The Last Hours: Chain of Iron, page 49
Numbly, she went to the far wall and took down the Blackthorn sword. Her steps slowed as she returned to the coffin. The lid was still open, and inside, Jesse lay still—peaceful, and utterly unaware. It was unfair. Horribly unfair. Jesse was innocent.
But those who had been murdered—they had been innocent too.
Lucie had to do it now, before she lost her nerve. She gritted her teeth and raised the sword, gripping the hilt with both hands, ready to swing it down straight and true, as her father had taught her.
“Jesse,” she whispered. “Jesse, I’m so sorry.”
Light flashed off the blade of the sword, just as something slammed into the back of Lucie’s head. The Blackthorn sword fell from her hands. As it glanced off the edge of the glass case and clanged to the hard earth, shadows crept in around the edges of Lucie’s vision, washing her into the dark.
24
HE SHALL RISE
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Kraken”
James was in the shadows and they were around him; he was dreaming, though he had not been asleep.
He could hear his own breath, ragged in his ears. He was imprisoned in the shadows, unable to move—unable to see save out of two holes torn in the darkness, like the eyes of a mask.
It was past dawn, the sky the color of cold blue glass. Arching above him as he lurched forward were plane trees, their branches outstretched to catch the attenuated sunlight. His body ached and burned. Dark hair fell across his vision; he reached to push it away. Glancing down, he saw his hands—narrow, pale white hands, clutching a silvery runed box.
His hand, which was not his hand, closed over the box. He was in a familiar space—gardens of some sort. There were hedges, and paths winding among wintry trees. Before him, a church’s gothic spires rose against the clear sky; winding out from its door were footpaths that circled the bronze fountain in the center.
James could hear whistling. His vision was beginning to fade around the edges, but he could see someone—someone in a gear jacket—walking a path, among the laurels and holly bushes, their leaves seared with ice that glittered in the sun….
Somewhere a hand closed itself around the hilt of a blade. Somewhere there was hatred, that bleak, pitiless hatred James had felt before, and contempt—contempt for the man in the jacket, the Shadowhunter, who he had waited for in the square, had followed from his house, driving him, unawares, toward this place, this confrontation….
Stop, James whispered. Don’t do this.
Sneering scorn. Begone, child.
And he was hurled free of the vision, crying out, his hands reaching for purchase, something to hold him to the world.
“James!”
It was Cordelia’s voice. She was kneeling over him, and so was Matthew: he lay on the floor of the study, half-stunned, as if he’d been dropped from a great height. He jerked into a sitting position like a puppet yanked upright on too-tight strings. “It’s happening,” he said. “Another murder—”
“Here.” Matthew reached out; James caught hold of his parabatai’s hand and hauled himself upright. He still felt dizzy, and somehow different—lighter, though he could not begin to explain why. He leaned back against the marble fireplace, catching his breath, Matthew’s worried gaze fixed on him. “Steady on, Jamie bach.”
James realized three things simultaneously. One was that he’d been kissing Cordelia what felt like moments ago, but no evidence of their embrace remained: Cordelia wore a gear jacket buttoned over her dress, and a watchful expression. He himself was wearing a clean shirt, which seemed an even greater mystery.
The second was that Matthew must have just arrived: he hadn’t yet taken off his bright green brocade-and-velvet overcoat, and one end of his long ivory scarf trailed on the floor.
The third was that it was as if someone had unlatched a cage inside him, letting his mind run free. He very urgently needed several things at once: an answer, a map, and a book. “Math,” he said. “The pithos—did Christopher lose it?”
Matthew’s eyes widened. “It was stolen—by someone who looked like me. How did you know it was gone?”
“Because he has it,” James said. “Belial. He must have sent an Eidolon demon to Christopher, to trick him.” He took a deep breath. “I think—I think I may know what’s happening.”
