Chain of Gold (28 page)

As soon as the door shut behind Lucie's parents, Ragnor Fell wheeled on James.

“I see this generation of Shadowhunters has no more sense than the last,” he said sharply. “Why are you gallivanting around London town at this time of night when I need to speak with you?”

“What, and interrupt your social call?” said James, grinning. “Father said you were listening to Welsh songs for hours.”

“Yes, more's the pity.” Ragnor made an impatient gesture. “My friend Hypatia let me know that some young Shadowhunters came to her salon tonight asking questions about unusual demons and hinting at a dire future for us all. She mentioned
your
name.” He stabbed a finger in Matthew's direction. “She said she owed you lot some sort of debt and asked if I could help.”

“Will you?” Thomas spoke for the first time since they had entered the parlor. “My sister is one of the wounded.”

Ragnor looked astonished. “Thomas Lightwood? Lord, you're huge. What
have
the Nephilim been feeding you?”

“I grew a little,” Thomas said, impatient. “Can you help Bar
bara? The Silent Brothers have put all those injured to sleep, but so far there is no cure.”

Thomas gripped the wooden back of a chair, carved to represent crossed seraph blades. His skin was tanned, but he held the chair so hard his hands were white. Ragnor Fell surveyed the room, his pale eyebrows raised.

“The scarcity of demons in London over the past years has not escaped my notice,” he said. “I have also heard the rumors that a powerful warlock is behind this absence.”

“Do you believe it?” said Lucie.

“No. If we warlocks could easily keep demons out of our cities, we would do it. But it would not require a powerful warlock so much as a corrupt one to play with this kind of magic.”

“What do you mean?” said James. “Surely keeping demons away is a good thing, not a bad one.”

Ragnor nodded his shaggy head slowly. “One would think,” he said. “And yet what we are seeing here is that someone has cleared the minor demons out of London in order to make a path for those even more dangerous.” Ragnor hesitated. “Among warlocks, my name is often invoked when dimensional magic is spoken of—the most difficult and unstable kind of magic, the kind that involves other worlds than ours. I have made myself a student of it, and none knows more than I. Demons cannot appear in daylight. It is a rule of nature. And yet. Are there ways to bring demons into this world that would make them impervious to it?”

“Yes?” Lucie hazarded.

Ragnor glared. “Don't expect me to tell you what they are,” he said. “Only that they are forbidden by the Spiral Labyrinth, for they involve complex dimensional magic that presents a danger to the fabric of the world itself.” He shook his white mane of hair. “I do not have solid information, only rumors and guesses. I would not betray one of my own kind to a member of the Clave
unless I knew for certain that they were guilty of a crime, for the Clave would arrest them first and examine the evidence later. But you… you are children. Not yet in the Clave. If you were to look into this…”

“We won't tell Father anything you don't want us to,” James promised. “We won't tell anyone. We swear it on Raziel's name.”

“Except Cordelia,” said Lucie hurriedly. “She is to be my
parabatai
. I cannot hide things from her. But we will not tell anyone else, and certainly not a single adult.”

There was a murmur as the others promised along with her. To swear something, for a Shadowhunter, was a serious thing; to swear on the name of the Angel was even more serious.

Ragnor turned to James. “Few warlocks could perform this magic, and even fewer would be willing. In fact, I can think of only one so corrupt. Emmanuel Gast. Word among the warlocks is, if the price is high enough, there is no work too low for him. I do not know if the rumor is true, but I do know his address.”

Ragnor went to the writing desk in the corner of the room and scratched the address down upon a sheet of paper. Lucie stared at the Waterman's gold-embossed fountain pen in Ragnor Fell's heavy hands, an extra joint on each finger making the shadow of his hand upon the page seem almost a claw.

“Thank you,” said James, when the warlock was done.

“I don't suppose I need to ask you not to tell Gast who sent you,” he said, straightening up from the desk. “If I find out you did, I shall turn you all into a matched set of teacups. As for me, I am going to Capri. My nerves are in a state. If London is to be devoured by demons, I do not wish to be present for the event. Good luck to you all.”

This seemed an odd attitude for a former High Warlock, but Lucie kept her mouth shut as Fell made his way to the door. She thought he might leave without another word, but he lingered a moment.

“I do not entirely know how to treat you Herondales,” he admitted. “A warlock has never had a child before. I cannot help but wonder: What will you become?”

