Chain of Iron

He drew back his hand to slash wide, but she ducked under the blade and kicked at his shin, unbalancing him. She ran before he could react, heading for the dark mouth of an alley.

The killer, knife still in hand, plunged after his prey.

10



THE DAMNED EARTH



“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,

“But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days!

“Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,

“Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth.

“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—

“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—

“From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”

—Edgar Allan Poe, “Lenore”

“James!”

Someone was on top of him, holding him down. James thrashed and kicked, trying to shake them off. The claws of the dream were still in him: not a real memory, but a feeling, a feeling of hatred and darkness, a choking sense of horror—

“James, please!”

His eyes flew open.

The world spun around him. He was on his bed, tangled in a snarl of blankets. Most of his pillows were on the floor, and the window had been cracked open—the air in the room was cold. There were hands on his shoulders—Cordelia’s hands. She had clearly climbed on top of him in an effort to control his thrashing. Her chemise was slipping off her shoulder, her red hair undone, spilling down her back like a river of fire.

“James?” she whispered.

He had dreamed something, something awful, but it was fading, gone like morning mist. This was the real world. His icy bedroom, the air so cold his breath puffed out in white clouds. The empty tincture bottle on his nightstand, the bitter taste of its dregs still on his tongue. Cordelia above him, her dark eyes wide. She was shivering.

“I’m all right.” His voice was rough, husky. “Daisy …”

He sat up, drawing her into his lap, trying to pull the blankets up around them both. He meant to warm her up. He realized how foolish that was the moment she slid against him. He was freezing, but she was radiating heat: suddenly he was hot everywhere her skin touched his. She was all warm softness under her thin chemise. He had never seen a girl in this state of undress at any point in his life, and certainly never imagined what one would feel like in his arms.

She felt perfect.

He settled his hands at her waist. She was still, looking at him with surprise, but no nervousness. There was nothing shy about Daisy. She was impossibly soft and curved. She moved, settling her weight against him, and he could not help but remember the night she’d asked for help with her wedding dress. He’d tried not to stare, but he could still recall the shape of her body under the fabric. Now he could feel it: the indent of her waist, her hips just below his hands, flared like the body of a violin.

“You’re so cold,” she whispered, looping her arms around his neck. Her voice shook slightly. She settled more closely against him, her hand stroking the back of his neck. He was helpless to stop his hands; they smoothed up and down her back, on either side of her spine. Her breasts were round and firm, pressed against his chest. He could tell she was wearing nothing under the chemise. He could feel the arches and hollows of her, and every touch seemed to unravel another strand of the thin thread of control binding his good sense. Blood pooled, hot and low in his belly. The fabric of her nightgown bunched up in his hands. His fingers curved over the shape of her, brushing the silk of her bare thighs, sliding up—

Something echoed through the house.

It was the doorbell ringing. James quietly cursed himself for having a doorbell put in at all. He heard hurrying feet, and cursed himself for having hired domestic staff too. He and Cordelia would have been better off alone, on top of a mountain perhaps.

More footsteps, and voices now, coming from downstairs.

Cordelia was scrambling off him, off the bed, smoothing down her hair. Her cheeks were flaming red. The little globe necklace he’d given her bounced as she moved, sliding down under the neckline of her chemise. “James, I think we’d better—”

“Get dressed,” he said mechanically. “Yes. Probably.”

She hurried out of the room, not looking at him. He scrambled to his feet, furious with himself. He had lost control of himself, and quite possibly horrified Cordelia. Swearing viciously, he slammed the window closed so hard that a crack spidered across the glass.

 

Despite feeling like her whole body was blushing, Cordelia dressed hastily and raced downstairs, where she found Risa in the foyer, looking puzzled and worried. “Oun marde ghad boland injast,” Risa said, which translated roughly to “The very tall man is here.”

Indeed, Thomas was hovering uncertainly on the doorstep. In the summer, Cordelia had thought him nearly blond, but she realized it had been sunlight, bleaching the strands of his hair. It was nut-brown now, rather straggly and damp with snow. He was breathless, seeming almost frozen, as if he could not think of what to say.

“Has something happened?” It was James, having just arrived downstairs. Cordelia looked at him out of the corner of her eye; thinking about the way she’d last seen him made her feel like feathers were tickling her from the inside. James, though, did not look flushed, disheveled, or undone at all: he was still buttoning his jacket but seemed otherwise tranquil. His golden eyes were fixed on Thomas.

“I was at Matthew’s,” Thomas said. He seemed too distracted to come inside, though his rapid breath was making white clouds in the cold air. Cordelia could see no carriage behind him. He must have walked here, or run. “At least, I went to see Matthew. But Henry said Matthew wasn’t at home and he didn’t know when he’d be coming back. He took Oscar with him, too. Henry seemed grumpy. I thought that was odd. Henry’s hardly ever grumpy. It is odd, isn’t it? I should have asked more, but I couldn’t, not after I heard—”

“Tom,” James said gently. “Slow down. What happened?”

“I was meant to meet Matthew this morning,” said Thomas. “But when I got to the Consul’s, only Henry was there. He didn’t want to talk about Matthew, really, but he said Charlotte was called to the Institute—that someone else had died—” He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, almost violently.

“Someone was killed last night?” said Cordelia. “Another Shadowhunter on patrol?” She could not help but think of James’s screaming— she had burst into the room because the sound was so awful, and he had been thrashing, crying out in his sleep.

What had he dreamed?

“Not on patrol,” Thomas said. “Henry says they think it was someone coming back from Anna’s party. A girl.”

“Lucie was at Anna’s party,” Cordelia breathed. “Thomas—”

“It wasn’t Lucie. It seems Uncle Gabriel saw her come home last night. This girl was out much later, close to dawn. The patrol who found her body just said it was a girl with dark hair. And—Eugenia—I didn’t see her this morning. I know she was at the party last night, but I didn’t think anything of it until Henry told me what happened,” Thomas said quietly. “I should have gone straight home once he did, I know, but—after Barbara, I can’t—I need you with me. I need you with me, James.”