Cordelia rose to her feet, Cortana gleaming where it was strapped to her back. She blushed a little as she looked at him. “What do you mean, you know? You know who’s responsible for the murders?” she demanded. “I mean, Belial, of course—”
“I don’t know all of it,” said James, racing to the center table, where books on dreams and magic still lay scattered haphazardly. “But some of it. Why he’s doing what he’s doing. Maybe even how. Here—” He yanked the dark purple volume free. “The map,” he said. “That map of London—where is it?”
“Here.” Matthew slid the book toward him, open to the map in the center. Hurriedly James glanced at the Monarchia, then back at the map. He picked up a pen and made one last mark.
“Mount Street Gardens?” said Matthew, squinting at the new scrawl. “We’ve been there before. It’s quite near here.”
“But that still doesn’t make Belial’s sigil, does it?” said Cordelia, glancing over Matthew’s shoulder. “It looks rather like Poseidon’s trident. A sort of spear with three prongs.”
“It is a sigil,” said James. “Just not Belial’s. It’s Leviathan’s sigil.” He tapped the Monarchia, where Leviathan’s sigil was scrawled across a full page, spiky and vicious-looking. “Thus the trident. He is a sea demon, after all.”
Matthew and Cordelia exchanged a puzzled look. This was it, James thought; they were going to declare him mad and toss him in the attic.
“Magnus said the Princes had alliances,” said Cordelia slowly. “Azazel and Asmodeus. Belial and—”
“Leviathan,” said Matthew, who had gone a little white around the mouth. “James, you said the sigils can function as gates. If this murder happens—it will open up a gate for Leviathan to enter our world?”
“Do you think it’s already happened?” Cordelia asked.
James glanced at the window. “No. In my vision it was just after dawn, and dawn is breaking now. Mount Street Gardens isn’t far, but we have no time to waste. We must run—”
“Not like that, you’re not,” said Matthew sternly. “You need shoes, weapons, and a gear jacket at least. And Cordelia needs boots.”
“And then?” said Cordelia.
“Then we run.”
As Thomas barreled through the Institute and into the entryway, he heard someone calling his name. Everything was chaos, a seething mass of Shadowhunters surging to and fro, catching up weapons, throwing on gear, and charging out the open front doors into the courtyard beyond, from which the sounds of fighting were already audible.
“Thomas! Here!” It was Christopher, pushing toward him through the crowd; he was holding a gear jacket and a number of seraph blades. “Where’s Uncle Will?”
“Went to find Tessa.” Thomas took the jacket and threw it on, jamming some of the blades into his belt. “What’s happening?”
“Some kind of attack. Your parents are out there already, joined the fighting. Mine, too—well, Father has. Mother’s upstairs with Alexander. But the Institute’s not safe. Do you want some seraph blades?”
Thomas was about to protest that he’d already taken several when he realized Christopher wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to Alastair, who seemed to have remained at Thomas’s side. Thomas determined to analyze this development at a later date.
Alastair nodded his thanks and took the weapons. He headed to the front doors while Thomas was still fastening his jacket. Christopher followed—he was saying something about the adamas object Thomas had found, and about Matthew having run to get James. His voice trailed off as he joined Thomas and Alastair at the front door.
The courtyard was in ruins. A massive black cloud hid the Institute and its surroundings in shadow: bright beams of witchlight lanced back and forth across the courtyard, illuminating scenes of battle—there was Gideon, sword in hand, climbing atop a pile of rubble. Anna, in gear, back-to-back with Ariadne, her whip tracing a thin gold line across the air.
“But what are they fighting?” said Alastair—for once voicing what everyone was thinking. “It’s too bloody dark to see, and—” He wrinkled his nose. “It smells of fish.”
“We need light!” It was Will, having returned to the entryway; he had Aunt Tessa with him, and they were both in gear. He was snapping out orders—everyone who could not join the battle was to fetch a witchlight rune-stone and head to an open window to direct the light down onto those fighting outside.
Thomas exchanged a quick glance with the others. He had no intention of being kept back so he could stand at a window with a witchlight. If the Institute was being attacked, he wanted to be out there, defending it.
