the light left her eyes.
Numbly, Thomas laid her limp body on the ground. His mind whirled. Should he bring her inside? Someone might come along soon, and she was not glamoured—mundanes should not see her like this, and yet perhaps the Enclave would not want him to move her?
At least he could arrange her as a Shadowhunter should be laid out in death. He shut her eyes with his thumb, and reached for her hands to fold them on her chest. Something rolled free of her left hand, clanking gently against the icy ground.
It was a stele. What had she been doing with it? Trying to heal herself?
Thomas heard footsteps approaching and lifted his head, dazed. Could the murderer be returning, worried that Lilian might survive—and determined to come back and make certain she hadn’t? Quickly, he stuffed the stele into his pocket and drew a knife from his belt.
“Oi! There! Don’t you dare run!”
Thomas froze. It was the Shadowhunter patrol he’d seen earlier. Four men rounded the corner, Inquisitor Bridgestock in the lead. They slowed as they approached, staring in shock at Thomas, and at Miss Highsmith’s body.
He realized in a split second how it must look. A Shadowhunter dead beside him, and him with a knife in his bloody hand. Worse yet, he wasn’t scheduled for patrol—no one knew about his nightly outings. No one could vouch for him. His friends could say they knew he was patrolling on his own, but that wasn’t much, was it?
A clamor of voices started up as the Inquisitor moved toward Thomas, his face set, his black cape swirling around his legs. Thomas dropped the knife and let his hands fall to his sides, knowing it would be pointless to speak. He didn’t bother to try to understand what they were all saying. Everything felt slow and surreal, like a terrible dream that was trying to pull him under. He watched from what felt like miles away as Bridgestock spoke in a triumphant voice.
“Gentlemen, we have found the murderer,” he said. “Arrest him at once.”
Having set the book aside, Cordelia was watching James sleep. She had an excuse, she supposed, beyond unrequited love. She was watching over him. Protecting him, from the terrors of the night, from the threat of Belial. She felt the weight of Cortana in her hands, as she felt the weight of the trust Wayland the Smith had placed in her.
Go forth. Be a warrior.
Not that it was a hardship, watching her husband sleep. She had thought when they first became engaged that she would lie beside James at night, hearing his breaths even out into slumber. When she had realized they would have separate bedrooms, it had felt like a loss of that dream.
She would have liked to say the real thing was a disappointment. But it would have been a lie. She had watched him toss and turn and finally fall asleep, his free arm bent behind his head, his cheek resting almost in the crook of his elbow. The lines of worry on his face had smoothed out into clarity and innocence. His cheeks flushed with his dreaming, his black eyelashes fluttering against his high cheekbones. Watching him, she thought of Majnun from Ganjavi’s poem, a boy so beautiful he illuminated the darkness.
When he moved in his sleep, his thin shirt slid up, showing the ridges of his stomach. She had blushed at that, and looked away a little, before asking herself fiercely, Why? She had kissed that soft mouth, the lower lip fuller than the upper, dented slightly in the center. She had felt his body all up and down her own, the heat of him, his muscles straining to pull her closer.
She knew he wanted her. He might not love her, but from the moment she had asked him to kiss her—to teach her—he had desired her, and she had felt powerful. Beautiful. She was a paladin, a warrior. When he told her he had kissed Grace, she had felt shock and hurt, and then an absolute refusal to cry. She would not be weak. She would demand a kiss, demand that he show his desire. They could not always be on unequal footing.
It had worked better than she had ever imagined. So well she knew it could easily have gone on, have tumbled over the edge of restraint into territory that was unknown, irrevocable. And though she had wanted that, she had been the one to pull away in the end, to put a stop to it.
Because you know it would be the end of you, whispered a small voice in the back of her mind. Because if you fell even a little more in love with him, the fall would break you.
It was true. She knew that if she gave even one more bit of herself to James, she would go up like a bonfire lit by a thousand torches. There would be nothing left of her but ash. In desire they could be on equal footing, but in the matter of love, they were not.
Something had been brightening at the edge of her vision for some time now: she glanced out the window and saw the faint seashell glow of dawn. Relief flooded through her. They were safe, for the moment. It was morning. The sun was rising and nothing had happened.
James’s head turned fretfully on the pillow. Setting down Cortana, Cordelia moved closer, wondering if the light was waking him. She could draw the curtain—
He gasped, his body arching suddenly backward, shoulders and heels digging into the mattress. “Not the garden,” he gasped. “No—get back inside—no—no!”
“James!” She unlocked the door, threw it wide, and called down the corridor for help. When she turned back, James was thrashing, his wrist bloody where the rope tore against his skin.
