Chain of Gold

by Cassandra Clare

  “You don’t understand,” Grace cried. “You can’t. You don’t know—”

  “Then tell me. What is it? What don’t I know?”

  Her voice was hoarse. “I must have you do this for me, James,” she said. “I must. It is so important. More than you can know. Only say you will. Only say it.”

  It seemed almost as if she were begging him to say it even if he did not mean it, but what would be the point of that? No. She must want him to mean it. To be willing to do it: risk the end of the only life he knew, risk never seeing any of those he loved again. He closed his eyes and saw, against the backs of his eyelids, the faces of his parents. His sister. Jem. Thomas. Christopher. Matthew. Matthew, who he would be damaging in a way that might never be repaired.

  He struggled to say the words, to shape them. When he finally spoke, his voice was as hoarse as if he had been screaming. “No. I cannot do it.”

  He saw her flinch back. “This is because you did not come to Idris,” she said, her lips trembling. “At the beginning of this summer. You—you forgot me.”

  “I could never have forgotten you. Not after weeks, or months, or years, Grace.”

  “Any man would marry me,” she went on. “Any man would do this if I asked him. But not you. You have to be different.” Her mouth twisted. “You are made of different stuff than other men.”

  James flung up a hand in protest. “Grace, I do want to marry you—”

  “Not enough.” She took a step back from him—then her eyes widened suddenly, and she screamed. James’s body moved faster than thought. He flung himself at Grace and they both hit the pavement hard. Grace gasped and pressed herself against the river wall as a demon shot past them, a hairbreadth away.

  And it was a demon. A dark, twisted shape like a mangled tree root, eyeless and noseless but with thorn-sharp brown teeth, its body coated with black slime. It had no wings, but long, bent legs like a frog’s: it sprang at them again, and this time James yanked a blade from his belt and flung it. Runes flashed across the blade like fire as it sailed through the air and struck, nearly blowing apart the demon’s chest. Ichor splattered, and it vanished back to its own dimension.

  Grace had scrambled to her feet; he pulled her up the steps and onto the bridge, for a better vantage point. “A Cerberus demon,” she said, blinking. “But it was dead—the one in the greenhouse was dead—that’s why I thought I could leave—” She sucked in her breath. “Oh, God. There are more of them coming.”

  She thrust out her hands as if she could push them away. They were coming, indeed: dark shapes were appearing through the fog from the middle of the bridge, crawling and leaping like hellish frog-monsters, slithering and slipping across the wet road. As one hopped toward them, it shot out a long, black, sticky tongue, snatched up an unfortunate pigeon, and deposited the bird into its fanged mouth.

  James fired off throwing knives: one, two, three times. Every time, a demon fell. He pressed a knife into Grace’s hand, his eyes entreating her—she backed up against the railing of the bridge, the blade gripped in her shaking hand. A demon reached for her and she stabbed out; it made an eerie howling sound as black-red ichor streamed from its shoulder. It hopped away from her, hissing, and lunged again. She ducked. James flung a knife and destroyed the thing, but he knew he was nearly out of blades. When they were gone, he would have only one weapon left: a seraph blade.

  It would not be enough to protect himself and Grace. Nor could they run. The demons would easily catch them.

  Two creatures dived for them. James hurled his last blade, dispatching one Cerberus demon in a rain of ichor. The other fell beside it, cloven in two by a dainty throwing axe.

  James froze. He knew that axe.

  Whirling, he saw Lucie running full tilt toward him from the road. And she was not alone.

  Cordelia was there, Cortana gleaming in her hand. Matthew was beside her, armed with Indian chalikars: circular throwing knives edged with razor-sharp steel. Then came Christopher with two crackling seraph blades and Thomas, wielding his bolas. One flick of the ropes, and one twist of Thomas’s powerful arm, and a demon sailed clear off the bridge and into the river.

  Alastair Carstairs was also with them. As James stared, he leaped onto the iron railing of the bridge, balancing just as James and Matthew had once done in practice. A long-bladed spear was in his hand. Two sweeps sliced one of the creatures in half. It exploded into nothingness, splattering Alastair with ichor, which struck James as a positive development on two fronts. Alastair leaped down from the railing with a disgusted noise, and charged into the fray.

