The room was nearly bare save for an iron-posted bed, a single window, and what remained of Emmanuel Gast lying ruined on the bare floorboards. Flesh and bone had been carved apart, ribs cracked open to show a collapsed red cavern. Blood had sunk in black grooves into the wooden floor. The most human-looking part of him left were his hands, his arms outflung with the hands turned palm up as if he were begging for mercy he had not received.

He had been dead a long time. The stench was putrid.

Lucie took a step back. The door behind her swung suddenly shut, slamming closed with a force that vibrated the wall. She dropped her hand, tasting blood in her mouth as the thing on the floor heaved and a black shadow spilled upward between jagged white ribs.

It was a ghost. This ghost was no Jessamine, or Jesse Blackthorn, who looked solid and human. There was an awful shimmer in the air around it, as if with his violent end a space had been torn in the world. It—he—was ragged at the edges, his face skull-pale in a nest of straggling brown hair. She could see the patterned wallpaper through his transparent body.

The ghost of Emmanuel Gast blinked watery blue eyes at her. “Why have you summoned me, fool?” it demanded, in a voice like the hiss of steam escaping from a pipe.

“I did not summon you,” said Lucie. “I had no idea you were even dead, until this very disgusting moment.” She glared.

“Why have you dragged me back to this place of agony?” Gast hissed. “What do you want, Shadowhunter?”

Lucie reached for the knob of the door behind her and rattled it, but it was stuck. She could faintly hear the voices of the others in the parlor, calling her name.

She took a deep breath, almost choking on the fetid air. Even though he was dead, Gast was still their only tenuous connection to the demons that had killed Barbara.

She drew herself up to her full height. “Did you summon the demons? The ones that have been attacking Nephilim in broad daylight?”

The ghost was silent. Lucie could see where its throat had been slit, its spine showing through the slashed hole in its neck. Whoever had murdered Emmanuel Gast had wanted to make very sure he was dead.

“Answer me!” Lucie cried.

To Lucie’s amazement, the warlock’s flickering outlines resolved into a more solid shape. The ghost’s eyes smoldered with a red anger, but it spoke, its voice hollow. “I am the one who raised it. I, Emmanuel Gast, the most scorned of warlocks. Years ago the Spiral Labyrinth turned against me. They cast me out of warlock society. My golden reward was taken from me. I have been forced to take the lowliest of hires to feed and clothe myself. Yet all this time I studied. I learned. I was wiser than they thought.”

Wise? Lucie wondered. From the look of things, Gast’s recent decisions had been anything but wise.

“I see the way you look at me.” Blood dripped from the ghost’s wounds, a silent patter of black stains on the bare floor. “You scorn me for raising such a demon—a death-dealer, the poisoner of life. But the gold. I needed it. And the demon will kill only Shadowhunters.”

“Someone paid you to do this,” Lucie whispered. “Who? Who did it?”

The ghost hissed. “What are you? You are a Shadowhunter, but not a Shadowhunter. You drag me back from the brink?” It reached out a hand, insubstantial, curling into a claw. “What is this monstrous power…?”

“Monstrous?” Lucie snapped. “What’s monstrous is that you summoned these creatures into this world, knowing the damage they would do—”

“You know nothing of me,” said Gast. “I went to the bridge to raise the demon. I brought it into this world and then I captured it, kept it where it would be safe, a gift for the one who gave me gold. But when I returned here, I was betrayed. I could not stop it. My blood and my life ran out over the floor as my killer tore the demon from its hiding place.”

Lucie could stand no more. “Who did this? Who hired you?”

For an instant Lucie believed Gast would simply vanish away into the shadows and the London smoke. He began to tremble, like a butterfly transfixed with a pin but not yet dead. “I will not tell—”

“You will!” Lucie shouted, her hand outthrust, and she felt something go through her, like electricity through a wire, like the feeling of a rune burning on her skin—

The ghost threw its head back and roared, revealing Gast’s warlock mark—multiple rows of teeth, like a shark. Something hit the door behind Lucie; she stepped aside just in time for James to burst into the room in a cloud of plaster dust: he had smashed the door off its hinges. Cordelia spilled in next, her satchel over her shoulder, and Matthew came after her. The latter two stood blinking in horror at the corpse on the floor.

Lucie glanced at James. He nodded: he could see the ghost as well, in the way all Herondales could. It was a perfectly ordinary ghost sighting, Lucie told herself. This ghost was not Jesse.

