Chapter 3: The Slow Dark Hours

3THE SLOW DARK HOURS

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

—Christina Rossetti, “Up-Hill”

James estimated that he’d beentalking for about a month.

Magnus, who seemed able to detect comfortable coaching inns from a distance, had found them one on the road to Polperro. Once Balios and Xanthos had been safely stabled, Will had booked the three of them a private dining room on the inn’s ground floor, where they could eat and talk in private.

Not that James had eaten much. The room was nice enough—old-fashioned, with dark wallpaper and worn rugs, a wide oak table in the center—and the food seemed decent. But once he’d started talking about the events of the past few weeks, he’d found it hard to stop; after all the secrets and lies, the truth poured out of him like water from a jug. Even then, he’d had to remain careful to keep the secrets that weren’t his to tell: he said nothing of the pledge Cordelia had accidentally made to Lilith, only spoke of Lilith impersonating Magnus to trick them.

“I know I ought to beg your forgiveness,” James said, when his voice had run dry. “I should have told you all of this, but—”

“But you were not the only one affected,” said Will. He looked tense, the lines beside his eyes unusually prominent. “And so you kept your mouth shut to protect your friends and your family. I am not entirely an idiot, James. I do understand how these things work.”

Magnus uncapped a decanter of port and poured a thimbleful into Will’s and James’s glasses. “I am worried. Belial should not have been able to return to our world after the blow Cordelia dealt him with Cortana. But he did return, through a plan he must have put in place years ago, back when Jesse Blackthorn was only a baby—”

Will was looking furious. “This is why we should never have tolerated Tatiana Blackthorn’s bizarre behavior with her children. What could it harm, not to let the Silent Brothers do Jesse’s protection spells? What harm indeed. Thank the Angel that Maurice went up to retrieve her from the Adamant Citadel. The Silent Brothers are going to need to get the whole story out of her.”

“Why didn’t you tell the Enclave,” Magnus said to James, not unkindly, “if you knew Belial was responsible?”

“He didn’t tell the Enclave,” Will said, “because if the Enclave found out that Belial is his grandfather, is Tessa’s father… well, the consequences could be quite dire, for our family. For Tessa. I knew also, and I also said nothing, for the same reason. James cannot be blamed for that.”

“Does anyone else know?” said Magnus.

“Only my closest friends,” James said. “Cordelia, of course, and Matthew… and Thomas and Christopher. And Anna. They will keep the secret. I trust them with my life,” he added, perhaps a little defensively.

Will exchanged a look with Magnus that James couldn’t read. Slowly Will said, “I am glad that you at least had your friends to confide in. I wish you had told me as well, James.” He looked sad for a moment. “It breaks my heart to think of you being tormented by these dreams of Belial, and keeping them a secret besides.” He picked up his glass, as if he’d just noticed it was there, and took a sip. “I’ve seen death myself,” he said quietly. “I know how terrible it is to witness it.”

His father’s eyes flicked away from them for a moment, and James wondered what he meant—and then, with a start, remembered that long ago, Will had held Jessamine while she died in his arms. He was so used to her ghostly presence in the Institute that it was easy to forget the trauma her death must have brought to them all. His father made it easy to forget; his usual sanguine demeanor did a good job of hiding all that he had been through.

Magnus cleared his throat, and James looked over to see his luminous cat’s eyes peering at him thoughtfully. Will caught this and sat up in his chair, returning from his reverie. “What are you thinking of, Magnus?”

“Only that Belial was willing to wait a long time for his plan regarding Jesse to come to fruition,” said Magnus. “I wonder what other plans he might have made in the meantime. Plans of which we have no knowledge.” His eyes glittered at James. “I must ask. What were you dreaming of, in the carriage? When you woke up screaming?”

There was a guilty knot in James’s chest. He was still keeping a secret, after all—Cordelia’s secret. “I dreamed of a gathering of shadows,” he said. “I stood in a fire-blasted place and saw monstrous creatures rushing through the air.”

“Were they demons?” said Magnus.

“I don’t know,” said James. “Their forms were shadowy and diffuse, and the light was dark.… It was as though I could not fully focus my eyes on them. But they are part of some plan of Belial’s. He spoke to me.”

“What did he say?” said Magnus quietly.

“?‘They wake,’?” said James.

Will exhaled loudly through his nose. “Well, that isn’t very helpful of him. What wakes?”

“Something that was sleeping?” suggested Magnus. “In the past, it seemed that Belial wanted you to see his actions clearly. Now he wants you in the dark.”

“He wants me to be afraid,” James said. “That’s what he wants.”