  As the Shadowhunters spread out around them, a cry rose from the demons—a thick, clogged sound. If a corpse rotting in the dirt had a sound, James thought, that was what it would have been. He sprang backward, swung around, and delivered a spinning kick to an oncoming demon. There was a blur of gold, and the demon vanished; James looked up to see Cordelia standing over him, Cortana in her hand. Its blade was smeared with demon blood.

  There was no time to thank her. Another demon lunged; James seized his seraph blade. “Zerachiel!” he cried, and the blade became a wand of fire.

  His friends were in the thick of battle—save Grace, who had backed away, clutching the dagger. James spared a bitter thought for Tatiana, who had never been willing to let Grace train to fight, before spinning to fend off a reaching demon. Before he could, a crackling seraph blade sliced sideways into the creature’s flesh. It hopped back, hissing like a pot on the boil, leaving James with a clear line of sight to Christopher. He stood holding the seraph blade, which sputtered like a frying potato.

  “Christopher,” said James, “what is that thing?”

  “A seraph blade! I have tried to enhance it with electricity!”

  “Does that work?”

  “Not at all,” confessed Christopher, just as a demon flew shrieking at his face. He stabbed it, but his seraph blade leaped with an erratic line of fire. Lucie and Thomas were both there before the demon could touch Christopher, Lucie’s axe and Thomas’s bolas almost meeting in the creature’s flesh. It winked out of existence, but another took its place immediately, rising above them like a menacing cloud.

  Abandoning the seraph blade, Christopher seized a dagger from the inside of his waistcoat and stabbed it into the creature. It staggered back, just at the moment that a long spear soared through the fog and slammed into it. It folded like a letter and vanished, leaving a smear of ichor behind.

  James looked over wildly and saw Alastair Carstairs, holding a matching spear in his left hand and looking thoughtfully at the spot from which the demon had just vanished.

  “You’re carrying spears?” James demanded.

  “I never leave the house without my spears!” cried Alastair, causing them all to stare, even Grace.

  James had questions, but no chance to ask them. He heard his sister shout, and he dashed forward only to find Lucie and Cordelia fighting back-to-back, a dagger in Lucie’s hand and Cortana in Cordelia’s. Cortana formed a wide golden sweep, and every creature who managed to sneak past Cordelia’s guard, Lucie stabbed. Matthew stood atop the railing, hurling one chalikar after another to provide cover for the girls.

  A demon loomed suddenly behind Thomas, whose bolas was wrapped around another demon: possibly around its throat, though with these creatures it was hard to tell.

  “Lightwood!” shouted Alastair. “Behind you!”

  James knew it was Alastair, because nobody else would be such a fool as to shout that in the middle of a fight. Of course Christopher turned, and of course Thomas, who the shout was aimed at, did not. James dived for Thomas, rolling on the ground to reach him faster, just as the demon lunged. Its teeth and claws raked Thomas’s arm, drawing blood. There was no room for Thomas to use his bolas. He yelled and punched the demon: it staggered and James, rising to his feet, stabbed it through the back.

  But there was no time to rest: more demons had come. Matthew leaped down from the railing and ran toward them.
He threw himself to the ground and slid the last few feet across the wet pavement—a great sacrifice for Matthew, who loved his clothes—hurling a chalikar into the mass of demons. One went down, but there seemed a dozen others. Alastair was hurling spears with deadly accuracy, Cordelia was laying about her with Cortana like a warrior goddess. They were all fighting well, and yet—

  The largest demon rose up in front of James. Without a second’s hesitation, he plunged his seraph blade into the creature. Ichor splashed black against his hand, spattering the ground at his feet. The demon gurgled and seemed to crumple, its froglike legs giving out under it. James raised his blade to dispatch it, just as it looked up at him with its deadly black eyes.

  He saw himself reflected in those eyes as if they were mirrors. He saw his own black hair, his pale face, the gold of his pupils. He saw the same expression he had seen on the face of the Deumas in the alleyway near Fleet Street.

  Recognition.

