Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cassandra Clare



For Emily and Jed.

I’m glad you finally got married.





We must learn to suffer what we cannot evade; our life, like the harmony of the world, is composed of contrary things—of diverse tones, sweet and harsh, sharp and flat, sprightly and solemn: the musician who should only affect some of these, what would he be able to do? he must know how to make use of them all, and to mix them; and so we should mingle the goods and evils which are consubstantial with our life; our being cannot subsist without this mixture, and the one part is no less necessary to it than the other.

—Michel de Montaigne, Essays





PROLOGUE


Later James could only remember the sound of the wind. A metallic scream, like a knife drawn across a shard of glass, and far below that the sound of howling, desperate and hungry.

He was walking upon a long and trackless road: it seemed no one had come before him, for there were no marks on the ground. The sky above was equally blank. James could not have said if it was night or day, winter or summer. Only the bare brown land stretching before him, and the pavement-colored sky above.

That was when he heard it. The wind, kicking up, scattering dead leaves and loose gravel around his ankles. Growing in intensity, the sound of it nearly covered the oncoming tread of marching feet.

James whirled and looked behind him. Dust devils spun in the air where the wind had caught them. Sand stung his eyes as he stared. Hurtling through the sandstorm blur were a dozen—no, a hundred, more than a hundred—dark figures. They were not human, he knew that much; though they did not quite fly, they seemed to be part of the rushing wind, shadows furling around them like wings.

The wind howled in his ears as they shot past overhead, an interlocking clutch of shadowy creatures, bringing with them not just a physical chill but a sense of cold menace. Under and through the sound of their passage, like thread weaving through a loom, came a whispered voice.

“They wake,” Belial said. “Do you hear that, grandson? They wake.”

James jerked upright, gasping. He couldn’t breathe. He clawed his way up, out of the sand and shadows, to find himself in an unfamiliar room. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Not unfamiliar: he knew where he was now. The coaching inn room he shared with his father. Will was asleep in the other bed; Magnus was somewhere down the hall.

He slid out of the bed, wincing as his bare feet made contact with the cold floor. He crossed the room silently to the window, gazing out at the moonlit, snowy fields that covered the ground as far as the eye could see.

Dreams. They terrified him: Belial had come to him through dreams as long as he could remember. He had seen the bleak kingdoms of the demons in his dreams, had seen Belial kill in his dreams. He did not know, even now, when a dream was just that, a dream, and when it was some terrible truth.

The black-and-white world outside reflected back only the desolation of winter. They were somewhere near the frozen River Tamar; they’d stopped last night when the snow had gotten too thick to ride through. It had not been a pretty, flurrying shower either, or even a chaotic, blowing squall. This snow had direction and purpose, beating down at a sharp angle against the bare slate-brown ground, like an unending volley of arrows.

Despite having done nothing but sit in a carriage all day, James had felt exhausted. He’d barely managed to force down some hot soup before making his way upstairs to collapse into bed. Magnus and Will had remained in the saloon, in armchairs near the fire, talking in low voices. James guessed that they were discussing him. Let them. He didn’t care.

It was the third night since they’d left London, on a mission to find James’s sister, Lucie, who had gone off with the warlock Malcolm Fade and the preserved corpse of Jesse Blackthorn, for a purpose dark and frightening enough that none of them wished to speak the word they all dreaded.

Necromancy.

The important thing, Magnus stressed, was to get to Lucie as soon as possible. Which was not as easy as it sounded. Magnus knew that Malcolm had a house in Cornwall, but not exactly where, and Malcolm had blocked any attempt at Tracking the fugitives. They’d had to fall back on a more old-fashioned approach: they stopped often at various Downworld watering holes along the route. Magnus would chat with the locals while James and Will were relegated to waiting in the carriage, keeping their Shadowhunter selves well hidden.

“None of them will tell me anything if they think I’m traveling with Nephilim,” Magnus had said. “Your time will come when we arrive at Malcolm’s and must deal with him and Lucie.”

This evening he’d told James and Will that he thought he might have found the house, that they could easily make it there with a few hours’ journey the next morning. If it was not the right place, they’d journey on.

James was desperate to find Lucie. Not just because he was worried about her, although he was. But because of everything else happening in his life. Everything that he had put aside, told himself not to think about, until he found his sister and knew she was safe.

“James?” The sleepy voice cut into his thoughts. James turned away from the window to see his father sitting up in bed. “Jamie bach, what’s the trouble?”

James gazed at his father. Will looked tired, his mane of black hair disarrayed. People often told James that he was like Will, which he knew was a compliment. All his life, his father had seemed the strongest man he knew, the most principled, the most fierce with his love. Will did not question himself. No, James was nothing like Will Herondale.

Resting his back against the cold window, he said, “Just a bad dream.”

“Mmm.” Will looked thoughtful. “You had one of those last night too. And the night before. Is there something you’d like to talk about, Jamie?”

For a moment, James imagined unburdening himself to his father. Belial, Grace, the bracelet, Cordelia, Lilith. All of it.

But the picture in his mind did not hold. He could not imagine his father’s reaction. He could not imagine speaking the words. He had held it all inside so long, he did not know how to do anything but hold on further, tighter, protecting himself the only way he knew how.

“I’m just worried about Lucie,” James said. “About what she might have gotten herself into.”

Will’s expression changed—James thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross his father’s face, though it was hard to tell in the half dark. “Then go back to bed,” he said. “We’re likely to find her tomorrow, Magnus says, and it would be better to be rested. She might not be pleased to see us.”





1 TWILIGHT DAYS




My Paris is a land where twilight days

Merge into violent nights of black and gold;

Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold:

Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways!

—Arthur Symons, “Paris”



The gold floor tiles gleamed under the lights of the magnificent chandelier, which scattered droplets of light like snowflakes shaken from a tree branch. The music was low and sweet, rising as James stepped out from the crowd of dancers and held out his hand to Cordelia.

“Dance with me,” he said. He was beautiful in his black frock coat, the darkness of the cloth accentuating the gold of his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones. Black hair tumbled over his forehead. “You look beautiful, Daisy.”

Cordelia took his hand. She turned her head as he drew her out onto the floor, catching a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror at the far end of the ballroom, James in black and she beside him, in a daring dress of ruby-red velvet. James was looking down at her—no—he was gazing across the room, where a pale girl in an ivory dress, her hair the color of creamy-white rose petals, was looking back at him.

Grace.

“Cordelia!” Matthew’s voice made her eyes snap open. Cordelia, feeling dizzy, put a hand against the wall of the changing room for a moment to brace herself. The daydream—daymare? It hadn’t turned out to be that pleasant—had been awfully vivid. “Madame Beausoleil wants to know if you require any aid. Of course,” he added, his voice full of mischief, “I would render the help myself, but that would be scandalous.”