Chain of Gold

by Cassandra Clare

  Those moments in the Whispering Room with Cordelia had been like nothing else in his life. No other experience was comparable, and certainly no moment with Grace. But what did that say about him? Hadn’t he loved Grace, and wasn’t love the same as desire? Didn’t the one grow from the other? And he couldn’t love Cordelia. It wasn’t possible for him to have been in love with Grace mere days ago and have transferred his affections so quickly.

  He wished to talk to Cordelia, desperately, but what on earth would he say? He couldn’t tell her he loved her, but neither could he express regret for what had happened the night before. If he had to choose between a long life of peace and happiness and another five minutes like the ones he’d spent with Cordelia in the Whispering Room, he dared not guess what he would choose.

  “Are you all right?” To James’s surprise, Magnus had joined him as they passed the church of St. Margaret Pattens. “I have to admit,” Magnus added, “I had been hoping to talk to you tonight, so perhaps this development is fortuitous.”

  “Why would you be hoping to talk to me?” James slid his hands into the pockets of his gear jacket. It buttoned closely to the body, allowing for ease of movement while fighting. “If you are concerned that I have continued my career of shooting chandeliers, you will be relieved to know that according to the Clave, I have moved on to vandalizing greenhouses.”

  Magnus merely raised an eyebrow. “Henry,” he said. “Before he went to Idris, he sent me a vial of dirt to analyze. Said he couldn’t make head or tail of it. He also said you gave it to him.”

  James had nearly forgotten that Magnus and Henry were good friends and had, famously, invented the magic that powered Portals together. “And?” he said cautiously.

  “It’s strange stuff,” Magnus said. “In fact, it isn’t from this world.”

  They had reached the bottom of Great Tower Street and were nearing the Tower of London. Flags waved from the turrets of the White Tower, backlit dimly against the last fitful gleams of the setting sun. Magnus nimbly avoided a group of tourists with box cameras and steered James down Tower Hill, a hand on his shoulder.

  James lowered his voice, though the others were a distance away. Matthew, who was carrying the Pyxis, had stopped to point out something about the Tower to Cordelia. “What do you mean?”

  “You know that there are other realms,” said Magnus. “Other worlds than this.”

  Think of the universe then as like a honeycomb, each of its chambers a different realm. So some chambers lie next to one another. “Demons come from them, yes. They travel through the dimensions to reach our world and others.”

  Magnus nodded. “There are some worlds ruled by demons, usually Greater Demons. Those worlds can be imbued with the very essence of those creatures. The dirt you gave Henry comes from one such place. A dimension under the power of the demon Belphegor.”

  “Belphegor?” The name was immediately familiar. “He’s one of the Princes of Hell, isn’t he?”

  “I know what you’re thinking about,” said Magnus, tapping his walking stick against the cobblestones. “Jem also contacted me about you. All roads lead to James Herondale these days, it seems.”

  James rubbed his cold hands together. The wind off the river was sharp. “Jem contacted you?”

  “About your grandfather,” said Magnus. “He told me that he was a Prince of Hell.” He glanced at the darkening sky. “You are wondering now if it might be Belphegor because the realm that you visit belongs to him.”

  “Wouldn’t that make a kind of sense?” said James.

  “It might. It might mean nothing at all. I can tell you that there is no record of anyone sighting Belphegor in more than a century.” Magnus hesitated. “Jem told me you were desperate to know who your grandfather is. My own father is a Prince of Hell. They are dark angels, James. Intelligent and cunning and manipulative. They bear the knowledge of thousands of years of life. Like angels, they have seen the face of the divine, but they turned away from it. They have chosen darkness, and that choice has reverberated through eternity. They cannot be killed, only wounded, and no good can come from knowing a Prince of Hell. They can never cause you anything but sorrow.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better for me to know—”

  “I summoned my father once. It was the worst mistake of my life. James, you are not defined by this—by this blood in you. I have found no trace, no hint of who your grandfather is, and I advised Jem to cease looking. It does not matter. You are who you are, made by the sum of your choices and actions. Not a teaspoon of demon’s blood.”

