Chain of Iron
“Madame Vex,” Lucie said, “we’ve come because we need your help.”
Hypatia looked up from her bills. Some of her cloudlike hair had escaped the colorful scarf she’d used to tie it back, and there were ink stains on her hands. “Do you Shadowhunters ever come for any other reason? And I see you sent Anna to wheedle me.” She eyed Anna. “While I am quite fond of her, the last time we dallied, your friends ran off with my Pyxis box. It was an antique.”
“It had a demon in it,” Anna pointed out. “We probably did you a favor taking it safely off your hands.”
“The demon,” Hypatia said, “was also an antique. Regardless, I am not available for dalliances at the moment. I have a gentleman caller.”
Anna had finished her inspection of her glove. She smiled at Hypatia, and Lucie marveled—despite the Pyxis, despite Hypatia’s gentleman caller, she could see the warlock soften just a bit. Anna’s charm was a magical thing. “Speaking of gentleman callers,” she said. “There’s something I brought to show you.” From inside her jacket, Anna produced a small silver snuffbox, engraved with the initials MB in blocky script. “This belongs to our mutual friend Magnus Bane. He has been looking for it for quite some time.”
“You stole Magnus Bane’s snuffbox?” said Ariadne. “Anna, that could not possibly be a good idea. He’ll set you on fire. Magic fire.”
“Of course I didn’t,” said Anna, turning the small box over in her hands. “As it happens, my boot maker—a fine gentleman, one of the Tanner family—once had une liaison passionnée with Magnus. Boot makers are a surprisingly tempestuous bunch. When things ended badly between them, the boot maker pinched Magnus’s snuffbox, knowing he was fond of it.” She smiled at Hypatia. “I thought you might like to give it back to him. I’m sure he would be most grateful.”
Hypatia raised a dark eyebrow. “And how did you know that Mr. Bane is my gentleman caller? I thought we’d been rather discreet.”
“I know everything,” said Anna matter-of-factly.
Hypatia eyed the snuffbox. “I can see that you are not offering me something for nothing. What do you want?”
“To speak with you about an issue having to do with warlocks,” Anna said. “An old issue, recently—disinterred, so to speak. The death of a Shadowhunter boy named Jesse Blackthorn.”
Hypatia looked alarmed. “You think a warlock harmed a Shadowhunter child? You can’t imagine I’d—”
Lucie winced inwardly. She almost wished she could explain to Hypatia that it was the nameless warlock’s involvement in what had happened to Jesse after he died that she most needed to understand. She knew that was impossible, though: if anyone learned what she knew, what Grace knew, the danger to Jesse’s continued existence would be immense.
“Please don’t mistake our intent,” Ariadne said in an even, soothing tone. “We are not looking to bring trouble to anyone. Jesse Blackthorn is long dead. We only wish to know what happened to him.”
Hypatia stared suspiciously at the three of them for a long moment, then threw up her hands with a sigh. She pushed her papers aside, searching the counter until she found a dish of candy pastilles and selected one, not bothering to offer any to the others. “So tell me, what is it you think this warlock was hired to do?”
“You know about first runes?” Lucie said, and Hypatia nodded, looking bored. “Most children get through the procedure easily. A few suffer ill effects. Jesse Blackthorn died in agony.” She swallowed hard. “And—we are told a warlock may have been involved in what happened to him.”
Hypatia popped the sweet into her mouth. “Would his mother have been a woman with a peculiar Russian sort of name?”
“Yes,” Lucie said eagerly. “Tatiana.”
Hypatia regarded them over her tented hands. “Some years ago she sought a warlock’s help in putting protection spells on her son. He had just been born, and she did not want to involve the Silent Brothers or Iron Sisters. She claimed she didn’t trust Shadowhunters. Can’t blame her, but none of us wanted to get involved—none of us except Emmanuel Gast.”
Emmanuel Gast. A shudder ran through Lucie as she remembered Gast’s body lying ruined on the bare floorboards of his flat. 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.
Emmanuel Gast had done Belial’s bidding, and been killed for it. A suspicion stirred in the back of Lucie’s mind, though she kept her expression blankly curious.
“The warlock who was killed during the summer?” said Ariadne.
“That’s the one.” Hypatia seemed unperturbed. “He was quite corrupt—the warlock council eventually had to forbid him to practice magic.”
“So is it possible,” said Ariadne, “that he placed the protection spells on Jesse Blackthorn, but he did it incorrectly? They’re meant to be done by the Silent Brothers.”
“And that caused the first rune to malfunction somehow? A clever thought,” said Anna, and the two girls looked at each other, seeming to enjoy a moment of shared detecting.
Maybe it was more than detecting. Ariadne gazed at Anna with unabashed longing, Lucie realized, and Anna—was there a softness in the way she looked back at Ariadne? It was not a look Lucie had seen on Anna’s face before.
Lucie glanced away and caught Hypatia Vex smirking again. “There you go, Shadowhunters,” she said. “A bit of assistance, in exchange for a snuffbox. Remember that I was helpful the next time the Institute needs to hire a warlock.”
“Oh, we will indeed remember it,” said Lucie, though her mind was still on Emmanuel Gast. Why have you dragged me back to this place of agony? What do you want, Shadowhunter?
Hypatia made a shooing gesture. “Now go. Having Shadowhunters about isn’t good for business.”
Lucie forced a pleasant smile onto her face as she followed Anna and Ariadne out to the street. She’d better hurry herself into a cab, she thought—her cousin Anna was a keenly perceptive person, and the last thing Lucie wanted was for anyone to guess the task that lay ahead of her tonight.
“Thomas Lightwood,” said Alastair. “I am nothing like you.”
All Thomas could do was stare. He had been so sure. But Alastair’s gaze was steady, his voice resolute. Dear God, Thomas thought, about to rise to his feet, there was nothing for it now but to go and bury his terrible humiliation at the other side of the room. Perhaps he could hide behind a candelabra.
“I am nothing like you, Thomas,” said Alastair, “because you are one of the better people I have ever known. You have a kind nature and a heart like some knight out of legend. Brave and proud and true and strong. All of it.” He smiled bitterly. “And all the time you have known me, I have been a terrible person. So, you see. We are nothing at all alike.”
Thomas’s gaze snapped up. This wasn’t what he was expecting. He searched Alastair’s face, but his eyes were hard mirrors, giving nothing away.