“The one who hired me came to me masked, face wrapped around in cloth and wearing layers of cloaks.” Emmanuel Gast answered her slowly, almost reluctantly. “I know not if they were man or woman, old or young.”

“What more do you know?” James demanded, and the ghost writhed. “Who is controlling the demons now?”

“Someone more powerful than you puny Nephilim,” snarled the ghost. “Someone who tore down my wards, ripped my body apart—” His voice rose to a wail. “I shall not think on it! I shall not relive my death! Truly you are monsters, despite your angel blood.”

Lucie could not bear it a moment longer. “Go!” she shouted. “Leave us!”

The ghost winked out of existence, between one breath and the next. Cordelia was already over by the bed, dragging the dirty coverlet off, throwing it over what remained of Gast. The air reeked; Lucie was choking. James reached for her.

“I have to get outside,” she whispered, turning away from her brother. “I must breathe.”

She pushed past her friends and into the living room. The door to the flat was not locked. Lucie clutched at the banister as she stumbled down the narrow steps and outside into the street.

Cockney voices floated around her, men in round hats passing by with packages under their arms. She struggled to catch her breath. Ghosts had never frightened her—they were the restless dead, grieving and disquieted, rarely seen. But there had been something different about Gast.

A coat settled on Lucie’s shoulders, bottle green superfine, and warm, smelling of expensive cologne. Lucie glanced up to see Matthew’s face hovering above hers, sunlight making his hair brilliant. He looked serious for once as he carefully buttoned the coat closed around her. His hands, usually swift and bright with rings, flying through the air when he talked, were moving with great deliberation over such a small task. She heard him draw in a slow breath.

“Luce,” he said. “What happened in there? Are you all right?”

She shivered. “I’m all right,” she said. “I’ve rarely seen a ghost in such—such a condition.”

“Lucie!” James and Cordelia joined them on the street. Cordelia caught at Lucie’s hand and squeezed it. James ruffled his sister’s hair.

“Gast did not die easily,” he said. “Good work, Lucie. I know that can’t have been pleasant.”

He called me a monster. But she didn’t say it out loud. “Did you find anything in the flat after I went into the bedroom?” she asked.

James nodded. “We took a few things—sketches, and Cordelia has the wood shards in her satchel.”

“That reminds me,” said Matthew, relieving Cordelia of her bag. He approached the grubby-faced newsboy he’d pointed out to Lucie earlier and engaged in a spirited discussion with him, eventually proffering the satchel.

“Is Matthew selling my satchel to a newsboy?” Cordelia said curiously.

James smiled crookedly. “I see we’d better explain the Irregulars to you, lest you think we spend our time leading London’s children into depravity and crime.”

Matthew returned, the wind tousling his dark gold hair. “I told Neddy to take the bag to Christopher,” he said. “It may be that identifying what those shards are will help.” He glanced at Cordelia, who looked slightly puzzled. “I doubt Christopher has left Tom’s side since last night—perhaps this will provide a distraction for them both.”

“Perhaps,” Lucie said. “If we can return to the Institute, I would like to write down what Gast said, that I might remember each detail.”

It was only half of what she really thought. She had lied to the others about Jessamine being part of a ghost gossip network. Jessamine never left the Institute, and avoided the company of other ghosts. But Lucie knew not all spirits were like that. Many wandered. She wanted suddenly to know if another ghost might know of the death of Emmanuel Gast. She wanted to talk to Jesse.

12 THE END OF IT

She loves me all that she can,

And her ways to my ways resign;

But she was not made for any man,

And she never will be all mine.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Witch-Wife”

As the carriage rolled under the Institute’s gates, James saw his parents standing in the courtyard. His father was in a cutaway morning coat and a blue sapphire tiepin that Tessa had given him for their twentieth anniversary. Tessa herself wore a formal day dress. They were clearly prepared to go out.

“And where have you been?” Will demanded, as James clambered out of the carriage. The others leaped down behind him, the girls, being in gear, needing no help to dismount. “You stole our carriage.”

James wished he could tell his father the truth, but that would be breaking their sworn promise to Ragnor.

“It’s only the second-best carriage,” James protested.

“Remember when Papa stole Uncle Gabriel’s carriage? It’s a proud family tradition,” said Lucie, as the group of them approached the Institute steps.

“I did not raise you to be horse thieves and scallywags,” said Will. “And I recall very clearly that I told you—”