  “Herondale boy,” the demon said, in a voice like the last hiss of dying fire in a grate. “I know you. I know all about you. The blood of demons burns in your veins. Why would you slay those who worship your mother’s father? Why destroy your own kind?”

  James froze. He could see several of the others twist to look over at him: Matthew looked furious, the others horrified. Lucie had her hand over her mouth. Alastair, who stood the closest to him, was staring with wide dark eyes.

  James exhaled a shuddering breath. “I am not your kind,” he said.

  “You do not know what you are.”

  Enough, James thought. This is enough. “If you worship my grandfather,” he said savagely, “then go, in his name. Not back to Chiswick House—back to the dimension you came from.”

  The demon hesitated, and as it did, all the other demons went still. Every figure at the riverside was turned toward James.

  “We will go, then, as you say, to show that we honor your blood,” said the demon. “But there is one condition. If you or your friends speak a word of what happened here, tonight, to any member of the Clave, we will return. And your families will pay in blood and death for your betrayal.”

  “Don’t you dare—!” James began.

  The demon grinned. “In the name of Hell’s most cunning prince,” it said, in a voice so low only James could hear it.

  Then it vanished—they all vanished. As quickly as the world had exploded into motion and noise, it went still again. James could hear the river, the harsh breath of Alastair nearby, the pounding of his own heart.

  He dropped his still-burning blade to the ground. He saw Lucie and Cordelia lower their weapons. Thomas and Matthew staggered to their feet; there was a cut along Matthew’s face, and Thomas’s shirt was torn, his arm bleeding badly.

  They were all staring at James. He felt numb.

  He had known his grandfather was a Greater Demon. But Princes of Hell were another matter. They were fallen angels. As powerful as Raziel, but evil and rotten to the core.

  Hell’s most cunning prince. He couldn’t help but look at Lucie, but it was clear she hadn’t heard the demon’s final words: she was smiling and saying something to Cordelia.

  Demons lied. Why should Lucie have to torment herself over a possible untruth? His mind raced ahead: he had to talk to Uncle Jem again, as soon as possible. Jem was the one who had been looking for their grandfather. Jem would know what to do.

  It was Christopher who broke the silence. “What just happened?”

  “Demons vanished,” said Matthew, dabbing blood from his face. “The leader seemed to feel it was an old friend of James’s grandfather.”

  “Oh, the demony grandfather?” said Christopher.

  “Yes, obviously the demony one, Christopher,” said James.

  “The other one’s Welsh,” said Thomas, as if this explained things. He directed this statement in Alastair and Cordelia’s direction.

  “No need to explain about Herondale,” said Alastair, with an unpleasant smile. “I imagine this happens to him fairly often.”

  Cordelia stepped on his foot.

  Grace had emerged from the shadows. She walked toward the rest of the group, her hands clasped in front of her, her face white and stiff. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to fight—”

  “It’s all right,” James said, “it’s all right, we’ll get you trained properly—”

  “James! Grace!” It was Lucie. She gestured toward the road; a second later James heard jingling, and saw an old-fashioned pony trap emerging from the fog, drawn by two scrawny brown horses. Sitting in the trap was Tatiana Blackthorn.

  She pulled up short and leaped down from the carriage. As always, she presented a bizarre appearance: she was wearing a costume with full skirts and fussy lace, a dress from another age made for a much younger and plumper girl. On her head was a hat piled high with false fruit and stuffed birds. It trembled with her rage as she raked the group with her furious gaze, which came to rest on her daughter.

  “Grace,” she snapped. “Get into the trap. Now.”

  Grace turned to James; her face was white. In a low voice, he said, “You do not need to do as she says. Come back to the Institute with me. I beg of you.”

  Grace’s face was still tearstained, but her expression had closed like a bank vault. “James. I cannot. Walk me to the carriage, please.”

  James hesitated.

  “Please,” she said. “I mean what I say.”

  Reluctantly, James held out his arm for Grace to take. He saw Tatiana’s lips tighten into a thin line. James waited for her to snap, but she stayed silent: she had clearly not expected so many Shadowhunters there. And so many from the families she hated—Herondales, Lightwoods, Carstairs… she would wish to be gone as soon as possible, James suspected.

