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

a voice above her. “It’ll bring them.”

She threw her head back and stared. Leaning down over the side of the pit was a boy. Older than her brother, James—maybe even sixteen years old. He had a lovely melancholy face and straight black hair without a hint of curl. The ends of his hair almost touched the collar of his shirt.

“Bring who?” Lucie put her fists on her hips.

“The faeries,” he said. “This is one of their pit traps. They usually use them to catch animals, but they’d be very pleased to find a little girl instead.”

Lucie gasped. “You mean they’d eat me?”

He laughed. “Unlikely, though you could find yourself serving faerie gentry in the Land Under the Hill for the rest of your life. Never to see your family again.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Don’t try to scare me,” she said.

“I assure you, I speak only the perfect truth,” he said. “Even the imperfect truth is beneath me.”

“Don’t be silly, either,” she said. “I am Lucie Herondale. My father is Will Herondale and a very important person. If you rescue me, you will be rewarded.”

“A Herondale?” he said. “Just my luck.” He sighed and wriggled closer to the edge of the pit, reaching his arm down. A scar gleamed on the back of his right hand—a bad one, as if he had burned himself. “Up you go.”

She grasped his wrist with both her hands and he hauled her up with surprising strength. A moment later they were both standing. Lucie could see more of him now. He was older than she’d thought, and formally dressed in white and black. The moon was out again and she could see that his eyes were the color of the green moss on the forest floor.

“Thank you,” she said, rather primly. She brushed at her nightdress. It was quite ruined with dirt.

“Come along, now,” he said, his voice gentle. “Don’t be frightened. What shall we talk about? Do you like stories?”

“I love stories,” said Lucie. “When I grow up, I am going to be a famous writer.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said the boy. There was something wistful about his tone.

They walked together through the paths under the trees. He seemed to know where he was going, as if the forest was very familiar to him. He must be a changeling, Lucie thought wisely. He knew a great deal about faeries, but was clearly not one of them: he had warned her about being stolen away by the Fair Folk, which must be what had happened to him. She would not mention it and make him feel awkward; it must be dreadful to be a changeling, and to be taken far away from your family. Instead she engaged him in a discussion about princesses in fairy tales, and which one was the best. It hardly seemed any time at all before they were back in the garden of Herondale Manor.

“I imagine this princess can make her own way back into the castle from here,” he said with a bow.

“Oh, yes,” said Lucie, eyeing her window. “Do you think they’ll know I was gone?”

He laughed and turned to go. She called after him when he reached the gates.

“What’s your name?” she said. “I told you mine. What’s yours?”

He hesitated for a moment. He was all white and black in the night, like an illustration from one of her books. He swept a bow, low and graceful, the kind knights had once made.

“You will never slay me,” he said. “For I am of royal blood and will one day be twice as powerful as the queen. And I shall cut off her head.”

Lucie gave an outraged gasp. Had he been listening to her, in the woods, playing her game? How dare he make fun of her! She raised a fist, meaning to shake it at him, but he had already vanished into the night, leaving only the sound of his laughter behind.

It would be six years before she saw him again.

1 BETTER ANGELS

The shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.

—Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge

James Herondale was in the middle of fighting a demon when he was suddenly pulled into Hell.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. Moments earlier he had been kneeling at the edge of a slanted roof in central London, a slim throwing knife in each hand, thinking about how disgusting the detritus that collected in the city was.