He looked steadily at James, and then at Lucie. The fire crackled in the grate, but neither of them spoke. Lucie thought of the demon at the bridge, telling James it would honor his blood. Her blood.

Ragnor shrugged.

“So be it,” he said, and left.

Lucie dashed over to the writing desk and seized the piece of paper in her hands, then spun around smiling. Thomas and James returned her smile; Thomas with hope, James with weariness. Matthew was gazing bleakly at the glass in his hand.

Then the door opened, and Will and Tessa came in.

Lucie, worried for an instant they had heard some betraying hint of Ragnor Fell's information, tucked the paper quickly into the pocket of her walking dress. Then she caught sight of their faces, and everything else was forgotten.

It was like the end of summer in Idris. One day she and James would be playing in the forest among the green trees and mossy dells of flowers. Then would come an almost imperceptible change in the air and she would know: there would be frost tomorrow.

Thomas backed up, his face turning white beneath his tan. His shoulder struck Matthew's and the glass fell from Matthew's hands. It shattered at their feet, scattering shards across the hearth.

There would be no more waiting for frost, Lucie thought. It was here.

“Thomas, we are so sorry,” said Tessa, reaching out her hands. “Your parents are on their way. Barbara has died.”

Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much;

Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells.

—William Cowper, “The Task, Book VI: Winter Walk at Noon”

“The
tahdig
is cold.” Sona
towered in the doorway of the town house, her arms crossed as she glared at her two children. “Risa set supper out more than two hours ago.
Where
have you been?”

“We went to the infirmary at the Institute,” lied Alastair, his eyes wide and innocent. He truly was the son of a Persian mother with a temper, Cordelia thought with some amusement. She had patted down her hair and skirts in the carriage as much as she was able, but she was well aware she looked a fright. “We thought we would bring flowers, to show our concern as part of the London community.”

Some of the anger went out of Sona's face. “Those poor children in the sickroom,” she said. She stood back and ushered them inside. “Come in, then. And take your shoes off before you get mud on the rugs!”

Supper was a swift affair of cold
tahdig
and
khoresh bademjan.
By
the end of it, Sona had been convinced that the idea of helping out at the infirmary had been hers. “You are a good boy, Alastair
joon
,” she said, kissing him on top of his head as she rose from the table. “And you, too, Cordelia. Though you should not have picked the flowers yourself. Your dress is ruined. So much mud!” She shook her head.

“Good,” said Cordelia. “It's a horrid dress.”

Sona looked hurt. “When I was your age—” she began. This, Cordelia knew, presaged a story about how when Sona had been a girl, she had been perfectly obedient to her parents, a dutiful Shadowhunter, and had always kept her clothes in pristine condition.

Alastair tossed his napkin onto the table. “Our Layla looks exhausted,” he said. “Helping the ill is very tiring. I'll see her upstairs.”

There were three floors to the town house, the upper floor given over to Alastair's and Cordelia's bedrooms and a small study. Diamond-paned windows looked over the dark sky above Kensington. Alastair paused at the top of the stairs and leaned against the damask wallpaper. “Let's never talk to those terrible people ever again,” he said.

He was twirling one of his Chinese spears between his fingers, its leaf-shaped blade catching the light that seeped up from downstairs. Alastair had a collection of spears, some of which folded up and could be kept in his pockets, several of which were secured in his coat lining.

“I like them,” Cordelia said crossly. “All of them.”

She could hear her mother singing to herself in her bedroom; a long time ago, Alastair himself had often sung and played the piano. Once they had been a musical family. Once things had been very different. Tonight had reminded Cordelia of when she and her brother were children, and co-conspirators as isolated siblings often were. Of the time before Alastair went to school, and came back so very hard to reach.

“Really?” Alastair inquired. “Which one do you find so agreeable? If it's Herondale, he will never like you better than Miss Blackthorn, and if it's Fairchild, he will never like you better than the bottle.”

Cordelia's lips tightened. “Whether you like them or not, they are influential people, and I'd prefer to think you're keeping our father's well-being foremost in your mind.”

Alastair snorted. “Your plan is to save Father by making people
like
you?”

“Clearly you have never thought making people like you was important, Alastair, but I am not like that.”

Alastair looked startled, but recovered quickly. “You should think less about making people like you, and more about making them
owe
you.”