  “So you don’t think it’s Belphegor?” said James. “What about Sammael?”

  Magnus snorted. “Good Lord, you are determined. I recall seeking a demon for your father, once. He was equally stubborn.” He pointed with his walking stick. “Look. Here we are.”

  They were in front of the bridge; though it was quite dark now and the gas lamps were lit, there was still a good amount of traffic—even the occasional motorcar purring along Tower Bridge Approach.

  The others had begun to gather around. Reluctantly, James dropped the topic of his grandfather. “So, do you think you can do it?” he asked Magnus. “Create a distraction? Or should we come back later, when there are fewer mundanes about?”

  Magnus’s eyes glittered. “No need for that,” he said. He stepped to the railing along the river’s edge, where a high wall dropped down to a stony beach that ran beside and below the bridge. With a flourish, he drew off his gloves and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. Then he held out his hands. Blue fire sparked at his fingertips.

  Light arced over the Thames. Bright as a thousand naphtha beacons, it formed a glimmering path laid from bank to bank of the Thames. James heard Cordelia gasp in wonder as the light rose and twined, forming the ghostly shape of a shimmering Tower Bridge made of light. It was perfect down to the last detail, from the towers to the spiderweb cables and gleaming chains.

  Magnus lowered his hands. He was breathing hard.

  “It’s spectacular,” said Thomas, and there was a look of real wonder on his face that James was glad to see. “But—”

  “It will not appear to mundanes as it does to you,” said Magnus. “They will not see the real bridge. They will see this instead. Look.”

  He indicated an oncoming hansom cab with a wave of his hand. The small group of Shadowhunters gaped as it swung toward the glimmering illusion of Tower Bridge and onto the bridge deck. The wheels of the hansom rattled over the glimmering tarmac.

  “Oh, good, I was afraid the bridge was going to collapse,” said Lucie, as more carriages followed the cab.

  Magnus seemed to have thrown up a glamour over the entrance to the real bridge, as all the traffic, pedestrian and even omnibuses, seemed to be swerving unconsciously toward Magnus’s secondary, shining structure.

  “Magnus would never create a bridge that would collapse,” said Matthew. His green eyes were shining, and James felt a rush of affection for his parabatai; Matthew had always loved magic. It was probably why he seemed so at home in the Hell Ruelle and places like it, surrounded by enchanted fire and starry-eyed warlocks.

  “Thank you,” said Magnus dryly. “If you’re going to capture that demon, you’d better get to it. I can only keep this illusion going for so long.”

  James inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  Magnus just shook his head slightly. “Good luck. Don’t get killed.”

  James had already turned and was making his way through the archway that led to the steps up to the bridge, the others close behind and around him. All of them held seraph blades except Cordelia; as always, Cortana glimmered in her hand.

  James had thought there seemed a sort of shadow hanging over the bridge, a darkness that he had attributed to the shadow of the glamour Magnus had cast. But as they gained the top of the steps, seraph blades drawn, the world began to darken in front of James’s eyes. The gas lamps flickered wildly and went out.

  The stone towers cracked and
blackened, deep jagged lines spreading across the pavement beneath them. The wind picked up, and the heavy steel suspension chains seemed to sway: the clouds overhead roiled and darkened in the dark gray sky. There was an acid tang to the air, as if a storm was oncoming.

  “Jamie.” Matthew was still beside him; as James turned to look at his parabatai, he realized that Matthew’s hair looked white, like an old man’s. The color was leaching out of everything, turning the world to a photograph. He sucked in a breath. “Are you all right? You look—”

  “I can see the shadow realm.” James’s own voice sounded hollow to him, distant and echoing. “It’s all around me, Math. The bridge is splintering—”

  Matthew’s hand clasped his arm. His fingers seemed the only warm thing in a world made of ice and ashes. “There’s nothing wrong with the bridge. Everything’s all right, Jamie.”

  James wasn’t sure that was true. The bridge looked warped and broken. From the cracks in the granite poured a reddish light. The blood-colored light from his vision.

  The others were fanning out, looking up and down the bridge. Clouds were scudding back and forth above the bridge like anxious messengers.

