Chain of Gold (13 page)

The sun was a burning needle transfixing them both to the spot. Her chest rose and fell against his; she was trembling as if she were
cold. Her hands gripped his shoulders. For a moment, he only felt: their lips against each other's, the taste of her like sugar pastilles on his tongue.

His eyes began to burn, though they were closed. He felt breathless and sick, as if he'd dived under salt water and come up for air too late. Something was wrong. With a choked gasp of nausea, he broke away from Grace.

Her hand went to her mouth. There was a look on her face he had not expected—a look of undeniable panic.

“Grace—” he began, when the air was suddenly cut through by the sound of screams, coming from the lake. And not just one person screaming, as Oliver had called out last night, but multiple voices, crying out in fear.

James caught hold of Grace and pushed her toward the folly. She had no idea how to fight—had never been trained. She was still looking at him in horror. “Stay here,” he demanded, and bolted toward the lake.

Cordelia didn't see it happen. By the time she had unsheathed Cortana, the demon had sprung from the water and directly onto Piers Wentworth. He went down with a howl of pain, kicking and thrashing.

There was instantly a melee. Shadowhunters were screaming—some had leaped for Piers, including Alastair and Rosamund, and were trying to peel the creature from his body. Charles had shoved Ariadne behind him—she looked exasperated—and was shouting for everyone to get away from the lake. Barbara was screaming, words that sounded like “What is it? What is it?”

But Cordelia could think of only one thing: Alastair. She raced toward the shore. She could see Alastair's bright hair among the scrum of people. As she neared them, she saw Piers lying motionless
by the water's edge: the rim of the water was scarlet, and more scarlet was billowing into the lake. Rosamund was on her knees beside him, screaming. The demon had vanished, though Cordelia had not seen anyone kill it.

Alastair had backed away from Piers; Ariadne was on her knees next to the fallen boy, her dress in the blood and sand. As Cordelia drew near to her brother, she saw that there was blood on him, too. She reached him among the chaos, breathless.

“Alastair—”

There was a stunned look on his face. Her voice shook him awake: he caught at her free arm and pulled her toward the grass. “Cordelia, get back—”

She looked around wildly. Shadowhunters were running everywhere, knocking over hampers and trampling picnic food underfoot. “What happened, Alastair? What was it?”

He shook his head, his expression bleak. “I have absolutely no idea.”

James raced down the slope of the green hill toward the lake. The sky had darkened, stained everywhere with clouds: in the distance he could see mundanes hurrying away from the park, wary of approaching rain. The water of the lake had turned from silver to gray, rippled with strong wind. A small crowd had formed at the lake's edge. The picnic had been abandoned: bottles and hampers had been kicked over, and everywhere Shadowhunters were seizing up weapons. James caught sight of Matthew and Lucie among the throng: Matthew was handing Lucie an unlit seraph blade from his own belt. He thought he caught sight of Cordelia's red hair, close to the lakeside, just as Barbara came racing up to him.

Her eyes were wide and terrified; Oliver was racing behind her, determined to catch her up. She reached James first. “Jamie—Jamie—”
She caught at his sleeve. “It was a demon. I saw it attack Piers.”

“Piers is hurt?” James craned his neck to see better. He had never liked Piers Wentworth, but that didn't mean he wanted anything to happen to him.

“Barbara.” Oliver reached them, out of breath from lack of training. “Darling. Demons cannot withstand sunlight. You know that.”

Barbara ignored her suitor. “James,” she whispered, dropping her voice. “You can see things other people can't, sometimes. Did you see anything last night?”

He looked at her in surprise. How did she know he'd fallen briefly into the shadow realm? “Barbara, I don't—”

“I did,” she whispered. “I saw—shapes—ragged black shapes—and I saw something catch hold of me and drag me down.”

James's heart began to pound.

“I saw one again, just now—it leaped on Piers, and it disappeared, but it was there—”

Oliver shot James an irritable look. “Barbara, don't overexcite yourself,” he began, just as Matthew appeared, making a beeline for James. Behind Matthew, the crowd was parting: James could see Anna with Ariadne and Thomas, all kneeling around the body of Piers on the ground. Thomas had torn off his jacket and pressed it against Piers's throat; even from here, James could see the blood.

“Where's Charles?” James said, as Matthew approached: Charles was, after all, the closest thing to the Consul that they had here.

