Chain of Iron

“James,” Cordelia said. He stared at her; his black hair was wet with sweat, and there was blood on his lower lip where he’d bitten it. “Please.”

James shuddered and went limp against the wall. Looking exhausted, he nodded. “I’m all right.” He sounded breathless, but the hollow edge was gone from his voice. “It’s over.”

Matthew relaxed, lowering his hands. He was in his vest and trousers, Cordelia realized, and blushed slightly. She could see an enkeli rune on Matthew’s bicep, part of it disappearing under his sleeve. Matthew had very nice arms, she realized. She’d never noticed before.

Oh, dear. If her mother knew Cordelia was in a bedroom with two such scantily clad men, she would faint.

“So you dreamed,” said Matthew. He was looking at James, and there was such affection in his voice that it broke Cordelia’s heart cleanly in half. Dear God, if only she and Lucie could become parabatai, she hoped they would love each other nearly as much. “A nightmare, we assume?”

“You assume correctly,” James said, his fingers going to the knot of rope still around his wrist. “And if my dream was accurate, someone else is dead.” His tone was bleak.

“Even if that’s true, you didn’t do it,” Cordelia said fiercely. “You’ve been here all night long, James. Lashed to the bed.”

“That’s true,” said Matthew. “Cordelia has been with you, she never left your side, and we’ve all been downstairs—well, except Thomas, he buggered off on patrol again, but the rest of us. No one came in or out the door.”

James untied the rope still trailing from his wrist. It fell away, revealing a circle of bloody skin. He flexed his hand and looked from Matthew to Cordelia. “And I tried to get the window open,” he mused. “But it was after my dream, not before. I don’t know—” He looked frustrated. “It’s like I can’t think,” he said. “Like there’s a fog in my brain. But if it isn’t me doing this—who is it?”

Before either Matthew or Cordelia could answer, a noise echoed from downstairs. Someone was pounding on the door. Cordelia was up in a flash, racing down the steps in her stockinged feet. She could hear movement from the drawing room, but she reached the door before anyone else, and threw it open.

On the threshold stood a figure in a parchment-colored cloak. Glancing behind him, Cordelia could see that his boots had left no traces on the snow that frosted their front walk; he seemed to carry quiet with him, a sense of hushed spaces and echoless shadows.

For a moment Cordelia was filled with a wild hope that Jem had come to see her. But this Silent Brother was more stooped, nor did he have thick, dark hair—or any hair at all. When he looked down at her, his sewed-shut eyes visible beneath the shadow of his hood, she recognized him. It was Brother Enoch.

Cordelia Herondale, he said, in his silent voice. I must speak with you on several matters. First, I bring you a message from Brother Zachariah.

Cordelia blinked in surprise. James had said there had been another death—but maybe that was not why Enoch was here, after all? His face was as expressionless as ever, though his voice in Cordelia’s mind was surprisingly kind. She had never quite thought of the other Silent Brothers, those who were not Jem, as being kind or unkind, any more than trees or fence posts were kind.

Perhaps she had been unfair. Finding her voice, she ushered Brother Enoch into the entryway, murmuring a welcome. She could hear the noises of the others inside the house, their voices raised in the drawing room. It was still quite early, and the sky outside had just begun to steady into blue.

She closed the door and turned to look at Enoch. He stood, seemingly waiting for her, marble-pale and silent, like a statue in an alcove.

“Thank you,” she said. “I am glad to hear from Je—from Brother Zachariah. Is he all right? Is he returning to London?”

There was a noise of footsteps. Cordelia glanced up the stairs and saw James and Matthew descending. They saw her and both nodded, passing the entryway and heading to the drawing room. She realized they were giving her a moment alone with Enoch. He must have silently communicated to them as well.

Brother Zachariah is in the Spiral Labyrinth and cannot return, said Enoch.

“Oh.” Cordelia tried to hide her disappointment.

Cordelia, said Enoch. For years now I have watched Brother Zachariah grow into his role in our order with increasing respect. If we were allowed to have friends, many of us would count him as such. For all that, we know he is unusual. He paused. When a Silent Brother joins the ranks of the order, he is meant to give up his life, even his memories of who he was before he became a Silent Brother. This was more difficult for Zachariah, given the unusual circumstances of his transformation. There are those from his former life that he still considers his kin, which as a general rule is forbidden. But in his case … we allow it.

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “He thinks of the Herondales as family, I know—”

And you, said Enoch. And your brother. He knows about Elias. There are things happening in the Spiral Labyrinth that I cannot tell you of, things that prevent his departure. Yet he wishes above all to be with you. He cannot lie to me, nor I to you. If he could be beside you in this time, he would.

“Thank you,” Cordelia said quietly. “For telling me, I mean.”

Enoch gave her a sharp nod. She could see the runes of Quietude carved into the hollows of his cheeks; Jem had been marked that way too. Certainly it must have been painful. Knowing it likely violated some kind of rule, Cordelia laid a hand on his arm. The parchment robe seemed to crackle when she touched it: it was as if suddenly she could see down the span of many years, see the curve of the past, the silent power of a life spent among history and runes. “Please,” she said. “Has there been another death? I don’t know if you’re allowed to tell us, but—but the last death was my father. We have all been up all night, worrying there would be another. Can you set our minds at rest?”

Before Enoch could respond, the door to the drawing room opened, and James, Matthew, Christopher, Lucie, and Anna piled out. Five anxious faces fixed on Enoch—six, Cordelia supposed, if she counted her own. Five pairs of eyes made the same demand, asked the same question: Has anyone else died?

Enoch’s answer flowed calmly, without sentiment or bitterness. If another Shadowhunter has been struck down, I do not know about it.

Cordelia exchanged an uneasy look with James and Matthew. Could James’s dream have been wrong? None of the others had been.

I have come here to speak to Cordelia, Enoch went on, on a subject related to the murders and their investigation.

Cordelia stood up straighter. “Anything you want to say to me privately, you can say to all of my friends.”

As you wish. In the Ossuarium you asked me a question about Filomena di Angelo’s Strength rune.

The others were looking at Cordelia in confusion. “I had asked,” Cordelia explained, “whether she had one.”

She did, Enoch said. She wore a permanent Strength rune on her wrist, according to her family, but that rune is missing now.

“Missing?” Christopher sounded baffled. “How’s that possible? Scarred over, you mean?”

There is no scar. A rune can be used up, leaving only a phantom of itself behind, but it cannot vanish from one’s skin entirely once it has been drawn. Enoch’s focus shifted to Cordelia. How did you know?