“Alastair—”

But someone was rapping on the door downstairs. The sound rang in the silence. Whoever was outside knocked three times in quick succession, then stopped.

Alastair's expression changed. “We've spoken of this enough. Good night, Cordelia.”

Not Layla anymore.
Cordelia.
His expression was stern as he turned to hasten downstairs.

Cordelia reached out and grasped his coat. “Who could be visiting so late? Do you think it is bad news?”

Alastair started, seeming astonished that Cordelia was still present, and his coat slipped through her fingers.

“I know who it is. I will manage the situation. Go to bed at once, Cordelia,” Alastair ordered, not meeting her eyes. “If Mother catches you out of bed, there will be the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”

He dashed down the steps.

Cordelia leaned over the banister. Two floors down, she could see the encaustic tiles of their hall, the newly painted surfaces por
traying yellow starbursts shining through a maze of swords. She saw her brother open the door, and saw the shadow cast on the swords and stars as their visitor walked in. The man removed his hat. With some surprise, Cordelia recognized Charles Fairchild.

Alastair glanced around worriedly, but it seemed clear that both their mother and Risa had gone to sleep. He took Charles's hat and coat, and they headed together toward the drawing room.

Cordelia's heart was pounding. Charles Fairchild. Charles, who had told James not to venture near Grace. Charles, who Matthew clearly did not trust—but who Alastair clearly did.

Alastair had promised her he would not tell James's secrets. He had
promised
.

But he had not wanted to make the promise. Cordelia bit her lip, swore under her breath, and started down the steps. The stairs in their new home were oak, painted gray with a yellow runner up the center and a wrought-iron railing painted gray as well. Cordelia wrestled with her conscience as she ran down them lightly, her stockinged feet making no sound.

There was a back entrance to the drawing room. Cordelia slipped through the dining room, where the plates were still on the table, and down a servants' corridor. At the end of the hall was the door to the drawing room, already slightly ajar. She pressed herself up against it, peering through the crack—she could just see Charles, warming his hands at the fire crackling in the white plaster grate.

His red hair looked dark in the low light, and very orderly. As Cordelia watched, Alastair stepped closer to Charles: now she could see her brother fully. He was running his fingers through his tangled hair in a hopeless attempt to make it lie flat.

“Alastair.” Charles turned so his back was to the fire. “Why are you looking a state? What happened?”

“I went to find you earlier today,” Alastair said. There was a sulky
note in his voice that surprised Cordelia. “My sister was with Anna—I went to your house, and even to your club. Where were you?”

“I was at the Institute, of course. My fiancée remains ill, unless you've forgotten.”

“I would be very unlikely,” said Alastair coldly, “to forget your fiancée.”

In the shadows, Cordelia blinked in confusion. Did Alastair not like Ariadne? She did not recall him mentioning her before.

“Alastair,” said Charles, in a warning tone. “We've discussed this.”

“You said it would be temporary. A temporary political engagement. But I have spoken with Ariadne, Charles. She very much believes this marriage will happen.”

Alastair had been standing close to Charles, so close their shadows touched. Now he turned his back on Charles and walked over to the bookcases. Cordelia tried to move back and nearly stepped on her dress. Fortunately, Alastair stopped before he could have seen her and stared at the books blankly. Cordelia had rarely seen such misery on his face.

“This is not fair to her, Charles,” said Alastair. “Or to me.”

“Ariadne does not care what I do. Her interests lie elsewhere.” Charles paused for the briefest of moments. “She will gratify her parents with a good match, and I will find it useful to be connected to the Inquisitor. If I become Consul, I could do so much good for the Clave, as well as for you. My mother is too sentimental, but I can make our people strong again. It is what I have wanted all my life. You understand. I told you all my hopes in Paris.”

Alastair closed his eyes, as if the word “Paris” pained him. “Yes,” he said. “But you said—I thought—”

“What did I say? I would not make any false promises. You know how it must be. We are both men of the world.”

“I know,” said Alastair, opening his eyes. He turned to look at Charles. “It is only that—I love you.”

Cordelia inhaled sharply.
Oh, Alastair.

Alastair's voice cracked as he spoke. Charles's voice cracked too, but his was not the sound of something breaking. It was the sound of a whip.

“You absolutely cannot say that,” Charles said. “Not where someone might hear you. You know it, Alastair.”