“Went to put up wards to keep the mundanes away,” Matthew said. The wind was rising, skirling the leaves on the ground into minor cyclones. “Right now, someone needs to get Piers to the infirmary.”

“Piers is alive?” James asked.

“Yes, but it doesn't look good,” said Matthew, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “They're putting
iratzes
on him, but they're not working.”

James met Matthew's gaze with his own. There were only a few kinds of wounds that healing runes couldn't help. Wounds infected by demon poison were among them.

“I told you,” Barbara cried. “The demon clawed at his throat—” She broke off, staring toward the far edge of the grassy area, where trees bordered the lake.

James followed her gaze and stiffened in horror. The park was a gray landscape through which the wind rushed: the lake was black, and the boats on it twisted and sagged strangely. Clouds the color of bruises scudded across a steel-colored sky. The only brightness he could see was a clear golden light in the distance, but it was trapped among the crowd of Nephilim like a firefly trapped in a jar; he couldn't identify what it was.

The boughs of the trees whipped back and forth in the rising wind. They were full of shapes—ragged and black, just as Barbara had said. Clawed shadows torn from a greater darkness. How many, James couldn't tell. Dozens, at least.

Matthew was staring, his face white.
He can see what I see,
James realized.
He can see them too.

Springing down from the trees, the demons rushed at them.

The demons raced like hellhounds across the grass, leaping and surging, utterly silent. Their skin was rough and corrugated, the color of onyx; their eyes flaming black. They tore through the park under the dark, cloud-blackened sky.

Beside Cordelia, Alastair ripped a seraph blade from the pocket of his jacket and held it up.
“Micah!”
he cried—every seraph blade needed to be given an angel's name to be activated.

The low gleam of the blade became a bonfire. There was a sudden riot of illumination as seraph blades blazed up everywhere; Cordelia could hear the names of angels being called, but the
Shadowhunters' voices were slow with astonishment. It had been a long time of relative peace, and no one expected demonic activity during the day.

Yet it was here. The demons surged like a wave and crashed down upon the Nephilim.

Cordelia had never expected to find herself in the middle of a battle. To slay a few demons here and there on patrol was something she had hoped for, but this—this was chaos. Two demons with feral, doglike faces flung themselves at Charles and Ariadne; he stepped in front of her and was knocked aside. Cordelia heard someone call out Charles's name: a moment later the second demon was upon Ariadne. Its jaws closed on her shoulder and it began to drag her body across the grass as she kicked and struggled.

Cordelia started toward her, but a shadow rose up in front of her, a black shadow with dripping jaws and eyes like red coals. There was no room in her to scream. Her sword whirled in a blazing arc. Gold sliced across shadow: ichor spilled, and she nearly stumbled. She whirled to see that Anna had raced to Ariadne's side, a long silver dagger in her hand. She plunged it into the attacking demon's back, and it vanished in a spray of ichor.

More demons surged forward. Anna cast a helpless look at Ariadne lying in the bloodstained grass and turned back with a cry; she was soon joined by others—Thomas, his
bolas
sailing through the air, and Barbara and Lucie, armed with seraph blades.

A demon lunged for Alastair: Cordelia brought Cortana down in a great curving arc, severing its head.

Alastair looked peevish. “Really,” he said. “I could have done that on my own.”

Cordelia considered killing Alastair, but there was no time—someone was screaming. It was Rosamund Wentworth, who had refused to move from her brother's side. She crouched over his bleeding body as a demon snapped its jaws at her.

James raced toward her across the grass, seraph blade blazing at his side. He sprang into the air, landed on the demon's back, and thrust his seraph blade into its neck. Ichor spilled as the demon vanished. Cordelia saw him spin around, his eyes searching the grass and finding Matthew. Matthew, who had a curved blade in his hand, stood by Lucie, as if he meant to drive off any demon who came near her.

James ran toward Matthew and his sister, just as another scream tore the air.

It was Barbara. One of the shadow demons pounced, slamming Oliver to the ground and closing its jaws around Barbara's leg. She cried out in agony and collapsed.

A second later James was there; he flung himself at the creature on top of Barbara, knocking it to the side. They rolled over and over, the Shadowhunter and the demon, as screams tore through the crowd of assembled Shadowhunters.

Matthew dived forward, executing a perfect midair flip, and kicked out. His boot connected with the demon, knocking it free from James. Matthew landed as James sprang up, seizing a dagger from his belt. He flung it, and it sank into the demon's side; spitting and hissing, the demon vanished.

