Chain of Iron Page 4

  “What’s she going to do?” said James. “And… where is she going to do it?”

  “In a large tank of water, one hopes,” said Christopher.

  “As for what she will do,” said Thomas, “something bohemian with bells and castanets and veils. I imagine.”

  Christopher seemed concerned. “Won’t the veils get wet?”

  “It will be an experience never to be forgotten,” Thomas went on. “So says Matthew. Surpassing beauty, and so on.”

  Without thinking, James found himself reaching for the silver bracelet on his wrist, running his fingers absentmindedly across its surface. He barely noticed its presence after all this time—Grace Blackthorn had entrusted him with it when he was only fourteen. But James had been trying hard not to think of Grace as his wedding approached.

  One year, James thought. He must put Grace out of his mind, for one more year. That was the promise they had made to each other. And he had promised Cordelia, as well, that he would not see Grace alone or behind her back: if anyone found out, she would be humiliated. The world must think their marriage was a marriage in truth.

  The thought of going through with his wedding to Cordelia while still wearing the bracelet made him ill at ease. He reminded himself to take it off, when he was back at home. Removing it might be a slight to Grace, but leaving it on felt like a slight to Cordelia. He had decided when it had all happened that he would not betray his wedding vows by word or deed. He might not be able to control his heart or his thoughts, but he could remove the bracelet. That much lay within his power.

  At the other side of the room, Polly was ordering around a small team of brownies. They had set up a stage at the far end of the room, on which sat, indeed, a large glass tank of water. A pair of brownies moved candelabras around to provide theatrical lighting, and others scampered about, clearing the floor to make way for an audience.

  The stairs rattled; Matthew was hurrying down, his bright hair the color of candlelight in the haze of the bar. He had taken off his jacket and was in shirtsleeves and a green-and-blue-striped waistcoat. He flipped himself over the staircase banister and landed on the stage. Standing behind the tank, he held up his hands for quiet.

  The din continued unabated, however, until the first Sid brought his massive fists together above his head and shouted, “Oi! Quiet or I’ll crush your mangy skulls!”

  “That’s right!” agreed the other Sid; apparently they had put their differences behind them.

  There was a fair bit of grumbling, and a nearby werewolf muttered, “Mangy! Well!” But eventually, the crowd quieted down.

  “Steady on,” James whispered. “How is a mermaid going to get down the stairs?”

  There was a pause, and Christopher, who had taken off his spectacles to clean them, said, “How did the mermaid get up the stairs?”

  Thomas shrugged.

  “Good evening, my friends!” Matthew called, to a smattering of polite applause. “Tonight we have something truly exceptional to present to you in honor of an old friend of the Devil. You have been kind enough to tolerate the presence of us Merry Thieves for several years now—”

  “We just thought you Shadowhunters were raiding the place,” Polly spoke up with a smirk, “and taking your time about it.”

  “Tomorrow, one of us—the first of us—marches to his doom and joins the ranks of you poor married sods,” Matthew continued. “But tonight, we send him off in style!”

  Hoots and cheers accompanied shouted jests and pounding on tables. A satyr and a squat horned creature near the front stood up and pantomimed a lewd embrace, until someone threw a sausage at them. At the piano, one of the hobgoblins struck up a light comic tune. Music filled the room, and Matthew held up his witchlight. Glimmering, it illuminated a figure descending the stairs.

  James wondered for a moment whether this was the first time someone had used a witchlight rune-stone as stage lighting before he realized what he was looking at and his mind went blank. Christopher made a small noise in the back of his throat, and Thomas stared wide-eyed.

  The mermaid had human legs. They were long and really quite shapely, James had to admit, loosely draped in diaphanous skirts made of woven exotic seaweeds.

  Unfortunately, from the waist up she was the front half of a gaping, staring fish. Her scales were shiny metallic silver and reflected the light in a way that almost, but not quite, distracted from her dinner-plate-size, unblinking yellow eyes.

