Chain of Iron

“Humph,” said the faerie. “Anna’s not here, and we don’t like Nephilim, neither. Go away.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Grace muttered, casting her gaze upward in exasperation. The faerie seemed about to slam the door in their faces.

“Wait!” called a voice. It was Hypatia Vex, her hair pinned up with elaborate porcelain flowers, her brown skin dusted with glittering powder above the neckline of a ruby velvet dress.

“She is Anna’s cousin,” Hypatia said to the door faerie, indicating Lucie. “She was here a few weeks back. As for the other one—” She shrugged. “Oh, let them in. It’s still early. I doubt even a Herondale could stir up trouble at this hour. And call my carriage, Naila. I’m ready to go out.”

Lucie and Grace slipped past the departing Hypatia and found themselves in a maze of rooms connected by cramped hallways. Following the sound of voices, they reached the large central chamber; it looked entirely different than it had the last time Lucie had been here. Then, it had been full of revelers. Tonight seemed quieter—lamps were shaded in cream-colored velvet, casting a softened glow. Jewel-toned couches were scattered about the room, and on them were crowded all manner of vampires and faeries, even a werewolf or two, as well as creatures Lucie could not identify. They spoke to each other in low voices as satyrs carrying silver trays of iced drinks passed between them.

“Hardly the bacchanal I expected,” Grace said coolly. “I can’t imagine why people are so desperate to be invited.”

Lucie spotted Malcolm Fade first, sprawled on a settee alone, his arm behind his head, his purple gaze fixed on the ceiling. He sat up as they approached, his expression frankly skeptical.

“Is this how it’s to be, then? Shadowhunters showing up here every night?” Malcolm sighed. He was wearing a formal white frock coat, the same color as his hair. “My patience begins to fray.”

“I’m glad it’s only begun,” Lucie said, “because we need to speak with you. In private. I’m Lucie Herondale, and this is Grace Blackthorn—”

“I know who you are.” With a sigh, Malcolm rolled off the settee. “You get five minutes of my time, less if you bore me. Come to my office.”

They followed him down a narrow hall to a private room papered in a William Morris pattern and outfitted with a writing desk and several amber-colored brocade chairs. He gestured impatiently for them to sit. Grace perched coquettishly on the edge of her seat, tilting her head so that she gazed up at Malcolm through fluttering lashes. Grace really was awfully odd, Lucie thought, sitting down in another brocade chair. Did she think flirting with a century-old warlock would work? Then again, any port in a storm.

Malcolm, leaning back against the wall beside a painting of a stormy sea, seemed amused—and entirely unmoved. “Aren’t you children supposed to be home at this hour?”

“You mean,” Grace said, quick as a whip, “you know about the murders, then?”

Malcolm sank down into a leather chair behind the desk. Something about him reminded Lucie of Magnus, though Magnus had kinder eyes. By contrast, there was something remote about Malcolm, as if he were walling some part of himself away where it could not be touched. “I am the High Warlock. Things like Shadowhunter curfews fall under my purview. Though I’ve already told the Clave: I have no idea who killed those three Nephilim.”

“We understand,” Lucie said. “And we truly are sorry to interrupt your evening. I was hoping you might be able to help us with something else. Something we’re trying to learn more about. It has to do with raising the dead.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “How refreshingly candid,” he said, running a finger over the ebony inlay on his desk. “It’s always nice to see the youth of today thirsting for knowledge. Do you think the murderer is trying to raise the dead?”

“It’s not about that,” Lucie said carefully, “but rather, whether there are ways to raise the dead that don’t involve so much … er, death. Ways that don’t require evil deeds.”

“There is no way to raise the dead without doing great evil,” Malcolm said flatly.

“That can’t be true,” Grace said. Her gaze was still fixed on Malcolm. “I beg you. Help us. Help me.”

Malcolm’s gaze darkened. “I see,” he said, after a long moment, though Lucie wasn’t sure what he saw. “Grace—your name is Grace, isn’t it?—I am helping you already, by telling you the truth. Life is in balance, just as magic is in balance. And so there is no way to grant life without taking life.”

“You are very famous, Mr. Fade,” said Grace. Lucie looked at her in alarm: What was Grace playing at? “I remember hearing that you were once in love with a Shadowhunter. And that she became an Iron Sister.”

“What of it?” Malcolm said.

“My mother just joined the Iron Sisters in the Adamant Citadel, but she is not one of them. She is not bound by their rules of silence. We could ask her to find out how your beloved fares in the Citadel. We could tell you how she is.”

Malcolm froze, the color draining from his already pale face. “You’re serious?”

Lucie wished she had asked Grace for more details about her plan. Somehow she’d imagined they’d simply approach Malcolm and ask for help. This was entirely unexpected; she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about it.

“We are serious,” said Grace. “Lucie would agree with me.”

Malcolm turned his gaze to Lucie. His eyes had darkened; they looked nearly black. “Is this indeed your offer, Miss Herondale? I assume you make it without the knowledge of your parents?”

“Yes, and yes,” said Lucie. “But—my parents have always taught me to right injustice. That is what I am trying to do. Someone is dead who should—who should never have died.”

Malcolm laughed bitterly. “Determined, aren’t you? You remind me of your father. Like a dog with a bone. Here is what you must know: even if it were possible to raise the dead without also taking life to restore balance, you would need a body for the departed to occupy. A body that hasn’t rotted away. But alas, as you surely must know by now, it is in the nature of the dead to rot.”

“But what if one had a body that was still in perfect condition?” Lucie said. “Unoccupied, as it were, but still, um, pristine?”

“Really?” Malcolm’s gaze moved from Lucie to Grace and back again. He sighed, as if in defeat. “All right,” he said at last. “If what you say is true—and you can bring me word of Annabel—then return when you have a message from her. I will be here.”

He rose, inclining his head curtly. It was clear their interview was over.

Lucie got to her feet, discovering she felt quite shaky. Grace had already risen, and made as if to stalk from the room, but as she passed Malcolm, he caught her arm and spoke in a deadly quiet voice.

“Miss Blackthorn,” he said. “In case you haven’t realized it already, the kind of enchantment you employ doesn’t work on those like me, nor do I consider it a frivolity, a harmless bit of magic. Try such tricks in the Ruelle again, and there will be consequences.”

He flung her arm away; Grace darted from the room, her head down. For a moment, Lucie thought—but no. It wasn’t possible. She could not have seen tears shining in Grace’s eyes.