Anna and Matthew looked pained.
“Magnus Bane would help them,” said Hypatia, the stars in her eyes sparkling. “That is why they have come. Magnus has made them believe a warlock will always help them.”
“Magnus is not here,” said Malcolm. His gaze was distant. “I bear you no ill will, child, but I loved a Shadowhunter once and it brought me only sorrow.”
“She became an Iron Sister, and broke his heart,” said Hypatia.
“Oh,” said Cordelia, surprised. The Iron Sisters were even more secretive than the Silent Brothers. Stern and removed, they shaped adamas into runed weapons for the Nephilim from their hidden fortress. They had done so for a thousand years. Like the Silent Brothers, they did not marry, and held the responsibility of placing protective spells on Shadowhunter babies when they were born. No one not of their sisterhood was allowed in the Adamant Citadel. Only women could choose to be Iron Sisters, though it seemed as lonely to Cordelia as Silent Brotherhood. “That seems very sad.”
“Indeed,” said Malcolm. “Our kind and yours are best apart, whatever Bane might say.”
“I have not met Bane,” said Hypatia, tapping her golden fingernails together. “Before he last left London he helped the Nephilim, but do they recall his graciousness, or do they only expect help at the first sign of trouble? I let you come to my salon because you amuse me, Matthew Fairchild. Because you are a child—a silly and beautiful child, who touches the fire because it is lovely, and forgets that it will burn him. Do not presume that means you can ask for favors.”
“It might be amusing for you to find out what it is they want,” suggested Anna.
“As if you don’t already know,” said Hypatia, but the look she gave Anna was a fond one, and Anna smiled.
“What if we did something for you?” Cordelia said. Arabella was making the rounds, setting her flower-bedecked drinks in front of the warlocks. Malcolm lifted his and eyed it as if he were hoping to find solace at the bottom. Hastily, Cordelia said, “What if I saved your lives?”
This time they didn’t laugh. They simply stared. “Charming,” Hypatia said. “But we are not in any danger.”
“I disagree,” said Cordelia.
She drew Cortana. Every glittering light in the room caught fire along the blade.
Cordelia struck Hypatia’s crystal flute with a sweep of her blade. The flute exploded, sending glass and wine in all directions. Arabella gave an indignant scream and Cordelia swung the sword to point directly at her.
“It’s a pity,” Cordelia said. “I’ve never met a mermaid before. I wish you hadn’t turned out to be a poisoner.”
Matthew, who had already drained his glass, set it down on the table with a loud thump. “Poison?”
“Only for the warlocks,” said Cordelia. “It was them she was trying to kill.”
Hypatia sounded outraged. “May I ask where you came to this wild conclusion?”
“My mother knows a great deal about medicinal plants, and she shared her knowledge with me,” said Cordelia. “There is a plant cultivated by the mermaids, an underwater variety of deadly nightshade, which they will not sell even at the Shadow Markets. One taste is death. I saw her sprinkle those blossoms in your cups.”
Malcolm Fade waved a hand over his own cup. Purple sparks woke and danced in his glass. The red wine stain on the carpet unfurled like a flower and turned to purple smoke. Hypatia looked at the broken flute as if it had turned into a rat.
“I was a child in Cornwall long ago, where Atropa belladonna grows wild,” said Malcolm quietly. “I am an expert in the uses of deadly nightshade, and I have seen its cousin deadly nightsea before. Miss Carstairs is right. She has saved our lives.”
“Seize the mermaid,” Hypatia said between her teeth.
Anna was already up and out of her chair, dagger in hand, her movements light as a cat’s. Arabella was fumbling in her bodice, her teeth bared, but Anna caught at her wrist, twisting it hard. An item fell from Arabella’s fingers and rolled upon the golden carpet: it was the horn of a sea creature, sharpened to a deadly point.
“Let me end my life,” Arabella hissed, writhing, but Anna continued to hold her prisoner with an arm about her neck. Runes flared along Anna’s bare, slender arm; the dagger in her other hand glimmered like diamonds. “Let me die with honor as sea people do.”