  The audience went mad, cheering and hooting twice as loudly as before. One of the werewolves howled, “CLARIBELLA!” in a mournful, yearning voice.

  “May I present,” Matthew cried with a grin, “Claribella the Mermaid!”

  The crowd whistled and banged their approval. James, Christopher, and Thomas struggled to find words.

  “The mermaid’s backward,” said James, having regained some of his vocabulary—though perhaps not all of it.

  “Matthew hired a reverse mermaid,” Thomas agreed. “But why?”

  “I wonder what kind of fish she is,” said Christopher. “Are mermaids a specific kind of fish? Sharks, or herring, or such?”

  “I had kippers for breakfast this morning,” Thomas said sadly.

  The backward mermaid began to swing her hips side to side, with the ease of a practiced cabaret dancer. Her mouth bobbed open and closed in rhythm with the music. Her small fins, on either side of her body, flapped.

  To Matthew’s credit, the rest of the Devil Tavern crowd seemed to be unironic admirers of Claribella and her performance. When her dance was finished she retreated behind her tank, at least in part to protect herself from her most ardent devotees.

  “She does have a certain way about her,” Christopher said. He looked over at James hopefully. “Eh?”

  “We should have gone to the Pouncebys’ sledding party,” said James.

  “Perhaps a quiet evening upstairs?” said Thomas sympathetically. “I’ll cut a path through the crowd.”

  As they followed Thomas through the surge of Downworlders, Matthew, who had been selling tickets for private sessions with Claribella, saw them and leaped down from the stage.

  “Seeking the beautiful solace of solitude?” Matthew asked, taking James’s arm. He smelled like Matthew always did—cologne and brandy, singed with a bit of smoke and sawdust.

  “I’m going upstairs with the three of you,” said James. “I wouldn’t call that ‘solitude.’ ”

  “Quiet, then,” said Matthew. “ ‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time—’ ”

  As they reached the steps, Ernie the tavern owner jumped up on the stage and attempted to dance with Claribella—but with only a pair of stubby fins, she easily eluded him and leaped headfirst into the tub of gin inhabited by Pickles the kelpie. She emerged a second later, blowing a spout of gin as Pickles neighed in delight.

  They made it to their private rooms upstairs, Thomas bolting the doors firmly behind them. It was cold, and a steady leak was dripping water from the ceiling onto the worn carpets, but James found it a welcoming sight anyway. This was the headquarters of the Merry Thieves, their bolt-hole, their place away from the world, and the only place James wanted to be right now. The snow had picked up and was coming down in whirling white gusts against the leaded glass windows.

  As Thomas carried over an empty pot to catch the leak, Christopher knelt in front of the fireplace and examined the logs laid within it, damp with melted snow. He took an object from his pocket, a metal tube attached to a small glass flask—a delivery method for a chemical fire starter of his own invention that he had been working on in recent weeks. He threw a switch, and the flask filled up with a pinkish gas. There was a small pop and a brief flash of a flame shooting out the end of the tube, but it quickly extinguished itself and thick black smoke poured into the room.

  “I didn’t expect that,” Christopher said, trying to stopper the tube with the end of his handkerchief. James exchanged an exasperated look with
Matthew, and they ran to open the windows, coughing and gasping. Thomas grabbed a tattered book from the shelves and tried to fan the smoke toward the window. They opened the rest of the windows and doors and grabbed whatever was at hand to wave the acrid smoke around the room until it finally dissipated, leaving a bitter stench and a scattering of black soot on every surface.

  They slammed the windows closed. Thomas went into the adjoining room and returned with dry wood: this time, when Christopher tried to light the fire—with ordinary vesta matches—it caught. The four of them crowded around the circular table in the middle of the room, all shivering; Matthew caught James’s hands and chafed them between his own.

  “Well, this is a fine way to spend the eve of your wedding,” he said apologetically.

  “Nowhere I’d rather be,” James said, his teeth chattering. “You’re the only ones who know the truth about this wedding, for one thing.”

