Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,160

Matthew in the back of the hansom cab on a bench seat that faced Thomas and Christopher. Matthew had kindly thrown his gear jacket over her shoulders since her own was wet; he was in shirtsleeves, one arm around her, holding her steady. It was an odd but not unpleasant feeling.

It was still all something of a blur—she recalled the force with which the demon’s paw had struck her, the feeling of weightlessness as her feet left the bridge. The moon turning upside down and the river rushing up with horrifying speed. Bitter black water, the smell of damp and rot, the struggle to free herself from what she thought now might have been river weeds. Her first clear memory was of James leaning down over her with a stele in one hand and Cortana in the other. She had been choking and gasping, her body convulsing as her lungs emptied of water. James had drawn iratze after iratze onto her arm as the Merry Thieves crowded around.

At some point Matthew had arrived to take over while James hurried to Lucie, who had fainted on the riverbank. Magnus was there too, reassuring them that Lucie was fine and suffering from nothing more than shock. The shining bridge Magnus had summoned had vanished, and traffic had resumed over the real Tower Bridge, so it had been easy for him to get hold of two hansom cabs and firmly separate the group: Lucie and James to go to the Institute, and the remaining Merry Thieves to accompany Cordelia to Kensington.

He had also told James, in no uncertain terms, that if James didn’t pass on the information to Will and Tessa that the demon responsible for the attacks was a Mandikhor, he would do it himself.

Cordelia had managed to squeeze Lucie’s hand once before she and James had been bundled into their hansom and driven away. Cordelia found herself on her way home, shivering with cold, her damp hair clammy with river water.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Thomas inquired, not for the first time. He sat opposite Cordelia, his knees knocking into hers. People Thomas’s size were not made for ordinary hansom cabs.

“I’m fine,” Cordelia insisted. “Utterly fine.”

“It was amazing the way you charged at that demon, absolutely capital,” said Christopher. “I really thought you had him in your sights, until you fell into the river, that is.”

Cordelia felt Matthew’s shoulder shake with silent laughter.

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “I was under the same misapprehension myself.”

“What happened, exactly?” Thomas said. “How did Lucie get you out of the water?”

Startled, Cordelia furrowed her brow. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I don’t understand it. I did hear Lucie calling—calling my name—and then I just woke up on the bank, coughing.”

“The current could just have brought her ashore,” said Christopher. “Thames currents can be quite strong.”

Matthew looked at her curiously. “When we were on the bridge, when James was fighting the Mandikhor, it looked as if the demon was speaking to him. Did you hear it?”

Cordelia hesitated. 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.

“No,” she said. “Just sort of a growling noise. Not any words.”

The cab came to a stop; they had arrived at the Kensington house, gleaming white in the moonlight. The street was quiet and peaceful, a low wind rustling the tops of the plane trees.

Cordelia wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, but Thomas and Christopher wound up waiting in the cab as Matthew escorted her to her front door, past the black-and-gold railing that circled the gardens.

“Will your mother be angry?” Matthew said.

“Have you heard of the death of a thousand cuts?” Cordelia replied.

“I always preferred the death of a thousand cats, in which one is buried under kittens,” said Matthew.

Cordelia laughed. They had reached the glossy black front door. She began to remove Matthew’s jacket to return it to him; he held up a slender hand, scarred as all Shadowhunters’ hands were scarred. She could see his parabatai rune, printed darkly on the inside of his wrist. “Keep it,” he said. “I have at least seventeen, and this is the plainest.”

Seventeen coats. He was ridiculous. He was also rich, Cordelia realized. Of course he was. His mother had been Consul longer than they had been alive. His clothes were always a bit outrageous, but they were also expensive-looking and