Chain of Iron

“Magnus,” Malcolm said, slowing his gait. “How odd to see you here.”

Magnus had his arms crossed over his chest. His expression as he surveyed the courtyard was somber. “Is it?”

“I would have expected you to rush to the rescue earlier,” said Malcolm. He was fond of Magnus, as fond as he could be of anyone. But the other warlock had a well-deserved reputation for throwing his energy away on Shadowhunters. “Are you regretful to have missed the battle?”

Magnus’s gold-green eyes glittered like the emerald in his pin. “Mock my guilt if you like, but it is real. After the last series of attacks, I rushed to London, settled myself here, and waited for something else to happen. But it has been quiet. When I was asked to bring some of the spell books from the Cornwall Institute to the Spiral Labyrinth itself, I thought it safe to go. And now this has happened in my absence.”

“The Labyrinth required you for some time,” said Malcolm. “I know Hypatia was—displeased.”

The corner of Magnus’s mouth twitched upward. “It turns out that moving a collection of powerful spell books from one place to another without awakening an ancient evil is more difficult than expected.”

Malcolm felt a mild stirring of interest. “An ancient evil?”

Magnus skimmed a glance over the courtyard. “Unrelated to this one, admittedly, and less destructive.” He cocked his head to the side. “Speaking of which. You seem—different, Malcolm. Are you, too, affected by what you see here?”

At another time, in another world, Malcolm would also have been concerned. Now he could think only of Annabel, of the cliffs of Cornwall, of a different future. “I learned something while you were gone. Something I had given up ever knowing.”

Magnus’s gaze was unreadable. He did not ask what Malcolm had discovered; he was wiser than that. “How did you learn it?”

“From no one of import,” Malcolm said, quickly. “A—faerie.” He turned his gaze back to the broken courtyard. “Magnus,” he said. “Do the Nephilim really understand what is happening to them? It has been thousands of years since Princes of Hell walked on the Earth. The Nephilim are descended from angels, but to them angels are fairy tales. A power that exists but is never seen.” He sighed. “It is not wise to forget to believe.”

“They are human,” Magnus said. “It is not in their capability to understand that which by its nature is almost beyond understanding. They see demons as what they fight. They forget that there are unimaginable forces that can bend the laws of the universe. The gods are walking, Malcolm, and none of us are prepared.”

 

In the end, it was decided they would all return to the house on Curzon Street—the Merry Thieves, Anna, and Cordelia—though Cordelia was to stop briefly at Cornwall Gardens first. All except Lucie.

Lucie had already decided it would be impossible. The timing was too constricted, and she wanted the few hours she could have with her parents before the night fell—though Will and Tessa had told her it was all right to go to James’s house, as they’d be fending off Enclave members for hours. But telling Cordelia she couldn’t come back with them because she was too tired still hurt.

I hate lying to her, she thought dismally, even as Cordelia hugged her and told her that she understood. I absolutely hate it.

“I wish you could be there,” Daisy said, squeezing her hand. “No one knows about—about Lilith—save you and James and Matthew. I don’t know how the others will react. They may hate me.”

“They won’t,” said Lucie. “They will stand by you, every one of them, and if they don’t, I will hit them with my bonnet.”

“Not your best bonnet,” said Cordelia somberly. “That would be a dreadful waste.”

“Certainly not. The second best,” said Lucie. She hesitated. “In the Shadow Market—when I told you I was keeping secrets to help someone … it was Jesse.”

“I had guessed that.” Cordelia’s dark gaze dropped for a moment: she was looking at the locket around Lucie’s throat. The locket Lucie had finally adjusted so that it hung correctly, showing the circlet of thorns etched on its front. “Lucie, if you cared about him—you must have spent quite a bit of time in his company. And hidden it from me.”

“Daisy—”

“I am not angry,” Cordelia said; her eyes met Lucie’s. “I just wish I had known. You are mourning him, and he is a stranger to me. You could have told me, Lucie; I would not have judged you.”

“And you could tell me of your own feelings,” Lucie said quietly, “for I think perhaps loving someone you cannot be with is a thing you understand better than I had guessed before today.” Cordelia flushed. “Next time we train,” Lucie said, “we will talk about everything.”

But a shadow had fallen over Cordelia’s expression at the mention of training. “Yes,” she said, and then James was there, and he and Cordelia were bidding goodbye to Lucie and joining the others, ready to leave for Kensington and Mayfair.

Lucie watched them silently. She wanted to go with her friends, wanted it badly, but it was her duty to save Jesse; no one else could do it. It was her power. She had used it, abused it even; if she did not turn it into some kind of good, then what was she? James had used his power more than once to save lives.

It was her turn now.

 

“There is nothing to worry about, Mâmân, see?” Cordelia said, gently laying her hand against her mother’s cheek.

Sona smiled up at her. To Cordelia’s relief, when she and Alastair had arrived at Cornwall Gardens, they had found Sona wrapped in a velvet dressing gown, installed on the plush drawing-room sofa before a blazing fire. Sona was not wearing her roosari, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders; she looked young, if more than a little tired. “You two are so dirty,” she said, indicating Alastair, who was hovering in the drawing-room doorway. “A mother always worries when her children come home looking as if they have fallen in a mud puddle.”

When her children come home. But this was not Cordelia’s home, not any longer. Home was Curzon Street. Home was not this house, where they had all been unhappy in one way or another.

But now was not the time to say such a thing to her mother. Not now, with everything so uncertain.

“It was a small fight, that is all,” Alastair said; he had already described the battle to Sona in abbreviated terms. Not the full truth, only a part of it: Cordelia felt, with some discomfort, as if she were getting quite used to that phenomenon. “And the Institute was defended.”

“You have been so very brave,” said Sona. “My brave son.” She patted Cordelia’s hand where it now lay beside hers. “And you, my brave daughter. Like Sura or Youtab.”

At another time, Cordelia would have glowed at being compared to heroines of Persian history. Not now, though, not with the bitter thought of Lilith still at the forefront of her mind. She forced a smile. “You should rest, Mâmân—”

“Oh, nonsense.” Sona waved a dismissive hand. “You would not know, but I was also confined to bed before you were born, and Alastair, too. Speaking of which, Alastair, darling, would you give us a moment alone for women’s talk?”