  “Thus freeing us from the usual expectation that this penultimate evening must be enjoyable,” Matthew said. He let go of James’s hands and set out four cups. Picking up the brandy bottle, he poured a measure into each.

  His tone was light, but there was an edge to his voice, and James wondered how much Matthew had had to drink before he’d even arrived at the tavern tonight.

  “The regulars seemed to enjoy Claribella’s performance,” Thomas said.

  “Did you know she was a reverse mermaid?” Christopher asked, his lilac eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

  “Er,” said Matthew, refilling his mug, “not as such, no. I mean, the booker said she was backward, but I just thought he meant she was poorly educated, and I didn’t wish to be a snob.”

  Thomas snorted.

  “You might have asked to see her before booking her,” James said. He took a sip from his mug; the brandy began warming up his insides as the fire, now crackling, had started to warm his outside.

  He’d meant it as a joke, but Matthew looked wounded. “I made an effort,” he protested. To Thomas and Christopher he said, “I didn’t hear any magnificent ideas from the rest of you for tonight.”

  “Only because you said you had it handled,” Thomas said.

  “The important thing,” Christopher said, looking alarmed at the potential for conflict, “is that we’re all together. And that we get James to the ceremony on time, of course.”

  “Of course, because the groom is champing at the bit to be married,” Matthew drawled, and they all looked at each other, as alarmed as Christopher. The four of them argued or fought very rarely, and James and Matthew almost never.

  Even Matthew seemed to realize his comment had cut too close, the skeleton of the truth gleaming like white bone through dirt. He pulled his flask from his coat and turned it upside down, but it was empty. He tossed it onto the nearby sofa and looked at James, his eyes bright.

  “Jamie,” he said. “My heart. My parabatai. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to go through with it. You know that, don’t you?”

  Both Christopher and Thomas sat motionless.

  “Cordelia—” James began.

  “Cordelia might not want this either,” said Matthew. “A sham marriage—not what a young girl dreams of, surely—”

  James stood up from the table. His heart beat a strange tattoo inside his chest. “In order to save me from being imprisoned by the Clave for arson, destruction of property, and the Angel knows what else, Cordelia lied for me. She said we spent the night together.” His tone was harsh, each word clear and precise. “You know what that means for a woman. She destroyed her own reputation for me.”

  “But it isn’t destroyed,” said Christopher. “You—”

  “Offered to marry her,” said James. “No, scratch that, I told her we were getting married. Because Cordelia would indeed be the first to turn away from such a union. She would never want me to do something I felt compelled to do, never want me to make myself unhappy for her sake.”

  “Are you?” Thomas’s eyes were clear and steady. “Making yourself unhappy for her?”

  “I would be more unhappy if she was ruined,” said James, “and I had the blame for it. A year of marriage to Daisy is a small price to pay to save us both.” He exhaled. “Remember? We all said it would be good fun? A lark?”

  “I suppose the closer it gets to the day, the more serious it seems,” said Christopher.

  “It is not a light business,” said Thomas. “The runes of marriage, the vows—”

  “I know,” said James, turning away toward the windows. Snow seemed to have swallowed all of London. They sat captured in a pinpoint of light and warmth, in the center of a world of ice.

  “And Grace Blackthorn,” said Matthew.

  A short silence followed. None of them had spoken Grace’s name in front of James since his and Cordelia’s engagement party, four months ago.

  “I don’t know what Grace thinks, actually,” said James. “She was very strange after the betrothal—”

  Matthew’s mouth twisted. “Even though she herself was already betrothed and had no business—”

  “Matthew,” Thomas said quietly.

  “I haven’t spoken with her for months,” James said. “Not a word.”

  “You haven’t forgotten that you burned down that house for her, have you?” Matthew said, refilling his cup.

  “No,” said James tightly. “But it doesn’t matter. I made a promise to Daisy, and I will keep that promise. If you wanted to prevent me from doing the right thing, you should have started the campaign quite a bit earlier than the night before my wedding.”