It was Alastair who moved first. He started down the steps, Christopher and Thomas on his heels. Thomas coughed as the air thickened around them, suffused with the rank, damp smell of salt, fish, and rotting seaweed. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Thomas’s boots came down in freezing water. He could hear Christopher exclaiming about scientific impossibilities.
“Well, it might be impossible,” said Alastair, rather reasonably, “but it’s happening.”
“Whatever it is,” Thomas said. The courtyard began to brighten—dozens of windows around the Institute were being flung open. Thomas recognized some of the faces there, hands holding out glowing rune-stones—there was Aunt Cecily, and Mrs. Bridgestock, Piers Wentworth, and several of the Pouncebys.
In the increasing light, Thomas could see that the entire courtyard was afroth with ocean, gunmetal-gray, sloshing chaotically back and forth as though caught in a windstorm. Shadowhunters had clambered atop heaps of piled flagstones and other rubble, hacking and slashing at the things emerging from the water. They were long, like sea serpents—a muddy shade somewhere between brown, gray, and green, but shining slickly as though metallic. One whipped through the air toward Anna; she flicked her whip, slicing it in half. The stump thrashed, spraying gray-green, watery ichor. Thomas heard Eugenia shout—he hadn’t realized she was in the courtyard—and he spun, catching sight of the remains of the tentacle wrapping itself around Augustus Pounceby’s waist.
Augustus screamed, dropping his seraph blade, and clutched desperately at the fleshy green appendage tightening around his body. It was clearly choking the breath out of him; his face had gone red and he was gasping for air. Thomas started forward, but Eugenia was already there, her longsword flashing. She brought it down at an angle, slicing through Augustus’s gear jacket and then through the tentacle itself. It fell away in two spasming chunks and Augustus sank to his knees, clutching his midsection.
“Eugenia,” he wheezed. “Please—I don’t deserve—”
Eugenia shot him a disgusted look. “No, you don’t,” she said. “Now pick up your weapon and make yourself useful, for once.”
She strode off, returning to the thick of the battle, pausing only to wink at Thomas as she hurried by.
“That was unexpectedly satisfying,” said Christopher.
Thomas agreed, but there was no time to enjoy the moment. “Midael,” he intoned, and his seraph blade blazed to life in his hand. He sloshed farther into the courtyard, through the ankle-deep water, Christopher and Alastair nearby. Something surged up out of the sea-foam—another tentacle, this one thrashing and alive. It was as big around as a grown human and impossibly long, and as it reared back out of the waves, Thomas could see that its underside was covered with hundreds of hard, spiked black barbs.
It slammed down. Something caught hold of Thomas, yanking him savagely out of the way.
Alastair.
They half collapsed onto each other as the end of the tentacle smashed into the front of the Institute; when it dragged itself back into the water, a chunk of the wall came with it. Brick dust puffed into the air as Gabriel Lightwood leaped down from a teetering stack of flagstones, sword raised.
The tentacle whipped back and curled around Gabriel, wrapping his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The sword flew out of Gabriel’s hand, its blade smeared with ichor, the cross guard with blood.
Gabriel struggled, but the thing held him fast. Christopher shouted hoarsely and ran toward his father as shilling-size drops of scarlet blood pattered down around him. Thomas scrambled to his feet and dashed after Christopher, hurling himself at the massive tentacle. He plunged his seraph blade into the rubbery green-black flesh, over and over, dimly aware that beside him, Alastair Carstairs was doing the same.
Cordelia, Matthew, and James arrived at Mount Street Gardens at a run. The gate was open, the garden itself seemingly deserted. Cordelia slowed to a walk as they passed onto the footpaths that ran beneath the plane trees. She told herself that the silence—despite the red Jacobean primary school building looming up on the right—was due to the earliness of the morning. The schoolchildren wouldn’t have arrived yet, and it was chilly weather for a walk.
And yet, she could not shake her feeling of prickly unease, as if someone were watching them. But the raked footpaths were bare. James ranged restlessly across the park, hatless, his dark hair whipping in the wind as he searched. They were all glamoured—they would certainly have alarmed the pedestrians on South Audley Street otherwise—but it seemed no one was here to see them. She was wondering if they were too late—or too early—when James gave a hoarse bark of alarm.
