Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,175

next to his echoed the word.

“James,” whispered Piers Wentworth. “James.”

And then the next figure, in the next bed. “James.”

Matthew rose to his feet. “What’s going on?”

Christopher’s lilac eyes flew wide; his grip on James’s wrist tightened as he jerked him forward. Face inches from James’s, he hissed, “Get out of here—you have to get out of here. You have to leave. James, you don’t understand. It’s about you. It’s always been about you.”

“What does that mean?” Matthew demanded, as more and more voices were added to the chant:

“James. James. James.”

Matthew took hold of James’s sleeve and drew him back from Christopher, who let go of James reluctantly. Cordelia put her hand to the hilt of Cortana. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Christopher—?”

One by one the sick were rising into sitting positions, though it did not look as if they were doing so of their own volition. It seemed they were being dragged upward like puppets on strings; their heads sagged loosely to the side, their arms limp and dangling. Their eyes were wide open, white and shining in the dimness of the room. Cordelia saw with horror that the whites of them were also veined in black.

“James Herondale.” It was the voice of Ariadne Bridgestock. She sat at the edge of her own narrow bed, her body slumped forward. Her voice rasped, empty of emotion. “James Herondale, you have been summoned.”

“By who?” Matthew shouted. “Who’s summoning him?”

“The Prince,” said Ariadne, “the Lord of Thieves. Only he can stop the dying. Only he can call off the Mandikhor, the poison bringer. You carry the taint now, Herondale. Your blood can open the gateway.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “You have no other choice.”

Drawing away from Matthew, James took a step toward her. “What gateway? Ariadne—”

Cordelia threw out an arm to stop him. “This is not Ariadne.”

What is going on here?

They all turned. It was Jem, who had entered the room in a swirl of parchment robes; he carried his oak staff in his hand. Despite the stillness of his face, Cordelia could sense how furious he was. It radiated from the words that exploded into her mind: What are you three doing here?

“I got your message,” said James. “You told me to come.”

I sent no message, said Jem.

“Yes, you did,” protested Cordelia indignantly. “We all saw it.”

“Our master sent the message,” said Ariadne. “He waits in the shadows. Still, he controls all.”

Jem shook his head. His hood had fallen back so that Cordelia could see the white streak in his dark hair.

There is foulness at work here, he said. He lifted the oaken staff in his hands, and Cordelia saw the letters WH carved into the grip.

The sick were all chanting James’s name now, their voices rising in a hazy murmur.

Jem brought the staff down, and the noise of the wood striking the stone floor echoed in their ears. The chanting stopped; the sick went still.

Jem turned to Cordelia and the boys. Some evil has brought you here, Jem said. Get out. I fear you are in danger.

They ran.

* * *

The flight out of the Silent City was almost a blur to Cordelia. James went first, the witchlight in his hand illuminating their path as they darted out of the way of various Silent Brothers. She and Matthew came after; in seconds they had all reached the last stairway, where it arced up toward the sky.

Suddenly Matthew gasped. He staggered, falling back against the stone wall as if he’d been pushed. Cordelia caught at his arm. “Matthew! What’s happening?”

His face was paper white. “James,” he whispered. “There’s something very wrong with James.”

Cordelia glanced up the stairs. James vanished from her view. He must not have realized they were no longer following. “Matthew, he’s fine—he’s out of the City—”

Matthew pushed away from the wall. “We must hurry,” was all he said, and began to run again.

They tore up the stairs and burst out into the clearing above. James was nowhere to be seen.

Matthew took Cordelia’s hand. “He’s this way,” he said, and drew her through a narrow path between the trees. It was nearly black beneath the canopy of leaves, but Matthew seemed to know exactly where he was going.

They emerged in a shadowy grove ringed with tombs, the sky above them the deep blue of late twilight. James was there, standing still as a statue. A statue of a dark prince, all in black, with hair like crow’s feathers. He was in the process of casting aside his jacket, puzzlingly,