Chain of Gold (15 page)

“Of course—but why not tell your father or your mother? They would surely understand.”

“I do not wish to raise hopes that may come to nothing,” said Lucie. “Besides, they might feel they needed to tell some of the others, and I—I have been told that being sought out by ghosts is not an appealing trait in a young woman.”

Cordelia caught at Lucie's hand with her own bandaged one. “Tell me who said that to you. I will kill them.”

Lucie sniffled and then laughed. “You needn't kill anyone. Just come with me to Chiswick, and I will be perfectly satisfied.”

“We must bar the doors,” said James. “They don't lock, and we can't be interrupted.” He frowned. “Matthew, can you stand?”

The ballroom had been closed up after the ball; it was rarely used except for social functions. The room was warm and close as James, Christopher, and Thomas threw off their jackets and
stripped down to shirtsleeves. Most were still wearing the same weapons belts they'd had on in the park: James had added several new daggers to his own.

Only Matthew was unarmed. Blinking and disheveled, he found his way to a plushly upholstered chair and fell into it. “I am quite all right,” he said, waving an airy hand. “Please continue with your plan.” He squinted. “What
was
your plan?”

“I'll tell you in a moment,” James said. He was quite sure none of them were going to like it. “Thomas?”

Thomas nodded, seized hold of a heavy sideboard, and began to shove it in front of the ballroom doors. Christopher looked worriedly at Matthew. “Perhaps some water?” he said.

“I'm
quite
all right,” Matthew repeated.

“I found you drinking from a flask and singing ‘Elsie from Chelsea' in the Baybrooks' carriage,” said Thomas darkly.

“It was private there,” said Matthew. “And well-upholstered.”

“At least it wasn't the Bridgestocks' carriage, because they have already experienced enough tragedy today. Nothing bad has happened to the Baybrooks,” said Christopher, with great sincerity.

“Nothing until now,” said James. “Christopher—was everything all right, dropping off Miss Blackthorn?”

He tried not to sound as if he were too invested in the answer. Matthew raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Oh, perfectly,” said Christopher. “I told her all about culturing bacteria, and she was so fascinated that she never spoke a word!”

James had gone to pile chairs in front of the doors to the withdrawing room. He hoped Grace had not expired from boredom. “Did you have to tell Mrs. Blackthorn what had happened at the park? She can't have been pleased.”

Christopher shook his head. “I confess I didn't see her. Miss Blackthorn asked that I drop her at the gates, not the front door.”

“She probably doesn't want anyone to see the state of the place,”
said Matthew, yawning. “The gates alone are festooned in rust.”

James eyed him. “Thomas,” he said, in a low voice. “Maybe a healing rune?”

Thomas nodded and approached Matthew cautiously, as one might approach a stray cat on the street. Some time ago James had discovered that healing runes sobered Matthew up: not entirely, but enough.

“Push up your sleeve, then, there's a good fellow,” Thomas said, seating himself on the arm of Matthew's chair. “Let's wake you up and James can tell us whatever mad thing he has planned.”

Done with the chairs, James cast a glance around the room, dusted off his hands, and said, “We'd better check the locks on all the windows. Just to be sure.”

“It seems somehow blasphemous to use Marks to rid oneself of the effects of alcohol,” Matthew added, as Thomas put his stele away. The Mark in question gleamed, new-made, on Matthew's wrist. He looked already more clear-eyed, and less as if he were about to fall asleep or be sick.

“I've seen you use your stele to part your hair,” said James dryly, as he began to examine the window locks.

“The Angel gave me this hair,” replied Matthew. “It's one of the Shadowhunters' gifts. Like the Mortal Sword.”

“Now
that
is blasphemy,” said Thomas. Christopher had joined James in checking the window fastenings, though James desperately wished he could open one and get some air into the room.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever, Thomas,” said Matthew. “James, why are we locking all the windows? Are we afraid of overcurious pigeons?”

