Chain of Gold

Lucie raised an eyebrow. “The one who turned into a great worm because of demon pox, and was slain by my father and uncles?”

“I feared your parents would not have considered it the kind of tale suitable for a young lady’s ears,” said Jesse. “I see that was an idle concern.”

“They tell it every Christmas,” said Lucie smugly.

Jesse stood up. Lucie could not help but glance at the mirror over the vanity, where she could see the reflection of her own face, but not Jesse. A girl in an empty room, talking to herself. “Grandfather Benedict dabbled in a great deal of black magic,” he said. “And his relationship with demons—” He shuddered. “When he died, he left a Cerberus demon behind in the greenhouse. Its mandate is to protect our family.”

“The demon James saw in the greenhouse? But he killed it. And when the Enclave searched the grounds, they found nothing.”

“The Cerberus had been bred with a certain demonic plant,” said Jesse. “When slain, it drops pods that at first look harmless. After some hours, they hatch and become new Cerberus demons. By now they would be full grown.”

Lucie felt a chill. “What do you fear?”

“Grace left the house without my mother’s knowledge—indeed, against her express orders. The newborn Cerberus demons would have sensed it. My grandfather instilled them with the mandate to protect our family. They will go forth to find Grace and retrieve her,” said Jesse.

“But how can you be sure? Why would the new demons inherit the mandate of the old?”

“I read it in my grandfather’s papers,” Jesse said. “He hoped to create an obedient demon that would give birth to new demons when slain—ones that would remember all their progenitor knew. Believe me, I never thought his plan would actually work. Grandfather was mad as a hatter. But by the time I became aware of what was going on, it was too late.”

“But…,” Lucie spluttered. “Will they harm Grace?”

“No. They regard her as a Blackthorn. But if Herondale—if your brother is with her, they will regard him as an enemy. He killed their progenitor in the greenhouse. They will attack him, and it will be no easy task to fend off a group of Cerberus demons alone.”

Not only would James be alone, Lucie was not even sure he was armed. “What does your mother know of this? Surely she could not have wanted a demon on her property—”

“My mother resents Shadowhunters, and not without reason. I think she has always felt protected by the presence of the Cerberus in the greenhouse.” Jesse sighed. “To be honest, I am not even sure she knows about the new demons. I only worked out what had happened when I saw them leaving the manor, and as a ghost, I could not stop them.” His voice was full of frustration. “I have not even been able to find my mother to warn her what is going on.”

Shaking her head, Lucie fell to her knees in front of the trunk at the foot of her bed that held her weaponry. She threw it open. Dust puffed up: inside were stacks of daggers, seraph blades, knives, chains, darts, and other such items, all wrapped daintily in folded velvet.

Noiselessly, Jesse appeared beside her. “Cerberus demons are not small. You might wish to bring a few more foot soldiers.”

“I was planning on that,” said Lucie, taking a small axe out of her trunk. “What will you do in the meantime?”

“Try to track down my mother and send her after Grace. She can tell the Cerberus demons to stand down; they’ll listen to her. Do you have any idea where James and Grace are meeting?”

Lucie yanked a satchel that held several daggers and seraph blades out of the trunk and looped it over her shoulder. “You mean you don’t know?”

“No; I did not see all of the letter,” said Jesse. “Do you think you can find them?”

“I’m certainly going to try.” Lucie rose, axe in hand. “Let me tell you something, Jesse Blackthorn. Your mother may have reason to be resentful of Shadowhunters, but if her ridiculous demons hurt my brother, I will have no pity. I shall beat her to death with her own stupid hat.”

And with that, she flung open her bedroom window, crawled out onto the ledge, and dropped noiselessly into the night.

9 DEADLY WINE

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine,

But bloomless buds of poppies,

Green grapes of Proserpine,

Pale beds of blowing rushes

Where no leaf blooms or blushes

Save this whereout she crushes

For dead men deadly wine.

—Algernon Charles Swinburne, “The Garden of Proserpine”

Cordelia and Matthew went only a short way down the alley before a door rose up in front of them. It shimmered in the side of a worn-looking wall, and Cordelia suspected that to mundanes, the opening would not be visible at all.

Inside was a narrow hallway whose walls were heavy red cloth tapestries hanging from ceiling to floor, obscuring whatever was behind them. At the end of the hall was another door, also painted red.

“When this place is not home to the salon, it is a gaming house,” Matthew whispered to Cordelia as they approached the door. “There is even a trapdoor in the roof, so that if they are raided by police, the gamesters can escape over the eaves.”

