Chain of Iron

“I drifted in shadow,” said the ghost-girl, in English. “Now you have called my name. Why?”

“To secure justice,” said Lucie. “You should not have died. Who did this to you?”

Filomena gazed down at them. Cordelia felt the hairs along the back of her neck rise. She had never thought closely about how eerie it must be for Lucie, for James, to be able to see the dead. They were not simply insubstantial people. They were very alien indeed. Filomena’s eyes, which had been so dark, were entirely white now—no iris at all, only two single black pinpoints of pupils. “He came out of the shadows. There was a blade in his hand. I fought him. I cut him. He bled. Red blood, like a man. But his eyes …” Filomena’s mouth twisted, elongating strangely. “They were filled with hate. Such hate.”

Cordelia glanced at James. I felt such hate. It did not seem like a human hate.

“His blood is here,” Filomena whispered. Her gaze had fallen on Thomas. “I spilled it, but not enough. I was not strong enough. He took from me. My strength, my life.” Dark hair drifted across Filomena’s face. “I could not withstand him.”

“It’s not your fault, Filomena,” Cordelia said. “You fought bravely. But tell us who he was. Was he a Shadowhunter?”

Filomena’s head whipped toward her. Her gaze fixed on Cordelia, her eyes changing shape, widening into impossible circles. “Per quale motivo sono stata abbandonata, lasciata sola a farmi massacrare?” she whispered. Why did you leave me alone to be slaughtered?

Filomena’s voice rose to an eerie singsong, the musical Italian words skipping over each other in her haste to say them: “Cordelia, tu sei una grande eroina. Persino nel regno dei morti si parla di te. Sei colei che brandisce la spada Cortana, in grado di uccidere qualunque cosa. Hai versato il sangue di un Principe dell’Inferno. Avresti potuto salvarmi.”

Stricken, Cordelia could only stammer, “Filomena—I’m so sorry, Filomena—”

But Filomena had begun to twist and jerk, as if a strong wind were blowing through her. A network of lines appeared on her face, splintering with lightning speed into a web of cracks throughout her whole body. She moaned, a sound of terrible pain. “Lasciami andare … let me go…. There, I have told you…. I cannot bear it any longer….”

“Go, if you wish it.” Lucie spread her hands out. “Filomena, I will not hold you here.”

The Italian girl went still. For a moment, she looked as she had in life—her face full of hope and thought, the tension of her body gone. Then she shuddered and crumbled apart like dust, vanishing into nothing among the particles in the air.

“By the Angel,” said Anna, gazing at Lucie. “Is it always so harrowing, speaking with ghosts?”

Lucie was silent; it was James who replied. “No,” he said. “But ghosts remain on Earth to fulfill unfinished business. I think Filomena’s was telling us what she knew. Once she’d done that, she was desperate to rest.”

“I’m not sure she knew that much, poor girl,” Matthew said.

“What did she say to you, Cordelia?” Thomas asked. “That was a great deal of Italian.”

Before Cordelia could respond, a loud noise echoed from deeper within the factory. The small group of Shadowhunters spun around. Cordelia caught her breath—the dangling chains were whipping back and forth overhead, the hooks suspended from them swinging wildly.

“We’re not alone,” Anna hissed suddenly, angling her witchlight toward the gallery above. The ruby necklace at her throat was pulsing with light like a second heart.

Dust and grayness, the humped shapes of broken machines; then Cordelia spotted a shadow moving along the underside of the gallery railing, scuttling on what seemed like countless thick grayish limbs.

Cordelia whipped Cortana from its sheath. All around her, the others were arming themselves: Anna with her whip, Thomas his Argentinian bolas, James with a throwing knife, Matthew with a seraph blade, Lucie her axe.

Spider, Cordelia thought, backing up with Cortana held out before her. The demon was indeed arachnoid: its row of six eyes gleamed as it leaped to a dangling iron hook and swung out into the open space, chittering wildly. Its front four legs ended in claws with long, curved talons. The additional legs protruding from the back each ended in a hook. Mandibles jutted from either side of its fanged mouth.

The demon sprang from the hook.

“Anna!” Cordelia screamed.

Anna ducked just in time. The demon flew past her, landing atop the broken loom. Anna came out of her crouch into a full spin, sending her whip whistling toward the demon. It reared up to avoid being hit, its back four legs clinging to the loom as the whip slashed through the air.

“Ourobas demon!” James called. He flung his knife, but the Ourobas had already scuttled down from the loom and under a piece of broken machinery. The knife buried itself in the opposite wall.

“You know it personally?” Matthew had his blade at the ready. Lucie was beside him, her axe out, clearly waiting for an opportunity to engage the creature at close quarters.

James leaped atop a nearby pile of rusted metal, flicking his gaze over the factory floor. “Never had the pleasure, but they’re meant to be fast and agile. Not too clever, though.”

“Sounds like some people we’ve met,” said Anna.

James yelled a warning. Lucie lashed out with her axe as the demon hurtled past her, barreling straight for Thomas. He was ready with his bolas: the flexible leather thong shot out and doubled back, emitting a deafening crack as it encircled one of the demon’s legs and pulled tight. The leg was wrenched off: with a spray of ichor it fell to the ground, where it twitched like a dying insect.

The demon howled and leaped for a dangling hook, catching it and swinging away fast. James swore, but there was no point chasing it; it had already pushed off one of the gantries and was flying, ichor dripping from its injured leg, directly at Cordelia.

She raised Cortana, the arc of the blade golden and beautiful in the ugly factory light—

A sudden, blinding pain shocked her palms. With a gasp, she dropped the sword. The demon was nearly on her: she could see its ugly black mouth, its glittering, nested eyes. She heard Lucie scream, and her training took over: Cordelia flung herself to the ground and rolled, the Ourobas’s claws narrowly missing her.

The Ourobas yowled, dropping to the debris-strewn floor. Lucie’s throwing axe had buried itself deep in the demon’s side, but it didn’t even slow down. It sprang toward Cordelia. She could smell the stink of ichor as she scrambled backward, fumbling at her belt for a seraph blade—

A blast ricocheted through the room, echoing off the walls. Something punched through the Ourobas, leaving a smoking wound behind. Jittering, twitching, the Ourobas gave an unearthly shriek and vanished.

Lucie’s axe fell to the floor, where it stuck, blade-down.

Cordelia scrambled to her feet. She could see the others all turning to stare at a spot just behind her. There was smoke in the air, and the unmistakable smell of cordite.

Gunpowder.

Cordelia turned slowly. Behind her was James, his arm extended, a revolver gleaming in his right hand. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel. His gaze locked with Cordelia’s, and he slowly lowered the gun to his side. There was a look in his eyes she could not read.