  James tipped his head back. More clouds were gathering directly overhead. They were heavy and reddish, almost wet-looking, as if they were filled with blood. James narrowed his eyes. He had thought he could see stars through the clouds, a few faint stars hovering above the bridge’s upper walkways. They were not stars, he realized, instinctively sliding a throwing knife from the scabbard at his waist. Stars did not have pupils, or scarlet irises. Stars did not blink.

  James drew his arm back and flung the blade.

  * * *

  It came screaming out of the air like a diving hawk—a demon the size of an omnibus, its yellowish coat streaked with dried blood. It shot straight for James, a blur of black teeth and red talons—and a haft of gold, where the hilt of James’s knife protruded from its shoulder.

  James stood upright on the bridge, his right arm outstretched, and flung a second blade. The demon ducked out of the path of the knife and landed on the bridge, taloned feet splayed. It began to move toward the Nephilim.

  Cordelia raised Cortana, its golden blade slicing the air. All around her she could hear voices as angel blades were named and blazed up in light: “Eleleth!” “Adamiel!” “Jophiel!”

  The demon bared its teeth as seraph light illuminated the bridge. Cordelia could see it more clearly now: the body of a mangy lion with elongated legs, each one ending in a massive, taloned paw. Its head was snakelike and scaled, with glittering red eyes and a triple row of serrated jaws. Its scorpion’s tail lashed back and forth as it paced toward James, a low growl coming from its throat.

  By the Angel, Cordelia thought. We were right. It is a Mandikhor.

  James caught up a seraph blade as the demon paced toward them. “Raguel!”

  The blade flared up as the demon lunged, teeth bared. James flung himself sideways, avoiding its slashing claws. Matthew dropped the Pyxis and ran forward to flank James, seraph blade flashing. The tip sliced across the demon’s shoulder as it leaped back, causing it to howl. It reared up, and Cordelia heard Lucie cry out as the demon seemed to tremble all over. A grotesque lump swelled under the skin of its side—swelled and swelled and then burst into a sticky black thing. Cordelia tried not to gag as the thing peeled away from the Mandikhor, dropping to the ground. As it rose to its feet, Cordelia recognized it as one of the creatures that had attacked them in Regent’s Park. A Khora demon.

  It shot toward Matthew, who swore and slashed out at it with his seraph blade. Cordelia charged forward, only to be met with another of the Khora demons. The demon had shed several others: two leaped toward Christopher and Thomas, springing through the air like black spiders. Lucie ran to join them, impaling one of the Khora from behind: it vanished, spattering ash and ichor, as Christopher and Thomas dispatched the other.

  Cordelia whipped Cortana forward with a slashing motion, shredding the demon in front of her with such force that the blade passed through the Khora, carried on, and embedded itself in the granite railing of the bridge. She yanked it free as the demon disappeared with a howl. The blade of Cortana was smeared with black, but it was undamaged. I suppose it really can cut anything, she thought dazedly, before turning to rejoin the battle.

  She pushed forward as James hurled a knife, pinning one of the shadow demons to the cables of the bridge like a hideous butterfly. It struggled and hissed as Matthew and James leaped up onto the bridge’s railing, their seraph blades blazing in their hands as they slew shadow after shadow.

  But it didn’t matter how many of these shadow creatures they killed, Cordelia knew. The Mandikhor could make an infinite number of Khora: it was the source of them, and the source had to be destroyed.

  “Christopher!” she heard Thomas shout. She spun and saw that a group of Khora were starting to circle Christopher. Even as Christopher tried to fight his way free, the circle tightened. Lucie and Thomas raced toward him—James and Matthew leaped down from the railing—but Cordelia, raising her sword, raced the other way, toward the Mandikhor.

