Chain of Gold (29 page)

“Throw that back over here, Alexander,” Lucie said in a low voice.

“That” was a small red rubber ball. Lucie's young cousin scooted
along the marble floor of the library, but the ball bounced out of his reach and into Lucie's lap.

Alexander looked mutinous. “Not fair,” he said. He was tired and fussy, as he had been awake for many hours past his usual bedtime. Lucie wasn't sure what time it was exactly—she was sure many hours had passed since she had learned of Barbara's death—but it all seemed strangely like a bad dream, timeless and imprecise.

Lucie glanced up and frowned. “Jessamine. Don't take the child's ball from him.”

“I just want to be included,” Jessamine said. She was drifting among the stacks, where Lucie had taken Alexander to amuse him while his parents and hers huddled in conversation. At some point Jessamine had appeared, sensitive to the unsettled feeling inside the Institute. She bobbed near Lucie, her long blond hair unbound and floating.

“Perhaps it is better for them to leave London,” Tessa was saying. She and Will sat with Lucie's aunt Cecily and uncle Gabriel at a long table in the center of the big room. Green banker's lamps cast a soft glow over the room. “It will be good for Sophie and Gideon to join Henry and Charlotte in Idris, for they are always a comforting presence. And surely being here at the moment will only remind them of Barbara.”

Lucie had seen her uncle Gideon and aunt Sophie only briefly when they had arrived to view Barbara's body and collect Thomas. Both had seemed hollowed out, like puppets in the shapes of her uncle and aunt, going through the motions of what was necessary. Still, they had tried to comfort Oliver, who sat sobbing beside Barbara's still body. She had thrashed and cried out at the last, it seemed, just before Tessa had arrived to find her dead: she had clawed Oliver's hands, and blood stained the white cuffs of his shirt and mixed with his tears.

Oliver, devastated, was to return to York and his parents; Gideon
and Sophie, it seemed, were headed to Idris, where Eugenia had collapsed on hearing the news of her sister's death and was not well enough to travel by Portal. Thomas, though, would not be going with them. He had insisted on remaining in London, and would be staying with Cecily and Gabriel at their home in Bedford Square.

“We will take the best possible care of Thomas,” said Cecily. “Christopher will be so delighted to have him with us. But I cannot help but wonder if Thomas will regret not going to Idris. Surely it will be painful to be parted from his family at such a time.”

“You are also his family,” said Will. “Christopher and Thomas are like brothers, Cecy.”

“I don't think he'll regret it,” said Gabriel. He was a kind uncle, but his aquiline features—like Anna's and Christopher's—made him look sterner than he was. “Thomas is much like Gideon. The type who must have something to do when tragedy strikes. Christopher wishes for his help in working on an antidote—”

“But Kit is just a boy,” said Cecily. “He should hardly be expected to accomplish something so monumental.”

“There is nothing to say that Christopher and Thomas's efforts will be in vain,” said Will. “We must all recall there was a time when the Clave doubted us and doubted Henry, and we prevailed.”

“Poor Sophie,” said Jessamine unexpectedly. “She was always such a kind girl. Except for that time she hit me over the head with a mirror and tied me to my bed.”

Lucie did not inquire further. Jessamine's stories usually ran the gamut from rambling to alarming. Instead she pulled Alexander into her lap and rested her chin atop his head.

“It seems to be the lot of the living to have tragedy visited upon them,” Jessamine mused.

Lucie did not point out that the alternative seemed worse. Jessamine never seemed to wish she was alive; she seemed content in her role as ghost guardian.
So different from Jesse,
Lucie thought. Jesse,
who had asked her to keep him a secret, so that his odd half-life would not be discovered and ended by the Clave. Jesse, who seemed to badly want to live.

“We were all very brave then,” said Tessa. “I wonder sometimes if it is easier to be brave when one is young, before one knows truly how much there is to lose.”