  She glared daggers at James as he walked to the carriage, supporting Grace on his arm. He helped her in, and she sank back against the seat, her eyes closing wearily. James wished he could say something to her about the argument they’d had earlier. He and Grace had never argued before. He wanted to beg her not to go back to Chiswick House, but he suspected it would only make things worse for her if he did.

  “I will write to you tomorrow,” he began.

  “No,” Grace said through white lips. “No. I require some time, James. I will write to you.”

  “That’s enough,” hissed Tatiana, shooing James away from the carriage. “Leave my daughter alone, Herondale. I don’t need you luring her into trouble—”

  “The only trouble we encountered was your family’s Cerberus demons,” said James in a low, furious tone. “I suggest you cease with your threats, unless you wish me to tell the Clave about them.”

  He couldn’t tell anyone, of course, given the demon’s threat, but Tatiana didn’t know that. Not that it mattered. A low chuckle bubbled its way up from her throat. “My demons?” she echoed. “And where are they now, Herondale?”

  “Dead,” James said shortly. “We killed them.”

  “How impressive,” she said. “Tattle away, boy. I’ll tell the Clave Grace raised the demons herself. I’ll tell them she’s deep in black magic studies up to her pretty little ears. I’ll turn her loose and throw her back on their mercy with her reputation stained forever. I’ll ruin her life, if you want to play that game.” She jabbed a finger toward his chest. “You care, Herondale. That is your weakness.”

  James stepped back in revulsion as Tatiana clambered into the trap. A moment later it was rattling off down the road, the ponies snorting and the reins jangling.

  * * *

  There was a long and awkward silence as the group of Shadowhunters watched the Blackthorn carriage vanish into the fog.

  “Well,” said Alastair at last. “I think it’s time for Cordelia and I to be going.”

  “I cannot go yet,” said Cordelia. She held out her arm and saw her brother’s eyes widen. A long, bloody cut ran from her elbow to her wrist. She had barely felt it during the battle, but it was beginning to sting. “I need a healing rune. If I
return home like this, Mother will faint.”

  “Several of us are wounded,” said Christopher. “Unless we want to explain what happened here, and it seems that would be a bad idea, we should probably apply iratzes.” He turned to Thomas. “I will do yours.”

  “Please don’t,” said Thomas. Christopher did not always have the best of luck with runes.

  “Oh, bloody hell, I’ll do it,” said Alastair, and stomped heavily over to Thomas’s side. Thomas watched in what seemed to be shock as Alastair produced a stele and began to draw on the bare skin of his arm where his shirt had been torn.

  Beside Cordelia, Lucie produced her stele with a flourish. “Our first healing rune!” she announced, putting the tip of the stele to Cordelia’s wrist. “A historic moment for a pair of soon-to-be-famous parabatai.”

  “I hate to seem ungrateful for the assistance,” said James. “But what on earth brought you all here? How did you know what was going to happen?”

  “I heard about the Cerberus from Jess—Jessamine,” said Lucie, putting the finishing touches on Cordelia’s rune. They were both leaning against the low wall that ran along the Embankment. “Ghosts, they gossip.” She repeated for James the story she’d told the rest of them on the way to Chelsea, finishing with: “So, it seems the demon you killed in the greenhouse had time to multiply, and the new demons came looking for Grace when she left Chiswick.”

  “There were certainly a lot of them,” said Cordelia. “Much worse than just the one in the greenhouse.”

  “Perhaps they all had secret assignations with Grace,” said Lucie.

  Alastair snorted. “That Blackthorn woman must be mad, letting Cerberus demons run wild in her shrubberies,” he said, putting his stele away. Thomas touched his own arm with a sort of wondering look; his wound was already beginning to close up. Alastair might be snappish, but he was handy with a stele.

  James and Matthew had sat down on the ground so James could properly steady Matthew’s face with his hand. He drew an iratze lightly on his cheek while Matthew squirmed and complained. “It’s hard to say how much she knew,” James said. “I’m sure she was aware of the original demon in the greenhouse, but likely not its vengeful progeny.”