There were nine of them in total. There was Sammael, the first to loose demons upon the Earth. Azazel, the forger of weapons who fell from grace when he gifted humans with the instruments of violence. Belial, who “did not walk among men,” was described as the prince of necromancers and warlocks, and a thief of realms. Mammon, the prince of greed and wealth, could be bribed with money and riches. Astaroth, who tempted men to bear false witness, and who took advantage of the grieving. Asmodeus, the demon of lust and rumored general of Hell’s army. Belphegor, the prince of sloth and, strangely, tricksters and snake-oil salesmen. Leviathan, the demon of envy, chaos, and the sea, who was monstrous and rarely summoned. And lastly, of course, there was Lucifer, the leader of the archangels, the most beautiful of any prince, the leader of the rebellion against Heaven.
It seemed impossible to James any of them could be his grandfather. It was like having a mountain for a grandfather, or an exploding star. Nothing evil was more powerful than the Princes of Hell, save perhaps Lilith, the mother of demons.
He sighed and set the book down, trying to push back an intrusive thought of Grace. He did not like the way they had parted at the riverbank: she had said she would need time, and he knew he must give her that. Still, the thought of her burned inside his stomach, as if he had swallowed a match tip.
A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie. He set his book down, rising to his feet. His muscles ached.
“Come in,” he called.
It was his father, but Will was not alone: Uncle Jem was with him, a noiseless presence in his drifting parchment robes. His hood was down, as it often was when he was inside the Institute. Will had told James many years ago that when Jem had first become a Silent Brother, he had not liked people to see his scars. It was strange to think of Uncle Jem having such feelings.
“Someone’s here to see you,” Will said, moving aside to let Jem pass into the room. He glanced from his son to his old parabatai. James knew that under the songs and jokes, the careful deflection, his father was a man who felt things deeply. He himself was like his father in that way: they both loved intensely, and could be intensely hurt.
If it bothered Will that James and Jem had secrets he did not know and could not share, he did not show it. James had been miserable until Jem had shown him how to control the shadow power. All Will had ever cared about was that after his lessons with Jem, James seemed happier.
Will’s blue eyes were deeply shadowed; James knew he and Tessa had been up for hours, first in the sickroom and then in the library. James and Lucie had stayed with Thomas as long as they could, until he had returned to Christopher’s house, silent with grief and exhaustion. Afterward, Lucie had gone off to the library to look after Alexander, but James had returned to his room. He had always been the sort who bore his pains privately.
Will ruffled James’s hair and said something about being needed elsewhere before slipping out of the room. When he was gone, James sat back down at his desk and glanced up at his uncle Jem.
You sent for me? Jem said.
“Yes. I need to tell you something. Or perhaps ask you something. I am not sure which.”
Is this about Barbara? Or the others? asked Jem. We do not know why she died, James. We think the poison reached her heart. Piers and Ariadne remain in a stable condition, but the Brothers’ need to find a cure has become even more desperate.
James thought of the blood Christopher had taken from the infirmary, the laboratory in the house on Grosvenor Square. He knew Christopher was doing all he could to find a cure for the demon poison, but he couldn’t help but hope Henry would come back from Idris soon to lend aid. Not to mention there was the matter of the dirt James had found in the shadow realm.…
“I sent the message to you before I knew about Barbara,” James said, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “I feel foolish now. My problems do not measure up to those—”
Tell me why you sent for me, said Jem. I will be the judge of whether or not it was important.
James hesitated. “I cannot tell you all of it,” he said, “for reasons I cannot explain entirely. Only know that I encountered a demon, who told me that my grandfather was a Prince of Hell.” He glanced up at his uncle’s face. “Did you know that?”
The white streak in Jem’s hair danced as he shook his head. As I’ve been searching for your grandfather’s name, I’ve heard a great many stories from different sources. There was one, a warlock woman, who told me he was a Prince of Hell. But there were also others who named different demons. Since I did not know who to trust, I thought it better not to burden your family until I was sure of the truth.