Cecily murmured something in response; Lucie hugged Alexander, who was half-asleep in her arms, tightly. He was a comfort, despite being three years old and fussy. She felt somewhere in the core of her heart the truth of what her mother had just said. And one
should
put truth in books, she thought, but this would never be the sort of thing she put in the pages of
The Beautiful Cordelia
. Books were about experiencing joy. This was the raw and awful stuff of life.

It was much too terrible.

James was sitting at his writing desk, trying to read, but his eyes were skipping over the words on the page. He kept thinking of Barbara. He had not been extremely close with his cousin—the difference in age between them meant she regarded him indulgently as a child, as she did Thomas—but she had been there all his life, kind and cheerful, without her sister's sharp tongue, always expecting the ready best of everyone. He had never lived in a world without Barbara in it.

Lucie was in the library, he knew, absorbing the company of others. But James had always found solace in books. Admittedly not the kind of book he was reading currently, though.

He had been surprised how very little material there was in the library on the Princes of Hell. They were not the kind of demons Shadowhunters
fought—
in the mythology about them, they were the mirrors of angels like Raziel. Their interests seemed to go beyond
humanity, who were like ants to them. Their battles were with angels and the rulers of realms—other worlds than Earth, dimensions the princes seemed to collect like chess pieces. They could not be killed, though sometimes they were able to wound each other in a manner that left the injured party weakened for years.

There were nine of them in total. There was Sammael, the first to loose demons upon the Earth. Azazel, the forger of weapons who fell from grace when he gifted humans with the instruments of violence. Belial, who “did not walk among men,” was described as the prince of necromancers and warlocks, and a thief of realms. Mammon, the prince of greed and wealth, could be bribed with money and riches. Astaroth, who tempted men to bear false witness, and who took advantage of the grieving. Asmodeus, the demon of lust and rumored general of Hell's army. Belphegor, the prince of sloth and, strangely, tricksters and snake-oil salesmen. Leviathan, the demon of envy, chaos, and the sea, who was monstrous and rarely summoned. And lastly, of course, there was Lucifer, the leader of the archangels, the most beautiful of any prince, the leader of the rebellion against Heaven.

It seemed impossible to James any of them could be his grandfather. It was like having a mountain for a grandfather, or an exploding star. Nothing evil was more powerful than the Princes of Hell, save perhaps Lilith, the mother of demons.

He sighed and set the book down, trying to push back an intrusive thought of Grace. He did not like the way they had parted at the riverbank: she had said she would need time, and he knew he must give her that. Still, the thought of her burned inside his stomach, as if he had swallowed a match tip.

A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie. He set his book down, rising to his feet. His muscles ached.

“Come in,” he called.

It was his father, but Will was not alone: Uncle Jem was with
him, a noiseless presence in his drifting parchment robes. His hood was down, as it often was when he was inside the Institute. Will had told James many years ago that when Jem had first become a Silent Brother, he had not liked people to see his scars. It was strange to think of Uncle Jem having such feelings.

“Someone's here to see you,” Will said, moving aside to let Jem pass into the room. He glanced from his son to his old
parabatai
. James knew that under the songs and jokes, the careful deflection, his father was a man who felt things deeply. He himself was like his father in that way: they both loved intensely, and could be intensely hurt.

If it bothered Will that James and Jem had secrets he did not know and could not share, he did not show it. James had been miserable until Jem had shown him how to control the shadow power. All Will had ever cared about was that after his lessons with Jem, James seemed happier.

Will's blue eyes were deeply shadowed; James knew he and Tessa had been up for hours, first in the sickroom and then in the library. James and Lucie had stayed with Thomas as long as they could, until he had returned to Christopher's house, silent with grief and exhaustion. Afterward, Lucie had gone off to the library to look after Alexander, but James had returned to his room. He had always been the sort who bore his pains privately.

Will ruffled James's hair and said something about being needed elsewhere before slipping out of the room. When he was gone, James sat back down at his desk and glanced up at his uncle Jem.

You sent for me?
Jem said.

“Yes. I need to tell you something. Or perhaps ask you something. I am not sure which.”