“Well, don’t be,” said Will decidedly. “As soon as we find Lucie, we will return to London. Now that you’ve told us the situation, we can muster every resource at our command to deal with this thing.”

James tried to look as if the thought heartened him. He knew his father had faith, a kind he did not, that even the most intractable problem could be overcome; still James could not imagine a life in which he was not tied to Belial. The connection would exist as long as Belial lived, and as James had been reminded many times, a Prince of Hell could not die.

“Are you not going to drink your port?” said Magnus. “It might steady your nerves a bit, help you rest.”

James shook his head. He felt sick, looking at the alcohol, and he knew it was not only his nerves. It was Matthew. Memories had been coming back to him, ever since he had rid himself of the bracelet—memories not just of events, but of his own thoughts and feelings, things he had forgotten, things pushed to the back of his mind. His feelings for Cordelia… his desire to remove the bracelet itself… but also his worries about Matthew’s drinking. It was as if the bracelet’s influence had insisted that there was nothing wrong with Matthew, that he need not concern himself with anything except that which the bracelet wanted him to concern himself. It had grown clearer and clearer to him that something was terribly wrong with Matthew, and that it was getting worse, but the bracelet had ensured that he couldn’t hold on to the thought, couldn’t focus on it. He recalled the London Shadow Market, a snowy alley, his snapping at Matthew, Tell me there is someone you love more than that bottle in your hand.

He had known, but he had done nothing. He had allowed the bracelet to guide his attention elsewhere. He had failed his best friend. He had failed his parabatai.

“Well, you need sleep,” Magnus said. “Dreamless sleep, if possible. I was hoping to use the more mundane methods of getting there, but…”

James swallowed. “I don’t think I can drink it.”

“Then I’ll give you something else,” Magnus said decisively. “Water, with something more magical than mere fortified wine. How about you, Will?”

“Certainly,” said Will, and James thought he still sounded lost in thought. “Bring on the potions.”

That night James slept like the dead, and if his father rose in the middle of the night to check on him as if he were a small boy, if Will sat beside him on his bed and sang to him in rusty Welsh, James did not remember it when he woke up.

---

“As you can see,” Matthew said, throwing out his arm to embrace the whole of the Boulevard de Clichy. He was wearing a fur greatcoat with multiple capes, which made the gesture all the more dramatic. “Here is Hell.”

“You,” Cordelia said, “are a very wicked person, Matthew Fairchild. Very wicked.” She couldn’t help but smile, though, half at Matthew’s expectant expression and half at what he’d brought her to Montmartre to see.

Montmartre was one of the most scandalous neighborhoods in a scandalous city. The notorious Moulin Rouge was here, with its famous red windmill and half-naked dancers. She had expected them to wind up there, but Matthew, of course, had to be different. Instead he had brought them to the Cabaret de l’Enfer—quite literally, the Cabaret of Hell—a place whose front entrance had been carved to look like a demonic face, with black bulging eyes and a row of fanged teeth at the top of its open mouth, which served as the door.

“We needn’t go in if you don’t want to,” Matthew said, more seriously than usual. He set a gloved finger under Cordelia’s chin, raising her face to meet his gaze. She looked at him in some surprise. He was bareheaded, and his eyes were a very dark green in the light spilling from L’Enfer. “I thought it might amuse you, as the Hell Ruelle did. And this place makes the Ruelle look like a child’s playroom.”

She hesitated. She was aware of the warmth of his body, close to hers, and the scent of him: wool and cologne. As she hung back, a richly dressed couple emerged from a fiacre and headed inside L’Enfer, both giggling.

Wealthy Parisians, Cordelia thought, slumming it in a neighborhood famous for its poor artists, starving in their garret flats. Light from the gas torches on either side of the doors fell upon their faces as they entered the club, and Cordelia saw that the woman was deadly pale, with dark red lips.

Vampire.Of course Downworlders would be drawn to a place with a theme like this one. Cordelia understood what Matthew was doing: trying to give her the excitement of the Hell Ruelle, in a new place, without the weight of memories. And why not? What was she afraid of, when there was nothing left for her to lose?

Cordelia squared her shoulders. “Let’s go in.”

Inside, a staircase led sharply downward into a cavernous den lit by torches behind sconces of red glass, which gave the view a tinge of scarlet. The plaster walls were carved in the shapes of screaming faces, each one different, each one a mask of dread or agony or terror. Gilt ribbons hung from the ceiling, each bearing a line from Dante’s Inferno: from MIDWAY UPON THE JOURNEY OF LIFE, I FOUND MYSELF WITHIN A FOREST DARK to THERE IS NO GREATER SORROW THAN TO RECALL IN MISERY THE TIME WHEN WE WERE HAPPY.