And there was silence.

Cordelia didn't know if the demons had been defeated, or if they had scurried away in retreat or victory. Perhaps they had done all they had meant to do in the way of damage. There was no way of knowing. Frozen in shock, battered and bloody, the group of Shadowhunters who had come to Regent's Park for an afternoon picnic stared at each other across the bloody grass.

The picnic area was in shreds: patches of grass burned with ichor, hampers and blankets scattered and destroyed. But none of that mattered. What mattered were the three still figures that lay in the grass, unmoving. Piers Wentworth, his shirt drenched in blood, his sister
sobbing at his side. Barbara Lightwood, being lifted into Thomas's arms—Oliver had his stele out and was drawing healing rune after healing rune on her dangling arm. And Ariadne, crumpled in a heap, her pink dress stained with red. Charles knelt with her, but her head was in Anna's lap. Dark blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

The demons might have gone, but they had left devastation behind.

The gas-lamps gleam in a golden line;

The ruby lights of the hansoms shine,

Glance, and flicker like fire-flies bright;

The wind has fallen with the night,

And once again the town seems fair

Thwart the mist that hangs i' the air.

—Amy Levy, “A March Day in London”

Cordelia leaned close to Lucie
as they jolted through the streets in the Institute's carriage, surrounded by the blurred traffic of omnibuses, motorcars, and pedestrians. Advertisements whirled past.
THE HORSESHOE HOTEL. THREE-GUINEA STOUT. NEW PALACE STEAMERS.
Signs advertising tailors and fishmongers, hair tonic and cheap printing. A world incredibly distant from the one Cordelia had just left behind in Regent's Park. A world where small things mattered.

Matthew was sitting across from them on the upholstered carriage seat, gripping the seat cushions with his fists. His hair stuck out madly. Blood and ichor stained his linen jacket and silk tie.

The moment the demons had gone, James had taken off on
Balios, one of his father's horses, hoping to reach the Institute and prepare them for the arrival of the wounded. Charles had bolted off with Ariadne in the Consul's carriage, leaving Matthew to cadge a ride with Lucie and Cordelia.

Alastair had returned to Kensington to tell Sona what had happened. Cordelia was half-glad for the ichor burns on her hands: she had told him she would need treatment in the Institute infirmary, and besides, she could potentially stay to offer help and assistance. After all, they had to be mindful of the impression they were making on the Enclave.

“Now?”
he had demanded, dark eyes snapping. “At this moment, you're worried about the impression we're making in London?”

“It's important, Alastair,” she'd replied. “It's for Father.”

Alastair hadn't protested further. Cordelia had been a little surprised; she knew he thought her scheming was pointless. They had argued about it at Cirenworth, and she'd told him she couldn't comprehend why he wouldn't stand behind their father with her, why he seemed to feel that there was no hope when they hadn't yet tried everything. He'd only told her she didn't understand.

“I still don't see how it's possible,” said Lucie. “Demons
don't
come out during the day. They simply don't.”

“I've heard of them appearing under thick cloud cover before,” said Cordelia. “If no sunlight could get through—”

Matthew gave a hoarse laugh. “That was no natural storm. Yet I have never heard of demons who could control the weather, either.”

He drew a silver flask from his waistcoat pocket. Lucie shot him a sharp look before glancing away.

“Did you see the wounds?” she asked. “I have never seen anything like it. Barbara's skin was turning black at the edges where she was bitten—”

“You have never seen anything like it because there never has
been anything like this,” said Matthew. “Demons who bring their own night with them? Who attack us when we are vulnerable because we believe we cannot be assailed?”

“Matthew,” said Cordelia sharply. “Stop frightening Lucie when we do not even know what we are dealing with yet.”

He took a swig from the flask as the carriage rattled through Ludgate Circus and onto Fleet Street. Cordelia could smell the sharp, sweet perfume of the alcohol, familiar as childhood. “Lucie doesn't get frightened, do you, Luce?”

Lucie crossed her arms over her chest. “I am frightened for Barbara and Ariadne, and for Piers,” she said. “Are you not concerned? Barbara is our family, and Ariadne one of the kindest people I know.”

“There is no special protection in this world for kind people,” Matthew began, and broke off as Cordelia glared at him. He took another swig from his flask and bared his teeth. “Yes, I'm being a beast. I know that perfectly well.”