James slammed a bolt home and turned to look at the others. “I have spent the past four years of my life trying to train myself not to do what I'm about to do. I don't wish to even consider the possibility of being interrupted.”

“By a pigeon?” said Matthew, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic, despite his lightly mocking words. “Jamie, what are we doing here?”

James took a deep breath. “I am going to deliberately send myself into the shadow realm,” he said.

The Merry Thieves exploded in a chorus of protest. Matthew stood up, his eyes glittering. “Certainly not,” he said. “The danger—”

“I do not think there will be danger,” said James. “I have been in and out of the shadow realm many times in my life. It has been ages since I fell accidentally into that world. Yet in the past week, I have seen it three times, once just before the attack today. I cannot think that is a coincidence. If I can use this ability to help Barbara, Ariadne, all of us—you must let me do it.”

“Bloody hell.” Matthew rubbed at his eyes. “If we don't help you here, you'll just try to do this after we're all gone, won't you?”

“Clearly,” said James. He tapped the daggers at his waist. “I'm armed, at least.”

Matthew twisted the signet ring on his finger, marked with
MF
. It had been a gift from James when they had become
parabatai
, and he tended to fiddle with it only when distressed. “Very well, James. As you wish.”

James cleared his throat. “All right. Let's get on with it.”

He was met with the gaze of six expectant eyes.

“Well?” Thomas said hopefully, after a long pause. “Go on into the shadow realm, then.”

James concentrated. He stared at the blank floor and tried to conjure up images in his mind of the shadow realm. The scorched gray sky and dimmed sun. He imagined the ballroom wrong, the windows set oddly into the walls, the chandeliers melting and sagging.

He opened his eyes and yelled. A pair of eyes was staring directly into his, so close that he could make out the details inside the green irises, the faint splotches of brown and black.
“Matthew!”

“I really don't think staring at him is going to help, Matthew,” said Thomas, and Matthew took a reluctant step back from his
parabatai
. “Jamie, is there anything that might help you begin the process? We've all seen you do it.… You start to get shadowy, and turn a bit blurry around the edges.”

“When I go into the shadow realm, the realness of my presence here begins to fade,” James said. He did not mention that in the past, he had “faded” enough in this world to pass through a solid wall. He did not intend to do it again. “But it is not what drives me into the shadow realm. More of a side effect of being there.”

“Often it happens when you are upset or shocked,” said Christopher. “I suppose we could try upsetting or shocking you.”

“Given everything that's happened, that shouldn't be too hard,” said James.

“Nonsense,” said Matthew, hopping up on a nearby occasional table. It was quite frail-looking, with thin gold-painted wooden legs, and James eyed it worriedly. “The last time I saw you shocked was when that Iblis demon was sending Christopher love letters.”

“I have a dark charm,” said Christopher sadly.

“Please recall that I am the pale neurasthenic one and you are the stern heroic one,” Matthew said to James. “It is very tedious when you mix up our roles. We will have to think of something quite impressive to startle you.”

“So what is my role?” said Christopher.

“Mad inventor, of course,” said Matthew promptly. “And Thomas is the one with a good heart.”

“Lord, I sound dull,” said Thomas. “Look, James, come here for a second.”

James moved toward Thomas, who seemed to have decided on something: in moments like this, he looked very like his mother, with her brilliant hazel eyes and ferocious mouth.

A fist came sailing out of the air and landed squarely in James's
solar plexus. He went flying backward, hitting the floor with a gasp. His head swam.

Matthew dropped down by his side, as James heaved himself up onto his elbows, gasping. The pain wasn't bad but the feeling of trying to catch his breath was sickening.

“Thomas!” Matthew yelled. “What were you trying to—?”

“I was trying to surprise him!” Thomas yelled back. “This is important, Matthew!” He darted a worried look at James, belying his angry words. “You don't mind, do you, Jamie?”

“It's all right,” James said breathlessly. “Only it didn't work. If I turned into a shadow every time something hit me, I couldn't patrol.” He stared up at the ceiling, which had mirrors on it. He could see himself lying splayed on the parquet, hair very black against the white, Matthew kneeling over him like a squire over the body of a dead knight.