  It had been watching Christopher and the others, licking its lips as the Khora closed in. Now it reared back as Cordelia approached, but too late—she hurled herself forward, Cortana sinking deep into the creature’s torso. Hot ichor spilled onto her hand, and the world seemed to tilt around her, the color rushing out of it like blood from a wound. She stood on the bridge among black-and-white shadows and twisted, gnarled trees—the suspension cables hung like rotting vines, blackening in the night air. She yanked Cortana back, gasping, and fell to her knees. Suddenly she felt a hand on her arm. She was wrenched to her feet and looked with surprise at Matthew, staring at her, his face very white. “Cordelia—”

  “She’s all right!” It was Lucie, spattered with blood and ichor, clutching the Pyxis box. The others had fanned out around Cordelia: James had his blade in one hand, his gaze trained on the roaring, bleeding Mandikhor.

  The bridge was empty of Khora. Cordelia had distracted the Mandikhor just long enough for the others to kill the shadow creatures; but the Mandikhor was growling now, another lump already beginning to swell on its back. “Now!” Lucie cried. “We must get it into the Pyxis!”

  “Put the box on the ground!” It was Thomas, vaulting up onto the railing, his bolas in his hand. “Christopher, say the words!”

  Christopher stepped closer to the Pyxis. The Mandikhor, realizing what was happening at last, charged.

  Christopher shouted, in a voice that cut through the noise of battle: “Thaam Tholach Thechembaor!”

  The alchemical symbols carved on the Pyxis box lit as if the lines on the wood were burning: they seemed to bloom on the wood, glowing like coals.

  A spear of light shot from the Pyxis, and then another, and another. The beams of light arrowed along the bridge, wrapping around the Mandikhor in a bright cage. It gave a howl—the cage of light flared up one last time and was sucked back into the Pyxis, the Mandikhor vanishing with it.

  There was a long silence. James mopped at the blood on his face, his golden eyes burning. Matthew’s hand was still wrapped around Cordelia’s arm.

  “I don’t mean to put a damper on things,” said Thomas at last, “but—did that work? Because it seems rather—”

  The Pyxis exploded. The Shadowhunters yelled and dived out of the way as wooden shrapnel blew in all directions. Wind tore across the bridge, flattening Cordelia to her knees, a howling hurricane of fire-scented air.

  At last the howling died down. The bridge was empty and silent, only the wind blowing a bit of discarded refuse back and forth across the roadway. Cordelia rose to her feet and reached down a hand to help Lucie up after her. Ahead, she could still see the glimmering light of Magnus’s bridge, mundane traffic still making its way across it.

  “—too easy,” Thomas finished. His face was smeared with soot.

  “Bloody hell,” said James, reaching for a k
nife, just as the world seemed to explode around them.

  * * *

  Out of the wind and air, the Mandikhor suddenly appeared, twice as big as it had been before, and clothed in ragged darkness. It rose above them like a shadow drawn in blood, its head thrown back, each of its talons gleaming like a dagger.

  James flung his knife just as the Mandikhor sprang toward him, shadows spilling from it and racing across the bridge in all directions. The world had turned gray and black again. James could see London on either side of the river, but it was a ruined London, the Tower shattered and broken, fires burning along the wharves, the blackened spires of churches standing as skeletons against a smoke-stained sky. He could hear his friends all around him, their shouts and cries as they fought back the shadows, but he could no longer see them. He was alone in his nightmare realm.

  The Mandikhor leaped toward him and seized hold of him. James had been braced for an attack, but this was something different: the demon was holding him fast, claws sunk into the front of his gear jacket. Its lips curled back from its teeth. “Come with me,” the demon hissed. “Come with me, child of demons, to where you will be honored. You see the same world I do. You see the world as it really is. I know who your mother is, and who your grandfather is. Come with me.”

  James went cold.

  I know who your mother is, and who your grandfather is. He thought of the demon in the park: Why destroy your own kind?

  “I am a Shadowhunter,” he said. “I will not listen to your lies.”

  “You know I speak the truth,” said the Mandikhor, its hot breath searing James’s skin. “I swear on the names of Asmodeus, of Belial, of Belphegor and Sammael, that I can end this scourge if you will come with me. No more need die.”

  James froze. A demon, swearing on the names of the Princes of Hell. A voice in the back of his head screamed, Do it! Go with him! End the sickening, the dying! Another voice, quieter but steadier, whispered, Demons lie. Even when they swear, they lie.