“Then stop doing it,” said Cordelia. “My father always said that to panic before you have all the facts was to fight the enemy's battle for him.”

“But who
is
the enemy?” said Lucie. “Demons, I suppose, but demons usually attack without strategy or method. These demons avoided every mundane in the park and went straight for us.”

“Demons aren't always random in their actions,” Cordelia said. “Perhaps a warlock who has summoned a pack of demons is responsible, or even a Greater Demon amusing themselves. Ordinary demons are like animals, but if I understand it rightly, Greater Demons can be quite like people.”

They had reached the Institute. Matthew shot her a swift, surprised look as the carriage rolled under the gate with its Latin motto:
PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS.

We are dust and shadows.

As they came to a sliding stop in the courtyard, Matthew
reached to throw the carriage door open. He leaped down and turned to help Cordelia and Lucie after him. The courtyard was already full of carriages—Cordelia recognized the symbol of the Inquisitor's family, an arched bridge, on one of them. She could also see Balios, his reins tied to a post near the front steps. His flanks were foamy with sweat; James must have ridden hell-for-leather through the streets.

As another carriage began to rattle under the gate, Matthew glared at his flask, which was apparently empty. “I think I'll take a walk,” he said. “I shall return shortly.”

“Matthew!”
Lucie looked horrified. “But the infirmary—and Thomas needs us—”

“I don't like illness,” Matthew said shortly, and walked away, clearly choosing his steps very carefully. Cordelia wondered what had been in the flask. Something quite strong, she guessed.

Lucie looked furious. “How
can
he—”

She broke off as the new carriage came to a stop and Gabriel and Cecily Lightwood spilled out. Gabriel looked harried; Cecily, beside him, was carrying a very small boy—dark-haired and blue-eyed. Cordelia guessed he was Alexander, Lucie's youngest cousin.

“Lucie!” Cecily cried, hurrying toward her niece. Cordelia hung back with a feeling of awkwardness. It was a sharp reminder of how far away from all this she had grown up. Not just geographically, but also socially. Alastair had at least had time at the Academy. This world, Lucie and James's world, was a world of family and friends who loved each other, but did not know her at all.

“But I don't understand,” Cecily was saying. “I know what Anna's message said, but a demon attack in
broad daylight
? It makes no sense at all. Could it not have been something else?”

“Perhaps, Aunt Cecily, but these creatures left the sort of wounds that demons leave,” said Lucie. “And their blood was ichor.”

Gabriel put a hand on Lucie's shoulder. “Half the Enclave has
been dispatched to the park to help those who are still there and determine what occurred. It is most likely a freak occurrence, Luce. Horrible, but unlikely to ever happen again.”

“And Jem—Brother Zachariah will be here with the other Silent Brothers,” said Cecily, glancing up at the Institute. “They will heal Barbara and the others. I know they will.”

Brother Zachariah. Jem.

Of course he would be here, Cordelia realized. Jem Carstairs was a dedicated Silent Brother, and loyal to the London Institute.
I could talk to him,
she thought.
About my father.

Jem was here to heal, she knew. But her father needed help as much as anyone, and there were other Silent Brothers in the Institute.

Looking from Gabriel to Cecily, she said, “Would you mind if I accompanied you to the infirmary? If there are bandages there, I could wrap my hands—”

Lucie looked remorseful. “Daisy! Your hands! I should have given you a dozen
iratzes
, a hundred
iratzes
. It is only that you were so brave about your injuries—”

Oh, dear.
Cordelia hadn't meant to make Lucie feel guilty. “Truly, it only hurts a little—”

Cecily smiled at her. “Spoken like a true Carstairs. Jem would never admit when he was in pain either.” She kissed the top of Alexander's head as he fussed to be put down. “Come, Lucie, let us get your future
parabatai
to the infirmary.”

James had never seen the infirmary like this before. Of course he'd heard stories from his mother and father about the aftermath of the Clockwork War, the dead and the wounded, but during his lifetime there had rarely ever been more than one or two patients in the sickroom. Thomas had once ended up there for a week when
he'd fallen out of a tree and broken his leg. They'd stayed up nights playing cards and eating Bridget's jam tarts. James had been disappointed when the healing runes finally worked and Thomas went home.

