Chain of Iron

Matthew pushed the door of the carriage open, revealing the pavement of Berwick Street, glossy with melted snow. He jumped out and, after a quick conversation with the driver, reached up to help Cordelia down from the carriage.

The Hell Ruelle was reached through the narrow alley of Tyler’s Court. Matthew took Cordelia’s arm and tucked it through his, and together they made their way through the shadows. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that while we may know the truth, the rest of the Enclave doesn’t. Remember what pests they were when you first came to London—and now, as far as that smug bunch is concerned, you’re marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. Look at Rosamund Wentworth. She’s gone and gotten herself engaged to Thoby Baybrook just to prove you’re not the only one getting married.”

“Really?” Cordelia was highly entertained; it had never occurred to her she had anything to do with Rosamund’s sudden announcement. “But I assume that marriage is a love match.”

“The timing raises questions, is all I’m saying.” Matthew waved a hand airily. “My only point is, you may as well rejoice in being the envy of all London. Everyone who was snide to you when you first arrived—everyone who shorted you because of your father, or muttered rumors—they’ll be eating their hearts out with envy, wishing they were you. Enjoy it.”

Cordelia chuckled. “You always do find the most decadent possible solution to any problem.”

“I believe that decadence is a valuable perspective that should always be considered.” They had reached the entrance of the Hell Ruelle and passed through a private door into a narrow hallway lined with heavy tapestries. The corridor was seemingly done up for Christmas (though the holiday itself was weeks away); the tapestries were adorned with green boughs wound with white roses and red poppies.

They found their way through a labyrinth of small salons to the octagonal main room of the Ruelle. It had been transformed; shimmering trees, their bare boughs and trunks painted white, stood at intervals, festooned with dark green wreaths and dangling red glass globes. A glimmering mural portrayed a forest scene: a glacier edged by a grove of snowcapped pines, owls peeking out from the shadows between the trees. A black-haired woman with the body of a serpent coiled around a lightning-struck tree; her scales gleamed with gold paint. At the front of the room, Malcolm Fade, the purple-eyed High Warlock of London, seemed to be leading a group of faeries in an intricate dance.

The floor was piled with heaps of what looked like snow, but on closer examination was delicately cut white paper, kicked up in drifts by dancing Downworlders. Not everyone was dancing, of course: many of the salon’s guests were crowded at small circular tables, their hands wrapped around copper mugs of mulled wine. Nearby, a werewolf and a faerie sat together, arguing about Irish home rule. Cordelia had always marveled at the mix of Downworlders that attended the Hell Ruelle; enmities out in the world between vampires and werewolves, or between different faerie courts, seemed to be suspended for the sake of art and poetry. She could understand why Matthew liked it so much.

“Well, well, my favorite Shadowhunter,” drawled a familiar voice. Turning, Cordelia recognized Claude Kellington, a young werewolf musician who oversaw the entertainment at the Ruelle. He was seated at a table with a faerie woman with long, blue-green hair; she stared curiously at Cordelia. “I see you brought Fairchild,” Kellington added. “Convince him to be more entertaining, will you? He never dances.”

“Claude, I am crucial to your entertainments,” Matthew said. “I am that irreplaceable thing, the eager audience.”

“Well, bring me more performers like this one,” Kellington said, indicating Cordelia. “If you happen to meet any.”

Cordelia couldn’t help but recall the performance that had so impressed Kellington. She’d danced on the Ruelle’s stage, so scandalously that she’d rather shocked herself. She tried not to blush now, but rather to appear a sophisticated sort of girl prepared to dance like Salome at the drop of a hat.

She nodded at the decorated boughs. “Is Christmas celebrated at the Hell Ruelle, then?”

“Not exactly.” Cordelia turned to see Hypatia Vex, the patroness of the Hell Ruelle. Though Malcolm Fade owned the place, the guests were invited by Hypatia; anyone she disapproved of would never make it past the door. She wore a shimmering red gown, and a gilt-dipped peony was tucked into her cloud of dark hair. “The Ruelle does not celebrate Christmas. Its attendees may do what they like in their own homes, of course, but in December the Ruelle pays homage rather to its patron with the Festum Lamia.”

“Its patron? You mean … you?” said Cordelia.

There was a hint of amusement in Hypatia’s distinctive eyes with their star-shaped pupils. “Its cosmic patron. Our ancestor, called by some the mother of warlocks, by others the Mother of Demons.”

“Ah,” said Matthew. “Lilith. Now that you point it out, you do have rather a lot more owls in the decor than usual.”

“The owl is one of her symbols,” said Hypatia, gliding a hand along the back of Kellington’s chair. “In the first days of the Earth, God made for Adam a wife. Her name was Lilith, and she would not be subservient to Adam’s wishes, so she was cast from the Garden of Eden. She mated with the demon Sammael, and with him had many demon children, whose offspring were the first warlocks. This angered Heaven, and three vengeful angels—Sanvi, Sansanvi, and Semangelaf—were sent to punish Lilith. She was made barren by the angels, banished to the realm of Edom, a wasteland of night creatures and screech owls, where she resides still. But she stretches out her hand sometimes to assist warlocks who are faithful to her cause.”

Most of the story was familiar to Cordelia, though in the legends of Shadowhunters, the three angels were heroes and protectors. Eight days after a Shadowhunter child was born, a ritual was performed: the names Sanvi, Sansanvi, and Semangelaf, chanted as spells, were placed upon the child by both the Silent Brothers and the Iron Sisters. It was a way of locking the soul of the child, Sona had explained to Cordelia once, making them a closed door to any kind of demonic possession or influence.

Probably best not to mention that now, she thought. “Matthew did promise me scandal,” she said, “but I suspect the Clave frowns on Shadowhunters attending birthday parties for well-known demons.”

“It isn’t her birthday,” said Hypatia. “Merely a day of celebration. We believe it to be the time she left the Garden of Eden.”

“The red baubles hanging from the trees,” Cordelia said, realizing. “They’re apples. Forbidden fruit.”

“The Hell Ruelle delights,” said Hypatia, smiling, “at the consumption of that which is forbidden. We believe it is more delicious for being taboo.”

Matthew shrugged. “I can’t see why the Clave would mind. I don’t believe we need to celebrate Lilith, or anything like that. It’s really just decorations.”

Hypatia looked amused. “Of course. Nothing else. Which reminds me …”

She glanced meaningfully at Kellington’s faerie companion, who rose and offered Hypatia her seat. Hypatia took it without a second glance, spreading her skirts out around her. The faerie melted back into the crowd as Hypatia went on, “My Pyxis has been missing since the last night you were here, Miss Carstairs. Matthew was here too, I remember. I’m wondering if I might have inadvertently made a gift of it to you?”