“Matthew! Come quickly!”
Matthew and Cordelia exchanged a quick look of puzzlement; James was over by a bronze statue in the middle of the garden, waving furiously. Matthew ran to him, and after a moment, Cordelia followed.
She saw immediately why James had called Matthew to him first. The statue surmounted a now-dry bronze fountain; slumped behind the fountain was the body of a Shadowhunter—a man in gear, with dark red hair. Not far away, an object glittered on the pathway, as if it had fallen or been tossed aside. The pithos.
Nearing the fountain, Matthew froze. He had gone an awful color, like chalk.
“Charles,” he whispered.
He seemed unable to move. Cordelia caught hold of his hand and half dragged him to where James was kneeling by the body—no, not a body, she realized with relief. Charles was alive, if barely. James had rolled him onto his back, and his blood-soaked chest rose and fell unevenly.
James had his stele out and was frantically drawing iratzes on Charles’s skin, where a torn and bloody sleeve exposed his forearm. Cordelia heard Matthew suck in a ragged breath. He was staring intently at the runes, and Cordelia knew why: when a wound was fatal, iratzes would not hold their place on skin. They would vanish, overwhelmed by a level of damage they could not heal.
“They’re staying,” she whispered, though she knew it was not a guarantee. She squeezed Matthew’s hand hard. “Go—Matthew, you’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”
With a stiff nod, Matthew drew away and fell to his knees beside James. He laid his hand, long and slender, glittering with his signet ring, on his brother’s cheek. “Charles,” he said breathlessly. “Hang on, Charlie. We’ll get you help. We’ll—”
He broke off and sat motionless, one hand on his brother’s face, the other arrested in the motion of reaching for his stele. The slow rise and fall of Charles’s shallow breathing seemed to have stopped as well. They were frozen, like statues. Cordelia looked wildly at James, who was staring around them in amazement. The park was utterly silent, utterly still. Where were the sounds of birds—city starlings and sparrows? The sounds of London awakening: the cries of costermongers, the tread of pedestrians on their way to work? The rustle of leaves in the wind? The world felt still and frozen, as if pressed under glass.
But James—James could move too. Pocketing the pithos, he rose to his feet, seeking out Cordelia with his gaze. His golden eyes were burning. “Cordelia,” he said. “Turn around.”
She whirled to face the park gates and nearly jumped out of her skin: a young man was strolling toward them, whistling softly. The tune carried through the silent park like music in a church. The boy seemed familiar, though Cordelia couldn’t have said why; he was dark-haired and smiling, carrying a heavy sword with an etched crosspiece in one hand. He was dressed in a pure white suit as if it were summer, his shirt and jacket spattered with bright red blood. He was handsome—striking, really, with dark green eyes the color of new leaves. Yet something about him made her skin crawl. There was something feral about his smile, like the grin of the Cheshire cat.
James was gazing at the boy in what seemed to be dawning horror. Beside him Matthew and Charles remained frozen in their strange tableau, their eyes blank and staring.
“But that can’t be,” James said, half to himself. “It’s not possible.”
“What do you mean? What’s not possible?”
“That’s Jesse,” James said. “Jesse Blackthorn.”
“Tatiana’s son? But he died,” Cordelia said. “Years ago.”
“Maybe,” said James, taking a knife from his belt. His gaze never left the boy—Jesse—as he approached, fastidiously skirting a border of holly. “But I recognize—I’ve seen his portrait in Blackthorn Manor. And a few photographs Grace had. It’s him.”
“But that’s impossible—”
Cordelia broke off, her hand flying to Cortana. The boy was suddenly standing in front of them, twirling his sword in his hand like a music-hall singer with a cane. His jacket hung casually open, his smile widening as he looked from James to Cordelia. “Of course it’s impossible,” he said. “Jesse Blackthorn is long dead.”
