Chain of Iron
“Maybe only you can fire it,” Christopher said, after thumping Thomas on the back until he could breathe again. “Because of your—your lineage. Interesting.”
Thomas picked up the gun and gave it one last curious look before handing it back to James. “Perhaps James should keep it.”
“As long as you’re willing to come back over for some experiments with it later, Jamie,” Christopher said. “We’ll try to find a safer place to test it out.”
James hefted the Colt in his hands, balancing its weight. He had heard other Shadowhunters talk about discovering the weapon that would become their favorite, the one they were never without, the one they reached for first in battle. James had always assumed his weapon was knives—he was good with them, but it was true there had never been a particular blade that had caught his fancy. That he might have just discovered his weapon of choice because of his heritage was not an altogether welcome thought.
“If it works on demons,” Thomas said, as though he guessed what James was thinking, “it could change things. Change the way we fight. Make it safer for Shadowhunters. That’s worth the risks.”
“Yes—you’re probably right.” James carefully settled the revolver in his jacket. “Kit, I’ll keep you informed of any—developments.”
He could have stayed longer, he supposed, but he found he wanted to be back at Curzon Street when Cordelia returned from the Institute. She couldn’t be training too much longer—it was nearly dusk. Christopher had packed up a few tinctures meant to promote sleep: sliding them into his pocket, James hurried upstairs, where he found Charlotte’s study door closed. He could hear her voice, blended with Matthew’s and now Henry’s, rising and falling behind the door. It was too bad, he thought; he would have liked to tell Matthew about the gun, but Christopher and Thomas would have to catch him up.
As he set out for home, he thought of the inscription on the barrel of the gun—LUKE 12:49. He knew the Biblical verse; any Shadowhunter would.
I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.
9
THE SCARS REMAINING
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;—
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Christabel”
“Tell me, James,” Elias said with a gleam in his eye, “have you ever heard of the fearsome demon Yanluo?”
Papa, of course he’s heard of Yanluo, Cordelia wanted to say, but she held her tongue. From the moment they’d arrived at the door, it had been clear that her mother had put an enormous amount of effort into making the evening special. Their most beautiful china, from Paris, was on display, as was the damask table linen with delicate floral sprigs. Epergnes of expensive hothouse flowers—jasmine and heliotrope—decorated the table, and the house smelled of spices and rose water.
At first it was all a relief—Cordelia had been more worried about this dinner than she’d wanted to admit to herself. Lying to Will and Tessa about her marriage had been terrible, but for them, at least, this relationship had been a complete surprise. Lying to her own family was different. For Sona, and no doubt Elias, this outcome had been a dream. Not only had Cordelia gotten married, but she had married into a powerful and influential family (however Elias might have felt about the Herondales). She’d given them what they’d hoped for, but now that she’d taken the marriage oaths before the Enclave and the Angel, the lie of it seemed to loom much larger. Her parents knew her better than almost anyone: she had been half-certain that when she and James walked in, her parents would look at them and say, We see. You obviously don’t love each other and this is clearly some strange kind of marriage of convenience.
Instead everyone had been as polite as possible. Sona had fussed over James, Alastair had gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, and Elias had been his most charming self—expansive, generous, welcoming, and full of war stories.
James set down his forkful of ghormeh sabzi and nodded easily. “A very famous demon,” he said. “I know of the evil he brought to the Shanghai Institute.”
“Perhaps this is not an appropriate discussion for dinner,” Sona said. Though she was lovely in a velvet tea gown trimmed with lace and sable, and a black roosari, she looked tired. She must have been crafting this meal since yesterday, ensuring the cook had the recipes and knew how to prepare everything from the fesenjoon, sweet with lamb and pomegranate paste, to the hot kaleh pacheh.
Ignoring Sona, Elias leaned over to James and raised his eyebrows. In a dramatically grim voice he said, “He’s the demon that killed my brother Jonah and his wife, Wen Yu, but only after torturing their son, my nephew Jem, in front of them. Have you heard the story of how I came to kill Yanluo?”
James smiled; if there was a little strain in it, Cordelia was sure her father didn’t notice. “Only that you did. And never firsthand. I would, of course, be eager to hear the story from you.”
Cordelia met Alastair’s eyes across the table. He raised one eyebrow as if to say, Well, well.
She only shrugged. She didn’t know what had gotten into James either. Since it was just family at home, he had dressed casually—she had even teased him that his midnight-colored velvet jacket was something Matthew might wear—but the moment that they had crossed the threshold, his manners had been nothing short of exquisitely formal. He had complimented Sona on the beautiful flower arrangements and the deliciousness of the food, and even told Alastair that his hair looked nice. Now he had drawn out Elias by insisting on hearing his stories of past heroism.
“When I found out that Jem had been orphaned, I came to Shanghai straightaway, of course,” Elias said. “The Shanghai Institute wanted revenge just as badly as I did, and they partnered me with the fiercest warrior they had: the legendary Ke Yiwen.”
James murmured some sort of acknowledgment or agreement, but Elias didn’t seem to need his input; by now he was off and running. “For two years Yiwen and I tracked the demon across the world. The passage to Yanluo’s own realm was in Shanghai, so he never strayed too far for too long, but he eluded our grasp. Until one day …”
The story went on. Cordelia had heard it so many times she had ceased to really hear the words, but she grasped that her father was going over his most impressive feats of tracking, the terrible conditions he’d endured, and several dramatic hairbreadth near misses with lesser demons. The story grew a little more embellished each time it was told. Cordelia looked to Alastair, hoping to share a long-suffering look.
But Alastair looked more than long-suffering. His gaze was focused on their father with a barely contained loathing. Finally he gulped down his wine in a single swallow and interrupted Elias midsentence:
“Father, I’ve wondered: Are you still in touch with Ke Yiwen? Or is she too busy to write letters these days, given that she’s the head of the Shanghai Institute?”
There was a moment of awful silence. Nothing Alastair had said was truly that bad, but it was impossible to miss the implication. Everyone at the table was now thinking about the difference in the current status of Yanluo’s killers: one an Institute head and celebrated hero, one who had been imprisoned by the Clave for drunken incompetence and now hoped only to return to being a Shadowhunter in good standing at all.