Chain of Iron

Ariadne slipped through after her, only to discover that they were not in another room at all, but in a small space—a pantry, she thought, just as Anna closed the door behind them, plunging them into near darkness.

Ariadne yelped. She heard Anna chuckle as witchlight began to glow, illuminating their little space. It was coming from the scarlet pendant around Anna’s throat. Ariadne hadn’t known it could do that.

She glanced around: they were indeed in a pantry. The shelves were mostly empty save for a few scattered items, rags that had probably once been used for polishing furniture. The floor was bare and clean. There was little enough room for movement that one of Ariadne’s slippered feet was resting on Anna’s left boot; she had to lean back to avoid bumping directly into her.

She was sure her cheeks were dark red. Hopefully Anna couldn’t see her properly. Ariadne took a deep breath.

In years past, Anna had smelled of lavender water—now there was a different scent to her, shed by her clothes and skin as she moved. Something rich and dark, like tobacco and sweet resin. The red-tinged light of the pendant turned her eyes to a color more like her brother’s, a sort of purple. Her cheekbones stood out like the blades of knives. Her mouth was rich and lush and full, the dark red color of berries. Ariadne’s throat tightened.

“Listen to me,” Anna said. There was nothing urgent in her voice, only a flat finality. “It has been four months since you told me you would win me back. I am not to be won, Ariadne. Love is a prison, and I have no desire for shackles. They would clash with my outfit.”

“But I love you,” Ariadne said, “and I do not feel shackled.”

“It has led you to imprisonment in this pantry,” Anna pointed out.

“With you,” Ariadne said. She raised a hand slowly, moving as if she were trying not to scare off a wild animal. Her fingertips grazed Anna’s cheek. Anna caught her wrist in a hard grip. She inclined her head; she was ever so slightly taller than Ariadne, especially in boots. “So I am happy.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Anna said. “Do you want to know why?”

“Yes. Tell me. Tell me why I’m a fool.”

Anna put her mouth to Ariadne’s ear. She spoke in a near whisper, her warm breath stirring the hair at Ariadne’s temples, her lips grazing Ariadne’s skin. “Because I will never love you,” Anna murmured. “I will never be with you. We have no future together. None. Do you still want me to kiss you anyway?”

Ariadne closed her eyes. “Yes. Yes.”

Anna’s mouth captured hers in a hard, bruising kiss. Ariadne gasped as Anna’s hand came up to tangle in her hair. Ariadne had never kissed Charles save for a few stiff pecks on the lips in public. She had tried, before him, kissing other boys and had found it seemed ridiculous to her. Two people mashing their faces together for no good reason.

With Anna it had been different. It was different. How had she nearly forgotten? The heat of Anna’s mouth, the wine-and-roses taste of her. Ariadne surged up onto her toes; she bit and licked at Anna’s lower lip and felt Anna’s arms go around her, tightening. Lifting her.

Anna was strong, as all Shadowhunters were strong: she lifted Ariadne as if she weighed no more than a handkerchief and deposited her on the edge of a shelf. Now that her hands were free again, Anna returned to her task with redoubled attention. Ariadne whimpered, arching back, as Anna ravished her mouth, parting her lips—licking and sucking, kissing and biting, a masterful whirlwind that left Ariadne breathless and frantic.

She had not been wrong, this past four months. It was worth anything, everything to have this. And she had never felt a shadow of it with anyone but Anna. She recalled with tenderness their first time together, how inexpertly they had touched each other, how they had laughed and tried this and that to find out what each of them liked.

There was much Ariadne still didn’t know. But Anna had outpaced her like a motorcar outpacing a carriage. Her hands were on Ariadne’s knees, sliding up, finding the bare skin above her stockings. Slipping under her jaconet muslin petticoat. Ariadne’s hand tightened in Anna’s hair. She knew she was making little whimpering noises as Anna’s fingers found their way unerringly to the heart of her. She dropped her hands, flailed for a moment before grasping the shelf tightly. She felt as if she were falling, flying off the edge of the world. She dragged her eyes open, desperate to see Anna’s face. In the scarlet light, her eyes were darkly blue, her lips parted. For the first time in two years, Anna was concentrating entirely on Ariadne.

It was too much. Ariadne gasped and shuddered as the world came to pieces around her. “Anna, Anna, Anna,” she whispered, the word losing itself against the broadcloth of Anna’s jacket. Somehow, she had pressed her face into Anna’s shoulder.

When she turned her head, she could hear Anna’s heartbeat. It was racing.

She drew back, her hands stroking down the front of Anna’s shirt, soft material over warm skin…. “Anna, come here. Let me—”

“Oh, there’s no need.” Anna stepped back. “Really, Ariadne, you should have told me that was all you wanted. We could have done it a long time ago.”

Anna cracked the pantry door open as Ariadne hastened to straighten out her skirts. She jumped down from the shelf, her shaking legs barely able to hold her. “Anna, we cannot just—”

“Walk back into the party together? I agree. There will be talk,” Anna said. “I’ll go first; you follow some minutes later. And we should avoid each other for the rest of the evening, I’d say. Don’t look so worried, my dear. I’m quite sure nobody saw us.”

 

Cordelia could hear the murmurs as she and James spun around the ballroom. Not that she minded. Let them all mutter about how he was being rude, dancing with his wife when surely he got enough of her conversation at home. She didn’t care what anyone said; she felt delighted, triumphant. She was not a fool who had been compromised into a marriage with an unwilling man. James cared for her.

She knew that he did. Her fingers were entwined with his, his other hand on her waist. The waltz was a far more sensual dance than the polonaise, and James wasn’t bothering to keep his distance. She was pressed against him, making the starch of his shirtfront crinkle. The corner of his mouth curled into a half smile. “I see Matthew has filled you in on all the gossip regarding Charles. How was your sojourn among the matrons of the Enclave?”

“Well, they are all looking over at us now,” said Cordelia. “They seem scandalized.”

“That’s because all their husbands are off drinking port and playing billiards.”

“Don’t you want to go drink port and play billiards?” she teased.

“When you dance as well as I do, you have a responsibility to set an example,” said James, swinging her in an exaggerated turn. She laughed, spinning back toward him. He caught her, his fingers splayed at her waist.

“I heard a bit more about what happened to Amos Gladstone the other night,” he said. “He was found with his throat slit. Frozen in an alley. No ichor, or any demon traces, but it’s rained since, so …”

Cordelia shuddered. “I can’t help but be uneasy. The last time Shadowhunters were dying …”