Is this about Barbara? Or the others?
asked Jem.
We do not know why she died, James. We think the poison reached her heart. Piers and Ariadne remain in a stable condition, but the Brothers' need to find a cure has become even more desperate.

James thought of the blood Christopher had taken from the infirmary, the laboratory in the house on Grosvenor Square. He knew Christopher was doing all he could to find a cure for the demon poison, but he couldn't help but hope Henry would come back from Idris soon to lend aid. Not to mention there was the matter of the dirt James had found in the shadow realm.…

“I sent the message to you before I knew about Barbara,” James said, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “I feel foolish now. My problems do not measure up to those—”

Tell me why you sent for me,
said Jem.
I will be the judge of whether or not it was important.

James hesitated. “I cannot tell you all of it,” he said, “for reasons I cannot explain entirely. Only know that I encountered a demon, who told me that my grandfather was a Prince of Hell.” He glanced up at his uncle's face. “Did you know that?”

The white streak in Jem's hair danced as he shook his head.
As I've been searching for your grandfather's name, I've heard a great many stories from different sources. There was one, a warlock woman, who told me he was a Prince of Hell. But there were also others who named different demons. Since I did not know who to trust, I thought it better not to burden your family until I was sure of the truth.

“Perhaps a clue could be found in the shadow realm,” said James. “I'm seeing it more and more, just as there seem to be more demons in London. If there's some connection—”

Did the demons at the lake speak to you? Mention your grandfather?

James shook his head.

I assume the demon who identified your grandfather was the Cerberus demon in the greenhouse in Chiswick,
said Jem. James didn't contradict him; it was close enough.
It could be that this demon, having been bound to Benedict and Tatiana, had heard your name and said to you whatever it felt could hurt you most. Demons are deceptive. It might not be the truth.

“But what does it mean if it is true?” James whispered. “If I am descended from a Prince of Hell?”

It means nothing about who you are,
said Jem.
Look at your mother, your sister. Would you claim some flaw in them? You are your mother and father's son, James. That is what matters. What has always mattered.

“You are being kind,” said James. “Kinder than the Clave would be, if it turns out to be true.”

Jem took James's face in his hands. His touch was cool, as always, and his face was young and old at the same time. How could he look no older than James and at the same time, ageless?

If you saw humanity as I can see it,
Uncle Jem said.
There is very little brightness and warmth in the world for me. There are only four flames, in the whole world, that burn fiercely enough for me to feel something like the person I was. Your mother, your father, Lucie, and you. You love, and tremble, and burn. Do not let those who cannot see the truth tell you who you are. You are the flame that cannot be put out. You are the star that cannot be lost. You are who you have always been, and that is enough and more than enough. Anyone who looks at you and sees darkness is blind.

He let go of James abruptly, as if he had said too much.

It is
not
enough, is it?
Jem said, his silent tone somehow resigned.
The uncertainty has been planted. You feel you must know.

“Yes,” James said. “I am sorry.”

Very well,
said Jem.
I will call on an old friend, on one condition. You do not mention this again, to anyone, until we hear from him.

James hesitated. He was keeping so many secrets already—secrets for Grace, the secret of the attack in Chelsea, the secret of Emmanuel Gast. Before he could reply, though, the sound of clattering wheels echoed from outside; there was a crash, and James heard the front doors of the Institute fly open.

He raced to the window. Jem was beside him instantly, noiseless as a ghost.

Several carriages had drawn up in the courtyard: in the cool light of the moon, James could make out the coats of arms of the Baybrooks and Greenmantles, but not the others. He heard shouting—Will and Gabriel were racing down the front steps. The door of the Greenmantle carriage flew open and two women clambered out, supporting the body of a man between them. His white shirtfront was soaked in blood and his head hung at an angle, like a broken doll's.

Beside James, his uncle had gone rigid. There was a faraway look on his face; James knew he could speak inside his mind to the other Silent Brothers, gathering information from them.
It's happened,
Jem said.
There's been another attack.