Chain of Iron

“‘Bronze gleamed around him like flashing fire or the rays of the rising sun,’” quoted James with a smile. “It was rather like Achilles had come to South London.”

Cordelia felt a small, warm spark in her chest. For all the glory of fighting as a paladin, she had felt oddly invisible, separated from the others by a peculiar space. But James had seen her. “Still,” he added. “It is such a great oath, Daisy. To be sworn to a being like Wayland the Smith—he could call upon you at any time, demand you face any danger.”

“As you are doing tonight? I want to be called upon, James. I have always wanted this.”

“To be a hero,” James said, and hesitated. “Cordelia, have you told—”

A knock echoed throughout the house. A moment later Effie appeared, looking furious in a nightcap and paper curlers. She ushered Magnus into the room, muttering. He wore a caped greatcoat of blue velvet, and next to Effie, looked taller than ever.

“Magnus Bane here to see you,” said Effie darkly, “and I must say, this is not at all the class of person I was led to believe I would be working for, not at all.”

Calmly, Magnus doffed his coat and handed it to her expectantly. She stalked off, muttering about going back to sleep with a flannel wrapped around her head to block out the “unending clatter.”

Magnus looked inquiringly at James and Cordelia. “Do you always keep a staff that insults you?”

“I prefer it,” said James, rising to his feet. He had his revolver stuck through his belt, Cordelia realized. After what had happened in Nelson Square, perhaps he didn’t want to be caught without it again. “It keeps me on my toes.”

“Would you like some tea?” Cordelia asked Magnus.

“No. We ought to get started. Hypatia will be expecting me back.” Magnus looked around the study, his eyes flicking over the windows; he gestured once with his fingers, and the curtains flew shut. “This room is as good as any, I suppose. Cordelia, can you guard the door?”

Cordelia stationed herself at the door, drawing Cortana from its sheath. It gleamed in the firelight, and for a moment, pulsing through her hand, she felt the same energy she had during the fight with the Naga—as if the blade were whispering to her. Asking her to wield it.

Magnus had moved James to stand before the fire. Cordelia had never noticed before how oddly alike their eyes were: Magnus’s gold-green, slit-pupilled, and James’s the color of yellow gold. Soft sparks of magic, the color of bronze, spilled from Magnus’s hands as he pressed his fingers to James’s temples.

“Now,” he said. “Concentrate.”

 

 

GRACE: 1899–1900



As it turned out, Grace’s power worked on Shadowhunters. All male Shadowhunters except James. Tatiana drove home from the trip to Alicante with a carriage so laden with baked goods that it could barely get over the ruts in the road.

“Just tell the baker to give you everything he has,” Tatiana had snapped, when they’d first arrived outside the shop in Alicante. Now she watched Grace stonily as the carriage bumped sluggishly back in the direction of Blackthorn Manor. She alternated her time between biting into an enormous flaky strudel and glowering in silence as stacks of cardboard boxes jostled unpleasantly into both of Grace’s sides.

Back at home, her mother sized Grace up, and then, without warning, surprisingly quick, slapped her in the face.

Grace flinched and brought her hand up to her stinging cheek. Her mother hadn’t slapped her since before the visit to Paris.

“James Herondale is a Shadowhunter like any other,” Tatiana ground out. “He is not the problem.” She glared. “Steel your nerve, girl. If ever I am able to teach you anything, let it be that you must steel your nerve. The world is hard, and it will work to destroy you. That is the nature of things.”

She stalked off before Grace could speak, and Grace silently vowed to herself that when it was again summer, and the Herondales returned, it would be different. She would try harder.

Summer came, after a long winter of being quiet and obedient to her mother, having only her times with Jesse to feel like a real person. They had continued training, in a fashion, though it was rather one-sided now that Jesse was a ghost.

Grace steeled her nerve as requested and arranged to meet with James, but when she first saw him, she cursed herself for the immediate pang of sorrow she felt at what was being asked of her. James had just gotten over scalding fever, as it transpired—but though he looked pale and delicate, he was full of energy and enthusiasm. He was happy to see Grace—happy to tell her all about another Shadowhunter named Cordelia Carstairs, who had been his nursemaid and companion in his illness. In fact, Grace quickly found that James was unwilling to shut up about this Miss Carstairs for even one minute.

“Well?” her mother snapped when Grace came into her study that afternoon.

Grace hesitated. “James has fallen in love with someone,” she said. “In the past months. I don’t think he can fall in love with me if he is already in love.”

“If there is a lack in you, it is a lack of will, not of power,” Tatiana scoffed. “He can be made to forget that he is in love. He can be made to feel anything you wish.”

“But—” Grace wanted to say that whether or not her power could make James forget this girl he loved, she was not sure whether she should do such a thing. James was, after all, her only real friend. Other than Jesse, who was her family and also a ghost, and thus doubly didn’t count. But she didn’t dare suggest anything of the sort to her mother. “Mama, my power doesn’t work on him. I promise I have tried. With others, all the tests you made me do in Paris—the effect was instantaneous. And it took no effort at all. With James, even trying very hard led to nothing.”

Tatiana looked at her wryly. “You silly girl. You think that your power doesn’t work on him because he’s in love with someone. But I have done some research these months myself, and in fact, it may be Herondale’s unclean blood that is the trouble.”

“What?” Grace said uncertainly.

“His mother is a warlock,” Tatiana said. “She is the only warlock who is also a Shadowhunter to have ever lived, it seems. So she is doubly cursed.”

She seemed lost in thought for a moment. Grace remained silent.

Then Tatiana’s head snapped up and she again focused on her daughter. “Wait here,” she said sharply, and went out of the room and down the corridor. Grace supposed she was going to the cellars, where Grace was forbidden to go. She sank down on one of the chairs by the fire, wishing the sun would hurry up and set so she could see Jesse. Her mother was always kinder to her if Jesse was about.

It seemed that hardly any time had passed at all when Tatiana reappeared, rubbing her hands together with excitement. Grace rose, wary. “One of my patrons,” Tatiana said as she went around the desk, “has found a solution to your problem.”

“Your patrons?” Grace said.

“Yes,” said Tatiana, “a solution that will grant us even greater power over Herondale than you could wield over anyone else.”

From her pocket she produced a bracelet, a band of sleek silver. For a moment, it reflected a glare of candlelight into Grace’s eyes. Tatiana went on to explain her plan, the story she had crafted. Grace was to tell James the bracelet was an old heirloom of her birth parents, Tatiana said, and Grace felt a pang so deep within herself that, she was sure, no part of it was expressed on her face at all. Tatiana would hide the bracelet in a box in her study; next, Grace was to trick James into recovering the bracelet for her. “The moment he lays his willing hand upon it,” her mother was saying, “he will be lost, for it is so powerful that even to touch it is to be overcome by its magic.”