He could see Christopher and Thomas in the mirror as well, or at least the tops of their heads. Christopher was reaching up to pull something down from the wall. Thomas had his arms crossed.

Matthew jumped to his feet with the agility of a fox and held out a hand to help James up after him. James had only just regained his footing when an arrow shot past his head. One of the windows shattered, and Matthew threw himself against James. They tumbled to the floor again, knocking the breath out of James for the second time in five minutes.

He rolled into a sitting position, shouldering Matthew aside, to find Thomas goggling at Christopher, who was clutching one of the bows that had been hanging on the wall.

“In case anyone was wondering if those were
purely
ornamental,” said James, getting to his feet, “they are not.”

“In the name of a million bloody angels, Christopher, what the hell did you just do?” Matthew demanded, leaping up after James. “Did you try to kill James?”

Christopher lowered the bow. James thought he could hear noises in the Institute: doors slamming in the distance and running feet.
Bloody hell.

“I was not trying to kill James,” said Christopher in an injured tone. “I was hoping the shock of the arrow flying past would startle him into the shadow realm. Pity it didn't work. We must think of a new plan to grievously alarm James at once.”

“Christopher!” James exclaimed. “I cannot believe you would say that! I also cannot believe you would shoot at me.”

“It had a seventy-two percent chance of working, in perfect laboratory conditions—”

“We are not in perfect laboratory conditions!” James shouted. “We are in the ballroom of my house!”

At that moment, the doors of the ballroom rattled. “What's going on?” It was Will's voice. “James, are you in there?”

“Bloody hell. My father,” James said, casting about. “Look, all of you—get out through the windows. Well, the broken one anyway. I'll take the blame. I'll say
I
shot the window out.”

“In the ballroom?” Thomas said practically. “Why would you do such a rattle-headed thing?”

“I'm capable of anything!” James made a grab for Christopher's bow; Christopher ran around behind Thomas as if his friend were a maypole. “Come on, Kit, give it over—”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He's going to say, ‘Because I'm a Herondale,' isn't he?”

The pounding on the door increased. James turned his fiercest glare on the others. “I
am
a Herondale,” he said. “And I am telling you to get out of my Institute so the only one who gets punished here is me.”

“Answer me, James!” Will shouted. “Why have you blocked this door? I demand to know what's going on!”

“James isn't here!” Matthew called, moving closer to him. “Go away!”

James looked at Matthew, puzzled. “Really?”

“I heard breaking glass!” Will called.

“I was practicing fighting moves!” Matthew answered.

“In the ballroom?”

“We're trying to distract Thomas! It's been a very emotional day!” Matthew shouted back.

“What?”
Will's voice was incredulous.

“Don't you blame this on me!” Thomas whispered.

“James.” Matthew put his hands on James's shoulders and turned James toward him. Now that the window of the ballroom was shattered, cooler air came in, lifting Matthew's sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. His eyes were intent, black in the dimness, fixed on James. James found himself startling at the seriousness of Matthew's gaze. “If you're going to do this, you need to do it now.”

“I know,” James said. “Math—help me.”

It was an old nickname for Matthew, given to him by Will, after the Welsh king Math ap Mathonwy—the keeper of all wisdom and knower of all things. Will always said Matthew had been born knowing too much. There was a dark awareness in his gaze now as he leaned in toward James's ear.

“Jamie,” he whispered. “I'm sorry to have to do this.” He swallowed. “You are cursed. A child of demons. It is why you can see the shadow realm. You are seeing the place you belong.”

James jerked back, staring at Matthew. Matthew, who smelled of brandy and familiarity. Matthew, who could be cruel but never to James.

James's vision began to slide into grayness.

Matthew went white. “James,” he said. “I didn't mean it—”

But James could no longer feel Matthew's hands on his shoulders. He could no longer feel the ballroom floor under his feet. The doors of the ballroom were beginning to crack open, but he could no longer hear them.