“Honor? There is no honor in poison. It is a coward’s trick,” said Hypatia. “You intended to poison me and Malcolm Fade. And to what end? What power do you seek?”
“She seeks revenge,” said Malcolm. “I have heard of you, Arabella. You considered yourself insulted by the Nephilim years ago. It must have been a much greater matter than any of us realized, for when Hypatia told you they were here tonight you sought to pay them back.” His eyes narrowed. “Hypatia and I would have been dead—warlocks poisoned by Shadowhunters, you would claim. Every Downworlder in London would have been after Nephilim blood.”
Her face like stone, Hypatia picked up a small golden bell and shook it; the ringing echoed through the room. A blue-skinned faerie girl with foxgloves in her hair popped her head in through the door. “You rang, mistress?”
Hypatia’s mouth was a tight line. “Hyacinth. Have the guards take this mermaid away and put her in the wine cellar.”
“Please reconsider putting a poisoner in the wine cellar,” said Matthew. “I beg of you, for the sake of my future visits.”
Hypatia waved a hand. “Put her in the Whispering Room, then. She shouldn’t be able to cause any trouble there; we’ll take her to the Spiral Labyrinth shortly.”
“And then?” said Cordelia as two trolls wearing coats with gold braid entered, detached Arabella from Anna’s grip, and escorted the hissing mermaid out of the room. “What happens to her?”
“A trial,” said Hypatia. “A Downworlder matter of no interest to you. It will be fair. Downworlders are always fair.”
“Then you should have little issue with offering Cordelia assistance,” said Anna, brushing dust from her cuffs. “As she saved your life.”
“Anna is right,” said Malcolm. “A debt is a debt. What is it you wish for help with, Nephilim?”
Cordelia let Matthew tell the tale; the picnic, James’s vision of the shadow realm, the demons who came in daylight, the wounded Shadowhunters, and the poison the Silent Brothers could not cure.
“Your friend saw a shadow land nobody else can see?” said Hypatia. “Is he the child of the shape-changing warlock girl, and the Shadowhunter mad enough to marry her? I knew that would be trouble.”
Matthew looked furious. Cordelia said, “He can indeed see what others cannot. It is a rare talent.”
“So this is a kind of demon that comes in daylight,” said Malcolm. “And transmits a poison your scholars have never seen before.”
“If such demons were free in London, it would not be good for anyone,” said Anna.
“Of course, all demons come from other worlds,” said Hypatia. “But if you think that as the children of demons we are intimately familiar with their geography and those who dwell in them, you are quite mistaken.”
“We are not insulting you, Miss Vex,” said Cordelia. “But you have your ear to the ground of Downworld. Nothing happens in it that you do not know. If there was other word of these strange demons…”
“There is not,” Hypatia said firmly. “All discussion has been about the lack of demons in London, in fact, and how strange it is.”
“Ragnor called it ‘the calm before the storm,’ but he is a doomsayer at the best of times,” said Malcolm.
“Well, they seem to be returning,” said Anna. “A cluster of Shax demons appeared in Seven Dials just the other day.”
“And Deumas demons were encountered in the City,” Matthew added. “Nasty, messy sorts of creatures.”
Hypatia and Malcolm exchanged a look. Demons were everyone’s problem, Downworlders and Shadowhunters alike. A single attack against Shadowhunters by unknown creatures was one thing, but Shax and Deum
as demons were indiscriminate killers.
“There was a rumor,” said Malcolm, “though it was only a rumor, mind, that some sort of powerful individual—a warlock, perhaps—put out the word among the demon groups that London was to be avoided.”
“Since when have demons ever listened to anyone?” inquired Anna.
Malcolm shrugged. “As I said, a rumor. Besides, in such a situation, it seems wise to leave well enough alone.”
“The time for leaving well enough alone has passed,” said Cordelia. “These sunlight demons may be a harbinger of worse to come for us all; surely we should work together to discover if that is the case?”
“I detest it when Shadowhunters make sense.” Hypatia sighed. “Ragnor Fell is back in London, and he has often worked with Shadowhunters in the past. He knows a great deal about demon worlds, having made himself a student of dimensional magic. If there is a dimension that breeds demons who can withstand sunlight, he would know about it.”