“Perhaps a clue could be found in the shadow realm,” said James. “I’m seeing it more and more, just as there seem to be more demons in London. If there’s some connection—”
Did the demons at the lake speak to you? Mention your grandfather?
James shook his head.
I assume the demon who identified your grandfather was the Cerberus demon in the greenhouse in Chiswick, said Jem. James didn’t contradict him; it was close enough. It could be that this demon, having been bound to Benedict and Tatiana, had heard your name and said to you whatever it felt could hurt you most. Demons are deceptive. It might not be the truth.
“But what does it mean if it is true?” James whispered. “If I am descended from a Prince of Hell?”
It means nothing about who you are, said Jem. Look at your mother, your sister. Would you claim some flaw in them? You are your mother and father’s son, James. That is what matters. What has always mattered.
“You are being kind,” said James. “Kinder than the Clave would be, if it turns out to be true.”
Jem took James’s face in his hands. His touch was cool, as always, and his face was young and old at the same time. How could he look no older than James and at the same time, ageless?
If you saw humanity as I can see it, Uncle Jem said. There is very little brightness and warmth in the world for me. There are only four flames, in the whole world, that burn fiercely enough for me to feel something like the person I was. Your mother, your father, Lucie, and you. You love, and tremble, and burn. Do not let those who cannot see the truth tell you who you are. You are the flame that cannot be put out. You are the star that cannot be lost. You are who you have always been, and that is enough and more than enough. Anyone who looks at you and sees darkness is blind.
He let go of James abruptly, as if he had said too much.
It is not enough, is it? Jem said, his silent tone somehow resigned. The uncertainty has been planted. You feel you must know.
“Yes,” James said. “I am sorry.”
Very well, said Jem. I will call on an old friend, on one condition. You do not mention this again, to anyone, until we hear from him.
James hesitated. He was keeping so many secrets already—secrets for Grace, the secret of the attack in Chelsea, the secret of Emmanuel Gast. Before he could reply, though, the sound of clattering wheels echoed from outside; there was a crash, and James heard the front doors of the Institute fly open.
He raced to the window. Jem was beside him instantly, noiseless as a ghost.
Several carriages had drawn up in the courtyard: in the cool light of the moon, James could make out the coats of arms of the Baybrooks and Greenmantles, but not the others. He heard shouting—Will and Gabriel were racing down the front steps. The door of the Greenmantle carriage flew open and two women clambered out, supporting the body of a man between them. His white shirtfront was soaked in blood and his head hung at an angle, like a broken doll’s.
Beside James, his uncle had gone rigid. There was a faraway look on his face; James knew he could speak inside his mind to the other Silent Brothers, gathering information from them. It’s happened, Jem said. There’s been another attack.
* * *
The light of late morning was yellow as butter. It hurt Cordelia’s eyes as she paced the swords-and-stars tiles of the vestibule at Cornwall Gardens. Sona and Alas
tair were both fast asleep. Risa was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she made nân-e barbari, a flatbread that was her specialty.
Cordelia had not been able to sleep at all. Between her desperate worry over her father, the news about Barbara, and her new concern for Alastair, she had not been able to lie down, much less close her eyes.
Poor Thomas, she thought. And poor Barbara, who had been so happy dancing with Oliver, walking with him in Regent’s Park.
Shadowhunters knew death. They accepted that death came: in battle, by knife or tooth or sword. But for a strange poison to steal away life while one slept, like a ghost or a thief, was not part of Shadowhunter life. It felt wrong, like a boot put on backward. Just as it felt to imagine losing her father to the injustice of the Clave.
The sound of a knock on the front door nearly sent Cordelia sailing into the air. The Lightwoods’ housemaid had the morning off. Cordelia glanced toward the kitchen, but Risa must not have heard the knock. There was nobody to open the door but her. Cordelia braced herself and flung it open wide.