She flew to his side as he cried out, “Let her go! Let her go!”
She scrabbled at the rope around his wrist, bloodying her fingertips as she worked to untie him. He sprang up suddenly, tearing free of the headboard. He scrambled to his feet and, barefoot, staggered to the window, catching hold of the frame. Cordelia realized he was trying to force it open.
Footsteps were pounding up the stairs. Matthew burst into the room, rumpled-looking, green eyes dark with sleep and worry. Seeing James at the window, he caught hold of him by the shoulders, spinning him around. James’s eyes were wide, staring, blind.
“Let—her—go,” James gasped, struggling.
“Wake up!” Matthew demanded, forcing James’s body back against the wall.
James was still pushing against him, stiff-armed, but his movements were slower now, his chest no longer heaving. “Matthew,” he whispered. “Matthew, is that you?”
“Jamie bach.” Matthew dug his fingers into James’s shoulders. “It’s me. Look at me. Wake up.”
James’s eyes focused slowly. “Perhaps there is no forgiveness,” he whispered, his voice oddly hollow.
“Probably not,” said Matthew, “and we’ll all go to Hell, but what matters now is that you are all right.”
“James,” Cordelia said. He stared at her; his black hair was wet with sweat, and there was blood on his lower lip where he’d bitten it. “Please.”
James shuddered and went limp against the wall. Looking exhausted, he nodded. “I’m all right.” He sounded breathless, but the hollow edge was gone from his voice. “It’s over.”
Matthew relaxed, lowering his hands. He was in his vest and trousers, Cordelia realized, and blushed slightly. She could see an enkeli rune on Matthew’s bicep, part of it disappearing under his sleeve. Matthew had very nice arms, she realized. She’d never noticed before.
Oh, dear. If her mother knew Cordelia was in a bedroom with two such scantily clad men, she would faint.
“So you dreamed,” said Matthew. He was looking at James, and there was such affection in his voice that it broke Cordelia’s heart cleanly in half. Dear God, if only she and Lucie could become parabatai, she hoped they would love each other nearly as much. “A nightmare, we assume?”
“You assume correctly,” James said, his fingers going to the knot of rope still around his wrist. “And if my dream was accurate, someone else is dead.” His tone was bleak.
“Even if that’s true, you didn’t do it,” Cordelia said fiercely. “You’ve been here all night long, James. Lashed to the bed.”
“That’s true,” said Matthew. “Cordelia has been with you, she never left your side, and we’ve all been downstairs—well, except Thomas, he buggered off on patrol again, but the rest of us. No one came in or out the door.”
James untied the rope still trailing from his wrist. It fell away, revealing a circle of bloody skin. He flexed his hand and looked from Matthew to Cordelia. “And I tried to get the window open,” he mused. “But it was after my dream, not before. I don’t know—” He looked frustrated. “It’s like I can’t think,” he said. “Like there’s a fog in my brain. But if it isn’t me doing this—who is it?”
Before either Matthew or Cordelia could answer, a noise echoed from downstairs. Someone was pounding on the door. Cordelia was up in a flash, racing down the steps in her stockinged feet. She could hear movement from the drawing room, but she reached the door before anyone else, and threw it open.
On the threshold stood a figure in a parchment-colored cloak. Glancing behind him, Cordelia could see that his boots had left no traces on the snow that frosted their front walk; he seemed to carry quiet with him, a sense of hushed spaces and echoless shadows.
For a moment Cordelia was filled with a wild hope that Jem had come to see her. But this Silent Brother was more stooped, nor did he have thick, dark hair—or any hair at all. When he looked down at her, his sewed-shut eyes visible beneath the shadow of his hood, she recognized him. It was Brother Enoch.
Cordelia Herondale, he said, in his silent voice. I must speak with you on several matters. First, I bring you a message from Brother Zachariah.
Cordelia blinked in surprise. James had said there had been another death—but maybe that was not why Enoch was here, after all? His face was as expressionless as ever, though his voice in Cordelia’s mind was surprisingly kind. She had never quite thought of the other Silent Brothers, those who were not Jem, as being kind or unkind, any more than trees or fence posts were kind.
Perhaps she had been unfair. Finding her voice, she ushered Brother Enoch into the entryway, murmuring a welcome. She could hear the noises of the others inside the house, their voices raised in the drawing room. It was still quite early, and the sky outside had just begun to steady into blue.
She closed the door and turned to look at Enoch. He stood, seemingly waiting for her, marble-pale and silent, like a statue in an alcove.
“Thank you,” she said. “I am glad to hear from Je—from Brother Zachariah. Is he all right? Is he returning to London?”
