Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,112

will kill only Shadowhunters.”

“Someone paid you to do this,” Lucie whispered. “Who? Who did it?”

The ghost hissed. “What are you? You are a Shadowhunter, but not a Shadowhunter. You drag me back from the brink?” It reached out a hand, insubstantial, curling into a claw. “What is this monstrous power…?”

“Monstrous?” Lucie snapped. “What’s monstrous is that you summoned these creatures into this world, knowing the damage they would do—”

“You know nothing of me,” said Gast. “I went to the bridge to raise the demon. I brought it into this world and then I captured it, kept it where it would be safe, a gift for the one who gave me gold. But when I returned here, I was betrayed. I could not stop it. My blood and my life ran out over the floor as my killer tore the demon from its hiding place.”

Lucie could stand no more. “Who did this? Who hired you?”

For an instant Lucie believed Gast would simply vanish away into the shadows and the London smoke. He began to tremble, like a butterfly transfixed with a pin but not yet dead. “I will not tell—”

“You will!” Lucie shouted, her hand outthrust, and she felt something go through her, like electricity through a wire, like the feeling of a rune burning on her skin—

The ghost threw its head back and roared, revealing Gast’s warlock mark—multiple rows of teeth, like a shark. Something hit the door behind Lucie; she stepped aside just in time for James to burst into the room in a cloud of plaster dust: he had smashed the door off its hinges. Cordelia spilled in next, her satchel over her shoulder, and Matthew came after her. The latter two stood blinking in horror at the corpse on the floor.

Lucie glanced at James. He nodded: he could see the ghost as well, in the way all Herondales could. It was a perfectly ordinary ghost sighting, Lucie told herself. This ghost was not Jesse.

“The one who hired me came to me masked, face wrapped around in cloth and wearing layers of cloaks.” Emmanuel Gast answered her slowly, almost reluctantly. “I know not if they were man or woman, old or young.”

“What more do you know?” James demanded, and the ghost writhed. “Who is controlling the demons now?”

“Someone more powerful than you puny Nephilim,” snarled the ghost. “Someone who tore down my wards, ripped my body apart—” His voice rose to a wail. “I shall not think on it! I shall not relive my death! Truly you are monsters, despite your angel blood.”

Lucie could not bear it a moment longer. “Go!” she shouted. “Leave us!”

The ghost winked out of existence, between one breath and the next. Cordelia was already over by the bed, dragging the dirty coverlet off, throwing it over what remained of Gast. The air reeked; Lucie was choking. James reached for her.

“I have to get outside,” she whispered, turning away from her brother. “I must breathe.”

She pushed past her friends and into the living room. The door to the flat was not locked. Lucie clutched at the banister as she stumbled down the narrow steps and outside into the street.

Cockney voices floated around her, men in round hats passing by with packages under their arms. She struggled to catch her breath. Ghosts had never frightened her—they were the restless dead, grieving and disquieted, rarely seen. But there had been something different about Gast.

A coat settled on Lucie’s shoulders, bottle green superfine, and warm, smelling of expensive cologne. Lucie glanced up to see Matthew’s face hovering above hers, sunlight making his hair brilliant. He looked serious for once as he carefully buttoned the coat closed around her. His hands, usually swift and bright with rings, flying through the air when he talked, were moving with great deliberation over such a small task. She heard him draw in a slow breath.

“Luce,” he said. “What happened in there? Are you all right?”

She shivered. “I’m all right,” she said. “I’ve rarely seen a ghost in such—such a condition.”

“Lucie!” James and Cordelia joined them on the street. Cordelia caught at Lucie’s hand and squeezed it. James ruffled his sister’s hair.

“Gast did not die easily,” he said. “Good work, Lucie. I know that can’t have been pleasant.”

He called me a monster. But she didn’t say it out loud. “Did you find anything in the flat after I went into the bedroom?” she asked.

James nodded. “We took a few things—sketches, and Cordelia has the wood shards in her satchel.”

“That reminds me,” said