James Herondale stood on the front step. She caught her breath. She had never seen him in gear before, and its darkness made his hair look more black, his eyes the burning gold of a lion’s eyes. Around his upper left arm was a white silk band of mourning.
He met her gaze without flinching. His black hair continually looked tousled, as if he were caught in a storm no one else could see. “Daisy,” he said. “I have—very bad news.”
She could pretend she didn’t know, but suddenly she couldn’t bear it. “Barbara,” she whispered. “I know. I’m so sorry, James. Charles came by last night, he’s friends with Alastair and—”
“I feel I ought to have known they were friends—they were both in Paris at the same time, weren’t they?” James ran a hand through his tangled hair. “But why would Charles have come by so late to see your brother? He couldn’t have known about the attack yet—”
“Attack?” Cordelia stiffened. “What attack?”
“There was a small gathering at the Baybrooks’ last night. When the visitors left, they were savaged by a group of the same demons that attacked us in the park.”
Cordelia’s mind raced. “Was anyone killed?”
“Randolph Townsend,” said James. “I didn’t know him well, but I saw them bring his body in. Vespasia Greenmantle and Gerald Highsmith were wounded and poisoned.” James ran his hands through the already wild crown of his black hair.
“Is the Clave admitting now that this is not a problem limited to Regent’s Park?”
“Yes,” said James bitterly, “and they are going to set more patrols, in a wider area, though my parents are begging them to call in warlocks and the Spiral Labyrinth. The attack was at night, at least, so they are less panicked, but—I am not sure they should be. This was a group of adult Shadowhunters. They were armed. Everyone has been since the picnic. But according to the Baybrooks, they were cut down in an instant. Only Randolph had a chance to raise a seraph blade before the demons were sinking teeth into their flesh.”
“Did the demons vanish suddenly, the same way they did at the lake?”
“Apparently the Baybrooks said they were gone nearly as quickly as they appeared.”
“It seems to me,” said Cordelia, “that they are not simply seeking to kill. They seek to bite. To sicken.”
James frowned. “But Randolph was killed.”
“He was the only one fighting back,” said Cordelia. “It seems to me they are willing to kill—Barbara or Piers could easily have died of blood loss—but their directive is to spread this—this infection.”
“So you think someone is controlling them,” said James. “Good. So do I. Hopefully we can find out who from Gast.”
“Gast?” echoed Cordelia.
His eyes sparked a dark gold. “One good thing happened last night. It seems your trip to the Hell Ruelle was successful. Hypatia Vex sent Ragnor Fell to assist us with the name of a warlock who may have summoned these demons. Emmanuel Gast.” He glanced up toward the windows of her house. “Ragnor did insist that we keep the information a secret.”
“Another secret,” said Cordelia. “There do seem to be so many now. And poor Thomas—does he know—?”
“About Gast? Yes. Ragnor came just before we found out about Barbara.” Pain flashed across James’s face. “Thomas blames himself for her death, though there is nothing he could have done.”
James looked exhausted, Cordelia realized. He had come far out of his way to tell her this news, so that she did not have to hear it from people who didn’t know Thomas or care about him or his friends.
He must be desperate to leave, she thought. She couldn’t keep him here talking when he no doubt wished to be with his family, or with Grace.
“It was kind of you to come and tell me,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “I would ask you in for tea, but I know you must be eager to return to your family.”
“Actually, I am not returning to the Institute. I have made a plan with Matthew and Lucie to confront Gast in his flat. I’ll be meeting them there. I came to see if you would join us.”
Surprised, Cordelia said, “Oh, did Lucie ask you to fetch me along?”
James hesitated. “Yes. She did.”
“Anything for my future parabatai, of course,” Cordelia said. And she did mean it. She wanted badly to see Lucie, and even more to have something useful to do. Some way to help. All night she had been thinking of Barbara, who she had known so little, but who had been so young, and seemed so kind.
“I doubt this warlock will be happy to see us,” said James. “Bring your gear and Cortana; we must be ready to fight.”