There was a noise of footsteps. Cordelia glanced up the stairs and saw James and Matthew descending. They saw her and both nodded, passing the entryway and heading to the drawing room. She realized they were giving her a moment alone with Enoch. He must have silently communicated to them as well.
Brother Zachariah is in the Spiral Labyrinth and cannot return, said Enoch.
“Oh.” Cordelia tried to hide her disappointment.
Cordelia, said Enoch. For years now I have watched Brother Zachariah grow into his role in our order with increasing respect. If we were allowed to have friends, many of us would count him as such. For all that, we know he is unusual. He paused. When a Silent Brother joins the ranks of the order, he is meant to give up his life, even his memories of who he was before he became a Silent Brother. This was more difficult for Zachariah, given the unusual circumstances of his transformation. There are those from his former life that he still considers his kin, which as a general rule is forbidden. But in his case … we allow it.
“Yes,” said Cordelia. “He thinks of the Herondales as family, I know—”
And you, said Enoch. And your brother. He knows about Elias. There are things happening in the Spiral Labyrinth that I cannot tell you of, things that prevent his departure. Yet he wishes above all to be with you. He cannot lie to me, nor I to you. If he could be beside you in this time, he would.
“Thank you,” Cordelia said quietly. “For telling me, I mean.”
Enoch gave her a sharp nod. She could see the runes of Quietude carved into the hollows of his cheeks; Jem had been marked that way too. Certainly it must have been painful. Knowing it likely violated some kind of rule, Cordelia laid a hand on his arm. The parchment robe seemed to crackle when she touched it: it was as if suddenly she could see down the span of many years, see the curve of the past, the silent power of a life spent among history and runes. “Please,” she said. “Has there been another death? I don’t know if you’re allowed to tell us, but—but the last death was my father. We have all been up all night, worrying there would be another. Can you set our minds at rest?”
Before Enoch could respond, the door to the drawing room opened, and James, Matthew, Christopher, Lucie, and Anna piled out. Five anxious faces fixed on Enoch—six, Cordelia supposed, if she counted her own. Five pairs of eyes made the same demand, asked the same question: Has anyone else died?
Enoch’s answer flowed calmly, without sentiment or bitterness. If another Shadowhunter has been struck down, I do not know about it.
Cordelia exchanged an uneasy look with James and Matthew. Could James’s dream have been wrong? None of the others had been.
I have come here to speak to Cordelia, Enoch went on, on a subject related to the murders and their investigation.
Cordelia stood up straighter. “Anything you want to say to me privately, you can say to all of my friends.”
As you wish. In the Ossuarium you asked me a question about Filomena di Angelo’s Strength rune.
The others were looking at Cordelia in confusion. “I had asked,” Cordelia explained, “whether she had one.”
She did, Enoch said. She wore a permanent Strength rune on her wrist, according to her family, but that rune is missing now.
“Missing?” Christopher sounded baffled. “How’s that possible? Scarred over, you mean?”
There is no scar. A rune can be used up, leaving only a phantom of itself behind, but it cannot vanish from one’s skin entirely once it has been drawn. Enoch’s focus shifted to Cordelia. How did you know?
“I saw my father’s Voyance rune was missing,” Cordelia said, “and in the courtyard, when Filomena’s body was there, I thought I noticed her Strength rune missing from her wrist. It could have been nothing, my own memory playing tricks—but after I noticed my father’s rune, I had to ask….”
She could feel the weight of Brother Enoch’s gaze, as if he were staring at her, though she knew he did not see as ordinary people did. She tried to keep her face expressionless. She hoped the others were doing the same. Lying to a Silent Brother was more than difficult: if Enoch chose to rummage in her mind, he’d see easily enough that it had been Filomena’s ghost herself who’d hinted at the truth.
He took my strength.
If she told the truth, though, there would be inquiries—prodding—questions that might turn toward Lucie. She willed herself to look pleasant and blank, as James did when he wore the Mask.
“But what could it mean?” James said, the sharpness in his tone cutting the tension like a knife. “The fact that two of the victims are missing runes? It’s not possible to steal runes, and even if one did, what use would they be?”
“As some sort of trophy, maybe?” Lucie said, with a grateful look in Cordelia’s direction.
Christopher looked slightly ill. “Jack the Ripper took … parts … of the people he killed.”
Lucie said, “Or as proof the person is dead? If the killer was acting at the behest of someone else—if he had hired himself out, perhaps, and had to prove he’d done the deed—”
That could not be. It is not that the skin where the rune is inked has been cut away, said Enoch. The rune itself has been taken. Its spirit. Its soul, if you will.
