Chain of Gold

“Thank you for letting them borrow the carriage to come and get me,” said Cordelia. Her eyes were wide, and she looked entirely innocent. James felt an amused stab of surprise: she was an interestingly skillful liar. At least his parents wouldn’t wonder why they were all in gear: as James and Lucie had left the house earlier, Will had said to them that for years he’d trusted them to patrol in the darkness, but now they must arm themselves at all times, treating day as if it were night. He’d also advised James to bring Matthew with him, which James had been planning to do anyway. “I had very much wanted to come to the Institute and see what I could do to help.”

Will softened immediately. “Of course. You are always welcome here, Cordelia. Though we are, as you can see, going out—Charles has invoked the Consul’s authority and called a meeting in Grosvenor Square to discuss last night’s attack. Only for high-level Enclave members, apparently.”

Matthew grimaced. “By the Angel, that sounds awful. I hope it’s all right for me to stay here tonight.”

Tessa smiled. “We already made up one of the spare rooms for you.”

“As I have known Charles since he was born, I have a difficult time taking him seriously as an authority figure,” said Will thoughtfully. “I suppose if he says anything I don’t like, I can request that he be spanked.”

“Oh, yes, please,” said Matthew. “It would do him a world of good.”

“Will—” began Tessa in exasperation, just as Bridget emerged from the front doors. She appeared to be carrying an enormous medieval spear: its haft was worn, its long iron point spotted with rust. She clambered into the driver’s seat of the carriage and sat grimly, clearly awaiting Tessa and Will.

“I do hope you’re going to glamour that carriage,” said James. “People will think the Romans have returned to reconquer the British Isles.”

Tessa and Will climbed into the carriage. As Bridget gathered up the reins, Tessa leaned out the window. “Uncle Jem is in the infirmary with several other Silent Brothers, looking after the ill,” she called. “Please try not to cause them any trouble, and see to it that they have whatever they need.”

James nodded as the carriage rolled out of the courtyard. He knew there would be guards around the Institute as well; he had seen a few of them, marked out clearly in their black gear, outside the gates as they approached. His parents had been through too much to ever leave the Institute unguarded.

He glanced at his sister, wondering if she was thinking the same. She stood looking up at the higher levels of the Institute—perhaps at the sickroom? He was used to a Lucie in motion, not a Lucie who stood pale and withdrawn, clearly lost in thought.

“Come along then, Luce,” he said. “Let’s get inside.”

She frowned at him. “No need to use your worried voice. I’m perfectly all right, James.”

He threw an arm around her shoulder. “It’s not every day you see a warlock scattered liberally around his own bedroom,” he said. “You might as well take a little time to recover. Raziel knows none of us have had much time to recover from anything lately.”

In fact, James thought, as the four of them approached the Institute, he had barely had a moment all day to think of Grace. His mother always said the cure for worry was to throw yourself into activity, and he had certainly done that, but he could not leave things this way with Grace forever. He had not realized how bad the situation with Tatiana actually was. Surely Grace would reach out, and together they would remove her to a place of safety.

Surely it would happen soon.

* * *

“So, Jessamine,” said Lucie. “Can ghosts lie?”

They were all in Lucie’s room: Matthew and James had settled Lucie on the settee and wrapped her in blankets, despite her complaints that she was fine and needed no assistance. James had insisted that he hadn’t liked how pale she’d looked when she’d come out of Gast’s flat.

Cordelia was next to Lucie on the sofa, while James and Matthew occupied the two armchairs as only young men did: legs and armed sprawled everywhere, gear jackets tossed casually on the bed, muddy boots mussing up the carpet. Both were gazing up at Jessamine, though only James could see her.

“Certainly not!” Jessamine looked shifty. “Ghosts are completely honest. I keep telling you, it was mice who knocked your silver mirror behind the desk and broke it.”

“It appears clear that if ghosts are liars, they are terrible liars,” said James.

Matthew sighed. “It is very strange to see you conversing with the invisible.”

“Humph,” said Jessamine. She wobbled a bit and firmed up, her outlines clearing as she drifted down toward the floor. Shadowhunters, having the Sight, could generally see ghosts who wanted to be seen, but Lucie knew it was an effort for Jessamine to make herself visible to all eyes.

“Oh!” said Cordelia. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jessamine. Lucie speaks of you often.”

Jessamine beamed.

