Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours #3)

PROLOGUE

Years later, James would remember only the sound of the wind. A metallic scream, like a knife dragged across glass, and beneath it, far below, the sound of howling—desperate and hungry.

He was walking a long, trackless road. It seemed no one had come before him; there were no marks on the ground. The sky above was equally blank. James could not have said whether it was night or day, winter or summer. Only the bare brown land stretched before him, beneath a sky the color of pavement.

That was when he heard it. The wind kicked up, scattering dead leaves and loose gravel around his ankles. It grew in intensity, the roar nearly covering the oncoming tread of marching feet.

James whirled to look behind him. Dust devils spun in the air where the wind had caught them. Sand stung his eyes as he stared. Hurtling through the blur of the sandstorm were a dozen—no, a hundred, more than a hundred—dark figures. They were not human; he knew that much. Though they did not quite fly, they seemed part of the rushing wind, shadows furling around them like wings.

The wind howled in his ears as they shot past overhead, an interlocking clutch of shadowy creatures bringing not just a physical chill, but a sense of cold menace. Under and through the sound of their passage, like thread weaving through a loom, came a whispered voice.

"They wake," Belial said. "Do you hear that, grandson? They wake."

James jerked upright, gasping. He couldn't breathe. He clawed his way up, out of the sand and shadows, to find himself in an unfamiliar room. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Not unfamiliar. He knew where he was now. The coaching inn room he shared with his father. Will slept in the other bed; Magnus was somewhere down the hall.

He slid out of bed, wincing as his bare feet met the cold floor. He crossed the room silently to the window, gazing out at the moonlit, snowy fields that covered the ground as far as the eye could see.

Dreams. They terrified him. Belial had come to him through dreams for as long as he could remember. He had seen the bleak kingdoms of the demons in his sleep, had seen Belial kill in his dreams. Even now, he did not know when a dream was just a dream, and when it was some terrible truth.

The black-and-white world outside reflected only the desolation of winter. They were somewhere near the frozen River Tamar; they had stopped last night when the snow had grown too thick to ride through. It had not been a pretty, flurrying shower, or even a chaotic, blowing squall. This snow had direction and purpose, beating down at a sharp angle against the bare slate-brown ground like an unending volley of arrows.

Despite having done nothing but sit in a carriage all day, James felt exhausted. He had barely managed to force down some hot soup before making his way upstairs to collapse into bed. Magnus and Will had remained in the saloon, in armchairs near the fire, talking in low voices. James guessed they were discussing him. Let them. He didn't care.

It was the third night since they had left London, on a mission to find James's sister, Lucie. She had gone off with the warlock Malcolm Fade and the preserved corpse of Jesse Blackthorn, for a purpose dark and frightening enough that none of them wished to speak the word they all dreaded.

Necromancy.

The important thing, Magnus stressed, was to get to Lucie as soon as possible. Which was not as easy as it sounded. Magnus knew that Malcolm had a house in Cornwall, but not exactly where, and Malcolm had blocked any attempt at Tracking the fugitives. They had had to fall back on a more old-fashioned approach: stopping often at various Downworld watering holes along the route. Magnus would chat with the locals while James and Will were relegated to waiting in the carriage, keeping their Shadowhunter selves well hidden.

"None of them will tell me anything if they think I'm traveling with Nephilim," Magnus had said. "Your time will come when we arrive at Malcolm's and must deal with him and Lucie."

This evening he had told James and Will that he thought he might have found the house, that they could easily make it there with a few hours' journey the next morning. If it was not the right place, they would journey on.

James was desperate to find Lucie. Not just because he was worried about her, although he was. But because of everything else happening in his life. Everything that he had put aside, told himself not to think about, until he found his sister and knew she was safe.

"James?" The sleepy voice cut into his thoughts. James turned away from the window to see his father sitting up in bed. "Jamie bach, what's the trouble?"

James gazed at his father. Will looked tired, his mane of black hair disarrayed. People often told James that he was like Will, which he knew was a compliment. All his life, his father had seemed the strongest man he knew, the most principled, the most fierce with his love. Will did not question himself. No, James was nothing like Will Herondale.

Resting his back against the cold window, he said, "Just a bad dream."

"Mmm." Will looked thoughtful. "You had one of those last night too. And the night before. Is there something you'd like to talk about, Jamie?"

For a moment, James imagined unburdening himself to his father. Belial, Grace, the bracelet, Cordelia, Lilith. All of it.

But the picture in his mind did not hold. He could not imagine his father's reaction. He could not imagine speaking the words. He had held it all inside so long, he did not know how to do anything but hold on further, tighter, protecting himself the only way he knew how.

"I'm just worried about Lucie," James said. "About what she might have gotten herself into."

Will's expression changed—James thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross his father's face, though it was hard to tell in the half-dark. "Then go back to bed," he said. "We're likely to find her tomorrow, Magnus says, and it would be better to be rested. She might not be pleased to see us."

1 TWILIGHT DAYS

My Paris is a land where twilight days

Merge into violent nights of black and gold;

Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold: