Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,127

the Achaemenid era.”

Cordelia took the paper from James. She had not been able to look at the paper closely before, but James was right—below the odd symbols was a name in Old Persian. The cuneiform writing did look a bit like runes, but she recognized it immediately; her mother had insisted she and Alastair know at least a little of the language of Darius the Great. “Merthykhuwar,” she said slowly. “It is a name for a kind of demon that existed in Persia long ago. Shadowhunters call it the Mandikhor.”

“Even mundanes have a word for it,” James said. “ ‘Manticore.’  ” He glanced over at Christopher. “I know what the shards are now,” he said. “How could I not have seen it before? They’re the remains of a Pyxis box.”

“A Pyxis?” Cordelia was startled. Long ago, Shadowhunters had developed wooden containers called Pyxis boxes to trap the essence of demons they hunted; after the Clockwork War, when Axel Mortmain had used a Pyxis box to transfer demon souls into clockwork monsters, they had been abandoned as a tool by the Nephilim. No one had used them for years.

“I’ve seen a Pyxis before, at the Academy,” James said. “If a demon had been trapped in a Pyxis and burst out, that would explain why there was demon residue only on one side of the wood—the inside. And the markings on the shards resemble the alchemical symbols that were carved on Pyxis boxes—”

The sound of running footsteps in the hall interrupted him. The door flew open again; this time it was Matthew and Lucie, both looking harried. Christopher, who had seized a seraph blade from his belt, lowered it in relief. “Thank Raziel,” he said. “I thought it was a demon attacking.”

Matthew gave Christopher a dark look. “Put that away,” he said. “I don’t fancy being stabbed; I am far too young and beautiful to die.”

“I see you have been waylaid on your way to find socks, James,” said Lucie. “Bridget came and told us Christopher was here. What’s going on? Has anything happened?”

“Quite a lot of things, actually,” said Christopher. “We can discuss it all at the Devil Tavern. Thomas is waiting there, and I do not want to leave him alone.”

* * *

The Devil Tavern was a half-timbered building on Fleet Street with vast glittering windowpanes that seemed to divide light, leaving the interior of the pub darkly shaded. There were very few people inside, only a few men hunched over tankards of ale, but a grizzled werewolf barkeep and his wide-eyed barmaid watched Lucie, Cordelia, James, Christopher, and Matthew cross the room and ascend the steps, their gazes curious.

Cordelia was unsurprised to see that the walls of the Merry Thieves’ rooms were crowded with fascinating-looking books. There was an antique-looking dartboard in which several throwing daggers were embedded, its embossed red-and-black surface showing the marks of many more. There was a corner with sheets of metal fixed to the walls and a sturdy steel-topped worktable, upon which sat a set of shiny brass scales and a somewhat battered-looking wooden beer crate filled with glass test tubes, retorts, and other chemistry paraphernalia. A mobile laboratory for Christopher, Cordelia assumed.

A low horsehair sofa was placed directly across from a fireplace whose mantel boasted a bust of Apollo, below which was carved a verse about wine. Thomas sat upon the sofa, a book in his hand. His broad shoulders were hunched, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Still, his face lit up when he saw his friends.

“Tom,” said James. He went and sank down next to his friend on the worn sofa, placing a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and saw the others still hesitant. He gestured for them to join him and Thomas. It was always James, Cordelia thought as they drew up chairs. Always James keeping the group together, noticing when they needed each other.

Thomas set down the book he’d been holding; Cordelia was startled to see it was a book of Sufi poetry, the verses of Hafiz and Ibn al-Farid, written out in Persian and Arabic. “Cordelia,” he said. He sounded weary, as if his voice had been slowed by grief. “Lucie. I’m glad to see you.”

“Welcome to our sanctum, ladies,” said Matthew, unscrewing the cap of his flask. “Christopher salvaged quite a bit of this furniture for us. Like King Arthur and his knights, we prefer to sit at a round table that we all might be equal.”

“Also,” Christopher added, taking a book down from the shelves and handing