  Everything was very quiet for a moment. The four of them were still, barely breathing. Snow dashed itself against the panes in soft explosions of white. James could see himself reflected in the glass: his own dark hair, his pale face.

  At last Matthew said, “You are right, of course; it is only perhaps that we worry that you are too honest—too good, and goodness can be a blade sharp enough to cut, you know, just as much as evil intent.”

  “I am not as good as all that,” said James, turning away from the window—

  —and suddenly the room and his friends fell away, and he had the sensation of falling, twisting and turning through a long expanse of nothingness, though he was also standing still.

  He had landed on a hard patch of earth.

  No, not now, it can’t be. But as James got to his feet, he found himself in a barren wasteland, under a sky covered in ash. It wasn’t possible, he thought—he had seen this shadow realm fall apart, as Belial howled in rage.

  The last time he was in this place, he had watched Cordelia drive her sword into Belial’s chest. An image of her appeared unbidden in his mind, striking the blow, her sword out and her hair streaming, as if she were a goddess captured in a painting: Liberty or Victory leading the people.

  And then the world itself had yawned open as the sky split and red-black light fell upon the crumbling earth. And James had watched Belial’s face cave in and his body shatter into a thousand pieces.

  Belial wasn’t dead, but he had been so weakened by Cortana that Jem had said he would not be able to return for at least a hundred years. And certainly since that moment, all had been quiet. James had not seen his grandfather, nor a hint of his grandfather’s shadow realm. But who else but Belial could have drawn James here now?

  James spun around, narrowing his eyes. Something about this place, which he had seen so many times in dreams and visions, was different. Where were the piles of bleached bones, the dunes of sand, the twisted and gnarled trees? Far in the distance, across a desolate expanse of weed-choked scree, James saw the outline of a massive stone structure, a towering fortress rising above the plains.

  Only human hands—or intelligent ones, at least—could have built such things. James had never seen a hint of such history in the desolation of Belial’s realm.

  He took a cautious step, only to feel the air slam into him like a wave. He was blinded, forced choking to his knees, and yanked into a dept
hless blackness. He hurtled again through nothing, twisting and flailing until he landed roughly on a hard wooden floor.

  He forced himself up onto his elbows, inhaling the stink of burnt chemicals mixed with damp wool. He heard voices before his vision cleared, Matthew’s rising above the other two: “James? Jamie!”

  James coughed weakly. He tasted salt, and touched his mouth with his fingertips. They came away black and red. Hands caught his wrists; he was hauled up roughly, an arm around his back. Brandy and cologne.

  “Matthew,” he said, in a dry voice.

  “Water,” Christopher said. “Do we have any water?”

  “Never touch the stuff,” said Matthew, settling James onto the long sofa. He sat down next to him, staring so intently into James’s face that, despite everything, James had to stifle a laugh.

  “I’m fine, Matthew,” said James. “Also, I don’t know what you expect to discover by looking into my eyeball.”

  “I’ve got water,” said Thomas, pushing past Christopher to offer James a mug: James’s hands were shaking so badly that his first swallow went half down his windpipe, half down his shirtfront. Christopher pounded him on the back until he was able to gulp air and breathe, and drink properly.

  He set the empty mug on the arm of the sofa. “Thanks, Thomas—”

  He was caught, suddenly, in a fierce hug from Matthew. Matthew’s hands were tight on the back of his shirt, Matthew’s cold cheek against his. “You went shadowy,” Matthew said, his voice low, “as if you were going to disappear, as if I’d wished you gone and you were vanishing—”

  James drew back enough to smooth Matthew’s hair away from his forehead. “Have you wished me gone?” he said teasingly.

  “No. Only I wish myself gone, sometimes,” Matthew said in a whisper, and it was that rarest of things where Matthew was concerned, an entirely true statement with no mockery or teasing or humor to be had.

  “Never wish that,” James said, and sat back enough to see the other two Merry Thieves, and their worried expressions. “I turned into a shadow?”