“It does seem a place to start. How do we find him?” said Matthew.
“I will send him an urgent message,” said Hypatia. “He will contact you.” She sank back into her chair. “Now go,” she said, closing her starry eyes. “I find myself weary of angels.”
There seemed little else to say. Matthew, Anna, and Cordelia made their way back through the main room of the salon, where a vampire was reciting poetry about blood. In moments they had reached Berwick Street and the outside world: Cordelia inhaled lungfuls of cool night air. It tasted of dirt and city.
“Nephilim!” It was the blue-skinned faerie girl Hypatia had called Hyacinth. She looked around at the city in distaste before handing Matthew a velvet-wrapped bundle. “Fade wished you to have this,” she said. “He is grateful for what you all did. What did you do?” she added curiously. “I’ve never heard of a warlock being grateful before.”
Anna winked at her. “I’ll tell you the story in a moment.”
Cordelia and Matthew looked at Anna in surprise. Hyacinth blushed and giggled her way back down the alley.
“I’m going to linger a bit longer,” Anna said, with a catlike stretch. “You two can take the carriage; I’ll make my own way home.”
Matthew pulled back a corner of the velvet. Folded gently within were perhaps a half-dozen blades of fine and careful faerie workmanship.
Matthew whistled. “A real gift.” He looked at Cordelia with admiration, his bronze hair gleaming in the naphtha light. “I would never have guessed Arabella was engaged in poisoning.”
“I told you earlier,” said Anna, gesturing for the carriage. “I never do court dull girls.”
DAYS PAST: PARIS, 1902
“You must go to Paris,” Matthew had said to Thomas the day before Thomas left for Madrid. He, James, and Matthew were sprawled in their chairs in the Devil Tavern, waiting for Christopher. “If you are finally getting to flee this dull island for someplace cultured, you must go to Paris first.”
“It’s not on the way to Spain,” Thomas had said. “And that will be plenty of excitement for me.”
“Nonsense,” said Matthew. “Only Paris is like Paris. And you must stay in my absolutely favorite digs, the Hotel d’Alsace. On the Left Bank. Everyone calls it L’Hotel.”
“Doesn’t that just mean ‘the hotel’ in French?” James had said, barely looking up from his book.
“That’s because it’s the hotel where anybody who is anybody stays.”
“I’m not anybody,” Thomas had protested.
“Oscar Wilde stayed there,” said James. “When Matthew says ‘anybody,’ that’s usually who he means.”
“Not only Oscar Wilde,” Matthew had said. “But yes, Oscar Wilde. He died there.”
“I trust you’ll have a more pleasant time,” said James.
Thomas really had intended to confine his travels to Spain, but Matthew’s words had stuck with him, and when the head of the Madrid Institute had suggested that Thomas take two weeks off to see a bit more of the world, Thomas had recalled Matthew’s promises that the whole world would be changed in his eyes after he had beheld the City of Lights.
L’Hotel felt like being in someone’s home, albeit someone a bit scruffy. It was in the sixth arrondissement, which on the whole had a friendly but slightly shabby feeling. It was full of mundanes who were attending the Sorbonne nearby, and Thomas found it easy to feel part of the crowd as he strode the neighborhood streets at sunset, thinking about where to dine. He declined to check in with the Paris Institute, saw only a bare handful of Downworlders, and set out to enjoy himself.
Unfortunately, Thomas had grown used to being in easy reach of his closest friends, and even the Madrid Institute was a lively place where company was always close at hand. The solitude quickly began to wear on him. Here he knew no one and spoke essentially none of the language. Whole days passed where his only conversation was with a waiter, or a museum employee, or the desk clerk at L’Hotel.
He grew lonely, and in his loneliness he grew bored. He dutifully went to the Louvre and had thoughts about what he saw, but nobody to share them with. He wrote them down in a notebook and wondered if he would ever look at it again. He counted the days until he returned to Spain, wondering how to tell Matthew that the city itself was not enough of a companion to satisfy him.
And then, unaccountably, he saw someone he knew.