The door was flung suddenly open. Lounging in the space it revealed was a tall man in an iron-gray jacket and trousers. In the dimness, his hair appeared utterly white. Cordelia thought he must be in his sixties at least, but as they approached she realized his face was young and sharp, his eyes dark purple.

This must be Malcolm Fade, High Warlock of London. Most warlocks had a mark that set them apart, a physical sign of their demon blood: blue skin, horns, claws made of stone. Malcolm’s eyes were certainly an unearthly shade, like amethysts.

“Three of you this time?” he said to Anna.

She nodded. “Three.”

“We try to limit the number of Shadowhunters in the salon,” said Malcolm. “I prefer Nephilim to feel outnumbered among Downworlders, as it is so often the other way around.” A woman’s voice called from behind him: Malcolm didn’t turn, but smiled. “You do enliven the place, though, as Hypatia reminds me.” He thrust the door wide and stood aside to allow them to enter. “Come in. Are you armed? Never mind, of course you are. You’re Shadowhunters.”

Anna passed through the doorway and then Matthew, Cordelia last. As she stepped by Malcolm, he peered down into her face. “There’s no Blackthorn blood in your family, is there?” he asked suddenly.

“No—none, I don’t think,” said Cordelia, surprised.

“Good.” He ushered them past. Inside, the salon was a series of interconnected rooms, decorated in blazing jewel tones of red and green, blue and gold. They moved down a bronze-painted corridor and into an octagonal room full of Downworlders. Chatter and laughter rose up about them like a tide.

Cordelia felt her heart flutter a bit—there was something about this night that felt dangerous, and not because she was in a room full of Downworlders. The fact that none of them were making any attempt to hide it did make it seem somehow less worrisome. Vampires stalked by proudly, their faces gleaming in the electric light; werewolves prowled the shadows in elegant evening dress. There was music coming from a string quartet standing on a raised cherrywood stage in the center of the room. Cordelia glimpsed a handsome violin player with the gold-green eyes of a werewolf, and a clarinetist with auburn curls, his calves ending in the hard hooves of a goat.

The walls were a deep blue, and massive gilt-framed paintings hung upon them, depicting scenes from mythology. At least, Cordelia thought they were scenes from mythology. Usually when people were naked in paintings, she found, it was because the painter believed that the Greeks and Romans had no need or use for clothing. Which Cordelia found puzzling, especially when the subjects were engaged in activities such as fighting minotaurs or wrestling serpents. Any Shadowhunter knew that in a battle, gear that covered your body was crucial.

“I simply cannot see why one would wish to picnic in the nude,” Cordelia said. “There would be ants in dreadful places.”

Anna laughed. “Cordelia, you are a breath of fresh air,” she said, as a woman with dark hair bore down on them, carrying a silver salver. Her black hair was wrapped around an ivory comb hung about with silk peonies, and her embroidered gown was deep crimson. Glittering on the salver were crystal glasses filled with sparkling liquid.

“Champagne?” she said, and as she smiled, the glimmer of fang teeth appeared against her lower lip. A vampire.

“Thank you, Lily,” said Anna, taking a glass. Matthew did the same, and after a moment’s hesitation, Cordelia followed. She had never had champagne, nor anything like it—according to her mother, ladies drank only sweet liquors like sherry and ratafia.

Matthew downed his champagne in one swallow, placed the empty glass back on Lily’s tray, and took another. Cordelia lifted her glass as a dapper warlock with a ring of quills around his neck passed by arm in arm with a blond vampire in a garnet-red frock. She was lovely, and pale as new snow: Cordelia thought of the mundane women who paid to have their faces enameled white to preserve their youth and keep their fashionable pallor.

They ought to just become vampires, she thought. It would be less expensive.

“What’s that little smile of yours?” Matthew inquired. “You look as if you’re about to laugh.”

Cordelia took a sip of champagne—it tasted like airy bubbles—and regarded him archly. “What of it?”

“Most girls would be afraid,” he said. “I mean, not Anna. Or Lucie. But most.”

“I don’t frighten easily,” said Cordelia.

“I’m beginning to sense that.” He glanced over at Anna and Lily: the vampire girl was laughing, her head close to Anna’s. “Anna can seduce anyone,” Matthew said to Cordelia, in a low voice. “Anyone at all. It’s her talent.”

“Not my only talent, I hope,” said Anna, looking up as Malcolm Fade reappeared. He gestured to Lily with a dismissive wave; Lily flounced off in a swirl of silk.