Chain of Iron

“Did you see anything?” said James, sitting back on his heels. “Anyone else, someone running away?”

Thomas shook his head.

“Did Lilian see her killer?”

“I asked her who attacked her.” Thomas’s hazel eyes burned with frustration. “She said something like ‘He did it. He was dead in his prime. His wife wept for him.’ None of which makes sense.”

“You think she recognized her killer as someone who was already dead?” echoed Matthew, looking puzzled.

“I think she was probably delirious,” said Thomas. “And there’s something else a bit odd. When I reached her, she was clutching her stele. I put it in my pocket without thinking.” He reached into his trouser pocket and extracted something that gleamed in the candlelight. “At least, I thought it was her stele. But it isn’t, is it?”

He handed it to James, who turned it over curiously between his fingers. It was a hard square of whitish-silver material, carved all over with runes. “It’s certainly adamas,” said James. “But you’re right, it’s not a stele. It’s a sort of box, I think.”

“And I don’t recognize the runes,” said Matthew. “Are those, you know, ours? Good runes, I mean.”

“Ah, yes,” said James. “Long ago, the Angel gave unto the Shadowhunters the Book of Good Runes.”

Thomas choked out a laugh. “Glad to know my horrid imprisonment hasn’t depressed you all too badly.”

“We know it’s horrid, Tom,” James said. “But it’s temporary. No one’s going to believe you really did this, and if it comes to that, the Mortal Sword will prove it.”

“But if they try me by the Mortal Sword, they might learn about everything we’ve been doing,” Thomas said. “They might learn about your connection with Belial. I’d end up betraying you all, especially you, Jamie.”

James, already kneeling, laid his head on Thomas’s knee for a moment. He could hear Christopher and Thomas breathing, sense their worry; he felt Thomas’s hand rough against his hair—Thomas was trying to comfort him, James realized, though Thomas was the one in trouble. These are my brothers, he thought, all around me; I would do anything for them.

“Tell them what you need to tell them,” he said, raising his head. “I’d never be angry at you for such a thing, Thomas, and I’ll manage—we all will—”

Voices rose outside suddenly, Eugenia saying very loudly, “WELL, HELLO, INQUISITOR BRIDGESTOCK. MADAME CONSUL. LOVELY TO SEE YOU.”

“They’re here.” James stood up, slipping the adamas box into his pocket. Matthew glanced up as Charlotte entered the room with Inquisitor Bridgestock and Gideon Lightwood. The two men were arguing furiously.

“This is a travesty,” Gideon snapped. “You must release Thomas at once. You’ve got no real evidence against him—”

“What is this?” Bridgestock bellowed when he saw the Merry Thieves. “How did you lot get in here?”

“I live here,” said James dryly. “I have all the keys.”

“Actually, you live on Curzon Street—all right, never mind,” said Christopher. “It was a jolly good answer.”

“Thomas is being held on suspicion,” said Charlotte, glancing at Matthew, who half turned away, hunching his shoulders. James couldn’t blame him. There had always seemed to him to be two Charlotte Fairchilds—one, the aunt he loved, and the other, the Consul, dispensing law and justice with a cool, unemotional hand. “He is not forbidden to have visitors. Nor,” she added, glancing at Gideon, “can we dismiss the suspicions against him without any investigation. You know what the Enclave will say—that we are showing favoritism, releasing a suspect because he is a family member, not because he has been cleared of any part in the crime.”

“You make it very difficult sometimes, Charlotte,” said Gideon in a low, angry voice. “All right. Go ahead, Thomas; tell them what happened.”

Thomas repeated his story, leaving out only the curious adamas box. Gideon crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at the Inquisitor. Bridgestock, whose face had gone purple with the effort of not interrupting, objected immediately when Thomas was finished.

“This story is nonsense,” he hissed. He turned on Thomas, who had sagged back in his chair. “You’re asking us to believe that all this was just a coincidence, when by your own admission you’ve been breaking the rules every night? Patrolling on your own? Have you any alibi for where you were the night Basil was killed? Or the Italian girl?”

“Her name was Filomena,” Thomas said quietly.

Bridgestock scowled. “Irrelevant.”

“It probably wasn’t irrelevant to Filomena,” said James.

“That’s not the point,” Bridgestock roared. “Lightwood, you were not scheduled for patrol and you had no reason to be in Golden Square.”

“Thomas has explained that already.” Gideon was white-faced with fury. “And he cares more to know the name of a dead Shadowhunter than you do, Maurice, because none of this matters to you except what you can get out of it. If you manage to convince the Clave you’ve caught a killer, you think they’ll shower rewards on you. But you will look like a fool if you cast him into prison and the murders continue.”

“Not as much a fool as you’ll look, having a murderer for a son—”

“There’s an obvious solution here,” James interrupted. “I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about. What I’d like to know is, what’s stopping you from suggesting it?”

Bridgestock glared at him with such pure hatred that James was taken aback. It was true that James had sometimes clashed with the Inquisitor, but he had no idea what would cause the man to despise him.

“The Mortal Sword,” James said. “Thomas isn’t afraid of it. Why would you be?”

“That’s enough out of you,” Bridgestock snarled, and for a moment, James was half-sure the Inquisitor was actually going to hit him. Charlotte caught Bridgestock by the arm, real alarm on her face, just as the doors slammed open once again.

They all stared in utter surprise. It was Alastair Carstairs, striding into the room like he always did—as if he’d bought the place and sold it at a handsome profit. He wore a black suit, and his weapons belt glittered where it was visible beneath his jacket. James could see Eugenia in the doorway, looking after Alastair with a thoughtful expression.

Why did she let him in?

“Dear God,” said Matthew. “Could this day get worse? What the hell are you doing here, Carstairs?”

“Alastair,” said Charlotte, “I’m afraid I must ask you to go. These are private proceedings.” She frowned at Gideon. “Has the front door become unlocked?”

Alastair’s chin was up, his expression haughty. A terrible tension knotted James’s stomach. He could see Thomas looking at Alastair with an expression almost of panic. After Elias’s death, James had begun to think Alastair had changed—he loved his sister, at least—but was he actually here to gloat?

“No,” Alastair said. “The door was not unlocked, at least not when I came in. Which was some time ago. You see, I followed Thomas here and came in with the Inquisitor and his patrol. I witnessed Miss Highsmith’s death—the entire incident.”