“No one can hear us,” said Alastair. “And I have loved you since Paris. I thought you loved me.”

Charles said nothing. And for a moment, all Cordelia could think was that she hated Charles Fairchild for hurting her brother. Then she saw the infinitesimal tremble of Charles's hand as he put it in his pocket, and she realized that Charles might be scared too.

Charles took a deep breath and crossed the carpeted floor to Alastair's side. Cordelia could see them both very clearly. Too clearly, perhaps, she thought, as Charles took his hands from his pockets and put them on her brother's shoulders. Alastair's lips parted slightly.

“I do,” Charles said. “You know I do.”

His hands slid up into Alastair's hair. He was still wearing gloves, his fingers dark against Alastair's pale hair; he drew Alastair in toward him, and their lips met. Alastair made a soft sound, like surrender. He slid an arm around Charles's neck and pulled him down onto the sofa.

They stretched out together, Charles atop Alastair. It was Alastair's turn to bury his hands in Charles's hair, to press against Charles's body and fumble with his waistcoat. Charles's hands were flat against Alastair's chest, and he was kissing Alastair hungrily, over and over—

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut. This was her brother's life, his business, his very
private
business. Oh, dear, she hadn't come for this
at all
. She could hear soft moans, could hear Alastair whispering to Charles in Persian, endearments she could never have imagined her brother uttering.

There was a gasp. She would risk it, she decided. She would flee, and hopefully they would be too intent on each other to hear her.

Then she heard Charles say, “Alastair. I cannot—I cannot.” There was a thumping sound, and Cordelia opened her eyes to see Alastair sitting disheveled on the couch, and Charles standing, straightening his waistcoat. Alastair's jacket was thrown over the back of the sofa. “Not now.”

Alastair no longer played music, but he still had a musician's hands. Cordelia watched as those hands lifted, twisted together in a brief instant of pain, and stilled.

“What is wrong, Charles?” he said, his voice husky and rough. “If this is not what you came for, then why are you here?”

“I thought you had accepted the situation with Ariadne,” said Charles. “I would not leave you, Alastair. We would still be—what we are. And I thought that you would agree to marry too.”

“That
I
would marry?” Alastair sprang to his feet. “I have told you over and over, Charles, even if I did not have you, I would never marry some poor woman and deceive her as to my love and regard. I have convinced my mother I can be of better use to the family in politics—”

“You will find it difficult to succeed in politics without a wife,” said Charles. “And you do not need to deceive a woman.”

“Ariadne is an unusual case,” said Alastair. “If she did not prefer women, she would be unlikely to be willing to marry you.”

Charles stood very still, his eyes fixed on Alastair's face. “And if it were not Ariadne?”

Alastair looked bewildered. “Speak sense, Charles. What do you mean?”

Charles shook his head as if he were clearing away cobwebs. “Nothing,” he said. “I am—unsettled. Much has happened this night, all of it bad.”

Cordelia tensed. What did he mean? He couldn't possibly know
about their encounter with the demons at Battersea Bridge. Had someone else fallen ill?

Charles spoke in a heavy voice. “Barbara Lightwood has died.”

Cordelia felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She heard Alastair as if from a distance, sounding stunned, “Thomas's sister is dead?”

“I wouldn't have expected you to care,” said Charles. “I thought you hated those fellows.”

“No,” said Alastair, surprising Cordelia. “But—Ariadne is all right?”

“She lives still,” said Charles. “But Raziel alone knows what will happen. To any of them.”

Alastair sat back down. “Perhaps we should leave London. It may not be safe here for Cordelia, for my mother—”

Cordelia felt a jolt of surprise that her brother had thought of her.

Alastair put his head in his hands.
“Nemidoonam,”
he whispered. Charles looked blank, but Cordelia understood him:
I don't know. I don't know what to do.

“We are Shadowhunters,” said Charles, and Cordelia wondered—did he not worry about Matthew falling ill? About Henry? “We do not run, or spend our time in mourning. This is the time to fight and win. The Enclave will need a leader, and with my mother in Idris, now is the time for me to show them my best qualities.” He touched Alastair lightly on the shoulder. Alastair looked up, and Cordelia closed her eyes. There was something too personal about the way Alastair looked at Charles, all his defensiveness stripped away.

“I must go,” Charles said. “But do not forget, Alastair, that whatever I do, it is with the thought of you ever in my mind.”