The scene was very different now. The room was already crowded: there were many Shadowhunters who had been burned by ichor or who had cuts and bruises. An impromptu nursing station had been set up at the counter, where Tessa and Will—with help from the Silent Brothers—were dealing out bandages and healing runes to whoever needed them.

The three more seriously injured Shadowhunters had been placed in beds at the end of the room, where a screen partially shielded them from the chaos in the rest of the infirmary. James could not help looking, though, especially at Thomas—the rest of the Lightwoods had not arrived yet, and Thomas sat silently by Barbara's side. James had tried to sit with him, but Thomas had said he would rather be alone with Barbara. He was holding his sister's hand as Uncle Jem tended to her: she lay still, her only movement her breathing.

Brother Shadrach, Brother Enoch, and Jem had arrived only moments after James had brought the news of the attack to the Institute. Shadrach leaned over Piers, treating him with a tincture meant to replace some of his lost blood. Brother Enoch crouched by Ariadne, his aspect grim. Inquisitor Bridgestock and his wife were huddled not far from their daughter, exchanging fearful looks. They had been a childless couple before they had adopted orphaned Ariadne from the Bombay Institute, and they had always treated her like a precious treasure. Charles slumped in a chair nearby: like Barbara, Ariadne was motionless save for her shallow breathing. One could see the tracery of her veins beneath the skin of her wrists and temples.

James was still filthy with grass, dirt, and sweat; nevertheless, he stayed behind the counter, cutting and rolling bandages.
If Thomas would not have him, he would help in any other way he could. He could hear snippets of conversation floating above the hushed stir of voices:

“It was demons, Townsend. Or at least, it was either demons or some creature we've never seen before—”

“These are the marks of demon attacks, of claws and teeth. There is no wound that a Downworlder can inflict that is immune to healing runes, but these are. We must find what poison is in their bodies and work to cure that—”

“But daylight—”

“Who is still at the park? Does anyone have a list of names of those who attended the picnic? We must be certain not a one was left behind—”

James thought of Grace. He wished he'd been able to speak to her after the attack, but Balios, though nearly twenty-eight, was the fastest horse in the park by far, and only James could ride him—James or Lucie, and Lucie had wanted to remain with Cordelia.

In the end, it had been Christopher, looking more frightened than he had during the demon battle, who had offered to take Grace back to Chiswick in his carriage—Charles, of course, having already rushed to the Institute with Ariadne. James could not help but dread Tatiana's reaction to the attack. It seemed entirely within her usual behavior to decide London was too dangerous and drag Grace back to Idris.

James.
The voice was silent, an echo in his head. He knew who it was instantly, of course. Only Silent Brothers spoke this way, and he would never mistake Jem for anyone else.

James, might I have a word with you?

James glanced up to see Jem, tall and dark in his parchment-colored robes, leaving the infirmary. Setting the bandages down, he slipped out the door and into the corridor outside. He followed his uncle to the music room, neither of them speaking as they went.

The corridors of the Institute had been redesigned by Tessa some years ago, the dark Victorian wallpaper gone in favor of light paint and true stone. Elegant carved sconces emerged from the walls at spaced intervals. Each was in the shape of the symbol of a Shadowhunter family: Carstairs, Ke, Herondale, Wrayburn, Starkweather, Lightwood, Blackthorn, Monteverde, Rosales, Bellefleur. It was James's mother's way of saying that they were all Shadowhunters together, all with an equal place in the Institute.

Not that the Clave had always treated his mother as if
she
were equal, James thought. He pushed the thought away; the whispers about his mother, himself, and Lucie always made his blood boil.

The music room was rarely used—Lucie was not musical at all, and James had played the piano for a few years and then abandoned it. Golden sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating dancing trails of dust motes. A grand piano loomed in the corner, half-covered by a white drop cloth.

Jem's violin had pride of place—a Stradivarius carved of mellow wood, it rested in an open case atop a high table. James had seen his father come into this room just to touch the violin sometimes, a faraway look in his eyes. He wondered if he would do the same with Matthew's belongings if one day, he lost his
parabatai
.

He pushed the thought away. Matthew was like food, sleep, breathing; doing without him would not be possible.

I got your message,
Jem said.
The one you sent last night.

James started. “I had nearly forgotten.” He could see himself in a gold-framed mirror on the wall: there was grass in his hair, and a bloody scratch on his cheek. He looked like an escapee from Bedlam. “I'm not sure it matters now.”