Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,153

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