“You are a very attractive ghost,” said Matthew, tapping his ringed fingers against his chest. “I do hope Lucie and James have mentioned as much.”

“They have not,” Jessamine noted.

“Very remiss,” said Matthew, his eyes sparkling.

“You are not at all like Henry,” said Jessamine, eyeing Matthew speculatively. “He was forever setting things on fire, and not a compliment to be heard.”

“Jessamine,” Lucie said. “This is important! Do tell us, can ghosts lie? Not you, of course, my dear.”

“Ghosts can lie,” Jessamine conceded. “But there are certain forms of necromancy that can compel them to tell the truth, and even to allow the living to control them.” She shuddered. “That is why necromancy is so dreadful and forbidden.”

“That’s why?” Cordelia sounded doubtful. Turning to Lucie, she said, “Are you worried Gast’s ghost might have been lying?”

Lucie hesitated. Part of her hoped he had been lying, since he had claimed the demon was only meant to kill Shadowhunters. It was a frightening thought. “I just don’t want us to go off on a wild-goose chase. Gast was insistent that someone extraordinarily powerful hired him to summon these demons. We need to find out who that was.”

“We also need to know what kind of demons these are,” said Cordelia. “We cannot go to the Enclave just to report that Gast raised a bunch of poisonous demons: we already know these demons bear poison. We do not know why their poison is so deadly, or what Gast did so they can appear in daylight.”

“This all seems very dull,” said Jessamine. “If you don’t need me, I’ll be going.” She vanished with a sigh of relief, no doubt at no longer having to keep herself in visible form.

Lucie reached up to pull down one of her writing notebooks from the edge of the desk. Perhaps it was time to begin recording their thoughts. “There is another odd thing. We know Gast raised multiple demons, but he kept referring to one demon. He said he raised it, not them.”

“Perhaps the demon had offspring,” James suggested. “Some demons have dozens of spawn, like spiders—”

From outside Lucie’s window came the rattle of wheels and the neighing of horses. A moment later there was the sound of cries from the courtyard. James and Lucie both rushed to the window.

A driverless carriage had drawn up before the Institute’s front steps. Lucie recognized the arms on the side instantly: the four Cs of the Consul. It was Charles Fairchild’s carriage.

The carriage door flew open and Grace tumbled out, her hair streaming over her shoulders, her dress stained with blood. She was screaming.

Beside Lucie, James’s body tensed like iron.

The front doors of the Institute burst open and Brother Enoch came rushing down the steps. He reached into the carriage behind Grace and lifted out the twitching body of a woman, clad in a stained fuchsia dress. Her arm was bloody, wrapped in a makeshift bandage.

Tatiana Blackthorn.

Cordelia and Matthew had joined them at the window. Cordelia had her hand over her mouth. “By the Angel,” said Matthew. “Another attack.”

Lucie turned to tell James to hurry to Grace, but there was no need to say it. He was already gone.

* * *

James burst into the infirmary to find a scene of horror. Screens had been put up between the beds along the west wall where the sick lay in their poisoned sleep. James could see only their silhouettes—dark shapes hunched under covers, still as corpses. At the far end of the room two beds had been pushed together: Tatiana had been carried across the room, and blood smeared the floor in a trail leading to where she lay sprawled crosswise upon them, her body jerking and twisting. Her shoulder had been torn, and her arm; her hat had come off, and the thin tufts of her graying hair were matted to her skull.

Brother Enoch was bending over Tatiana, dripping dark blue fluid from a beaker into her open mouth as she gasped for air. James thought wildly of a baby bird being fed by its mother. Jem stood by, holding bandages soaked in antiseptic. Grace knelt in the shadows by the foot of her mother’s bed, her hands gripping each other tightly.

James approached, passing the beds in which the other patients lay in their restless drugged states. Ariadne, Vespasia, and Gerald might have been only sleeping, had it not been for the dark maps of black veins beneath their skin. They seemed to grow more visible by the day.

Hello, James.

It was Jem’s voice, gentle in his mind. James wished he had something to tell his uncle, other than the frustrating threads of a mystery that refused to knit itself together. But Jem was already searching out the identity of James’s grandfather. He couldn’t burden Jem with more questions that might have no answers.

Will she live? he asked silently, indicating Tatiana.

Jem’s voice was unusually strained. If she dies, it will not be because of these injuries you see here.

The poison. Death-dealer, poisoner of life, Gast had said. But what in the Angel’s name had he raised?