* * *
Emmanuel Gast lived in a flat above a handkerchief manufacturer’s, near the junction between Cheapside and Friday Street. Matthew pointed up Friday Street as they went past. “There used to be a pub up that street called the Mermaid Tavern, where Shakespeare used to drink.”
In Lucie’s opinion as a writer, this was not an artistically inspiring avenue. On each side of the street were dingy brown buildings with narrow leaded windows and grubby Dutch gables. Awnings hanging outside several buildings were dyed a mottled brown too, not by design but with the dust of the streets and the smog of the city. Cheapside was one of the busiest thoroughfares in London, crowds surging from the fishmongers’ stalls all the way to the white bell tower of St. Mary-le-Bow.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think much of Shakespeare’s taste.”
Matthew smiled, though he looked as tired as Lucie felt. He wore dark gear just as she did, a white mourning band around his wrist and a white flower in his buttonhole. He had been making jokes all morning, and Lucie had been trying as best she could to keep up. It was hard not to let her mind wander to thoughts of Barbara, of the now even more crowded infirmary at the Institute. Of when the next attack might come, and who might be hurt or killed in it.
“Luce.” Matthew touched her arm lightly. They were glamoured, and the crowds moved around them, parting like a river forking around a central island. Newsboys hawking the Evening Standard darted up and down the streets: Matthew had greeted one earlier, explaining to Lucie that he was an Irregular, one of the many Downworlder street urchins who ran errands out of the Devil Tavern. “There is something rather odd I wanted to talk to you about. Charles—well, Charles is always odd, but Charles and Grace—”
“James! Cordelia!” Lucie rose up on her toes, waving through the crowds. Her brother and Cordelia had alighted from their carriage some distance away and were walking toward them. They were clearly deep in conversation, their heads bent together as if they were exchanging secrets.
Lucie sank back down on her heels, a little puzzled. She rarely saw James lost in conversation with anyone other than his three closest friends.
“Interesting,” said Matthew, his green eyes narrowed. He raised a hand and waved, and this time James saw them. He and Cordelia darted through the crowds to catch them at the corner. L
ucie stared a little: Cordelia looked so very different out of the awful clothes her mother made her wear. She was in gear: a long tunic over boots and trousers, her red hair caught back in a braid, and a leather satchel over one shoulder. She looked even younger and prettier than she had at the Institute ball.
“It’s a boardinghouse,” said Matthew as soon as Cordelia and James were within earshot. “We’ve already been inside. The landlady said our friend Emmanuel Gast was ‘away from home for an indefinite period.’ ”
“Matthew was unable to charm her,” said Lucie. “The woman is a block of concrete in human form. We did manage to find out the flat’s the one on the third floor, though.”
A smile crept over James’s face. One of the things he enjoyed most about patrolling was clambering around rooftops. “Then we go up the side of the building.”
“I was afraid of this,” Matthew muttered as they followed James into a narrow, rubbish-choked alley. “My boots are new.”
“Stiffen your sinews, Matthew,” said James. “And cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”
“Shakespeare,” said Cordelia. “Henry V.”
“Well spotted,” said James, and produced a grappling hook. He threaded the end of a rope through and stood back to throw it. His aim, as always, was excellent: the grappling hook sank into the lintel of a third-floor window; the rope unfurled down the side of the building. “Once more unto the breach,” he announced, and began to climb.
James was followed up the rope by Cordelia, then Lucie, and Matthew last, still cursing the dirt on his boots. Lucie was halfway to the window when she heard a yell. Glancing down, she saw that Matthew was on his hands and knees in the alley. He must have fallen from the rope.
“Are you all right?” she asked in a loud whisper.
When he stood up, his hands were shaking. He deliberately avoided Lucie’s gaze as he caught at the rope. “I told you,” he said. “New boots.”
Lucie began to climb the rope again. James had reached the window: balanced on the lintel, he glanced around and kicked the window in; the whole thing collapsed inward, sash, glass, and all. He vanished inside, followed by Cordelia. Lucie and Matthew climbed in after them.
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