Not a friend. Alastair Carstairs was definitely not a friend. But more than an acquaintance, surely. They’d been at the Academy together. Where Carstairs had been, not to put too fine a point on it, awful. He had been one of the “mean boys,” the ones who played cruel and dangerous pranks. The ones who identified any other boy’s quality that stood out and made sure to hammer it down with the force of their contempt and their laughter. In Thomas’s case, that had been his size. He was short for his age, and narrow-shouldered, and he looked younger than he was.
Of course, that had been years ago. Thomas now towered above most people. In fact, he only spotted Alastair because he could see over the heads of the crowd between them.
Matthew had directed Thomas to Librairie Galignani, on the Rue de Rivoli, as a must-visit location—“It’s the oldest English-language bookshop on the whole continent!” Thomas lingered over books of poetry, allowing himself to take a long time to decide what to buy. And then Alastair appeared.
Thomas hadn’t decided yet whether to acknowledge Alastair, but he wasn’t given much choice. Alastair was staring directly at him. As Thomas watched, Alastair’s face went through a series of expressions: mild recognition, confusion, shock, exasperation, long-suffering forbearance.
Thomas gave him a little wave.
Alastair pushed his way through the people between them. “By the Angel, Lightwood,” he said. “You’ve become gigantic.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. A few other people nearby did as well.
“This is your revenge, I suppose,” Alastair went on, as if Thomas had done this to him personally, “for all the times I called you ‘wee little Thomas’ or ‘half pint’ or—I can’t remember, I’m sure I had something cutting and witty to say.”
“What are you doing in Paris?” Thomas said.
“What are you doing in Paris?” Alastair said back in a superior tone, as though he’d caught Thomas at something.
“I’m on holiday from my travel year in Spain.”
Alastair nodded. A silence fell. Thomas began to panic. They were not friends. What Thomas knew about Alastair was mostly negative. He did not know what his duties were here.
He was thinking of ways to politely excuse himself, perhaps by fleeing the bookstore and returning some hours later, when Alastair spoke up. “Do you want to come to the Louvre, then? I’m going over there after this.”
Thomas could have said, I’ve been already, thanks, or Actually, I have a pressing lunch engagement, but he didn’t. He had been alone for days. He said, “All right.”
So they went. It was crowded, and Alastair was grumpy about it, but he didn’t take
it out on Thomas. He didn’t belittle the art. He didn’t speak in rapturous tones, either; to Thomas’s surprise, Alastair seemed content to place himself before a work of art and simply behold it for a long moment, letting it wash over his senses. His face was serious, his brow wrinkled, but Thomas was sure that it was the most content he had ever seen Alastair.
For his part, Thomas had visited this very museum and had assembled a number of, he thought, insightful observations about a number of pieces. He shared a few of these with Alastair, tentatively. He waited for Alastair to scoff, but Alastair just acknowledged Thomas’s comments with a nod. Thomas had no reason to like Alastair, had in fact every reason to dislike Alastair, but in these small moments standing next to one another in the presence of a beautiful object, he was glad Alastair was there, and Alastair’s acknowledgment of him, however small, made him feel better than he had since he’d arrived in Paris.
Maybe he had changed, Thomas thought. Maybe everyone grew up sooner or later. Maybe he had not even been that bad in the first place.
He thought back to his time at the Academy and decided that, no, Alastair had definitely been terrible in the first place. But he seemed calmer now, more thoughtful.
After they left the museum, Thomas and Alastair went for a walk along the Seine. Alastair wanted to know all about Madrid, and Thomas was even able to rise some stories from Alastair about his time in Damascus, and Morocco, and Paris itself. Having grown up in Idris and London, Thomas felt that Alastair must be very worldly. And yet he wondered if so much relocation would make a person lonely.
The Eiffel Tower rose in front of them, and Alastair gestured at it. “Have you been up there yet?”
“I have,” Thomas answered. “The view is stunning.”
“What do you think of the view from here?” Alastair asked.
Thomas had the distinct feeling that a trap was being laid for him, but he wasn’t sure why, or how to avoid stepping into it. “I think it’s a fascinating structure,” he said. “There’s nothing like it.”
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