The floor had been painted in swirls of red and gold—meant, Cordelia expected, to evoke the eternal fires of the damned. They were at the back of a single large room, high-ceilinged, which sloped downhill gently toward the stage at the far end; in between were innumerable café tables lit by softly glowing lights and mostly filled with Downworlders, though there were a few mundanes, elaborately costumed, glasses of green absinthe at their elbows. No doubt they thought the Downworlders to be other mundanes, in amusing costumes.

The show had clearly not yet begun, and the crowded tables were abuzz with conversation. There was a brief interruption as a variety of heads turned to look at Matthew and Cordelia, leading Cordelia to wonder how often Shadowhunters came here, and whether they were fully welcome.

Then, from the far corner, a chorus of high-pitched voices cried, “Monsieur Fairchild!” In the strange, variegated light of the flames, Cordelia could see that it was a table packed with what she thought were perhaps brownies? Or pixies? In any case, they sported wings of various rainbow colors; each was no more than a foot tall, and there were about twenty of them. They clearly all knew Matthew, and more strikingly, they all seemed very pleased to see him. In the middle of their table (built for customers of human size) was a large punch bowl half-full of a glittering beverage, which a few of them were using as a swimming pool.

“Old friends?” Cordelia said, with some amusement.

“Anna and I once helped them out of a jam,” Matthew said. He waved cheerfully at the faeries. “It’s quite a tale, involving a duel, racing carriages, and a handsome prince of Faerieland. At least, he said he was a prince,” Matthew added. “I always get the feeling that everyone in Faerie is a prince or princess, rather like everyone in Lucie’s books is a secret duke or duchess.”

“Well, don’t keep your handsome prince to yourself.” Cordelia poked him in the shoulder. “I think I’d like to hear this tale.”

Matthew laughed. “All right, all right. In a moment. I must talk with the proprietor.”

He ducked away for a moment to speak to a faun whose antlers seemed far too large to allow him to pass through the building’s front door. There was a great deal of friendly nodding before Matthew returned and offered Cordelia his hand. She allowed herself to be led to a table close to the stage. When they sat, she saw that the glowing lights were not candles, as she’d assumed, but luminous faeries even smaller than the ones who had greeted Matthew.

Will-o’-the-wisps, perhaps? The one at their table was sitting in a glass bowl, legs crossed, wearing a small brown suit. He glowered at them as they sat.

Matthew tapped on the glass. “Not the most exciting job, is it?” he said sympathetically.

The faerie in the glass shrugged and revealed the tiny book he was holding. A small pair of spectacles sat on his nose. “One must make a living,” he said in a distinctly German accent, and went back to reading.

Matthew ordered coffee for both of them, drawing (and ignoring) a stern, disapproving look from the waiter. Cabarets likely made most of their profit from selling drinks, but Cordelia didn’t care; she was proud of Matthew’s efforts to be sober.

Matthew leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said. “Last year Anna and I were at the Abbaye de Thélème, a nightclub with a monastic theme, with cancan dancers dressed as priests and nuns. Very shocking for mundanes, I gather, rather as if I opened a cabaret where Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers posed nude.”

Cordelia laughed, earning a glare from the table faerie. Matthew went on, weaving with words and hands an amusing tale in which a faerie prince pursued by demonic assassins hid beneath his and Anna’s table. “Swiftly,” he said, “we armed ourselves. We had not been allowed to bring weapons inside—house rules—so we had to improvise. Anna slew a demon with a bread knife. I crushed a skull with a cured jambon. Anna hurled a wheel of cheese like a discus. Another evildoer was dispatched with a freshly pulled shot of steaming espresso.”

Cordelia had folded her arms across her chest. “Let me guess. The faerie prince had enraged the Downworlders of France by ordering a steak well done.”

Matthew ignored this. “A demon was set upon by a number of small, noisy dogs whose owner had brought them inexplicably to the cabaret—”

“None of this is true.”

Matthew laughed. “As with all the best stories, some of it is true.”

“Das ist Bl?dsinn,”muttered the lamp faerie. “Seems a load of nonsense to me.”

Matthew picked up the lamp and moved it to another table. By the time he returned, the waiter had served them coffee in tiny pewter cups. As Matthew slid back into his seat, he said, in a low voice, “Have you a stele with you? Or any weapons?”

Cordelia tensed. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Matthew said, playing with the handle of his coffee cup. “I realized I have just finished telling you a tale of improvised weapons, but you…”

“Cannot wield a weapon at all, lest I do it in her name.” Cordelia tried and failed to keep the bitterness from her voice; she did not want to speak the name of Lilith aloud, nor did she wish to give Lilith, even indirectly, the satisfaction of her fury. “But I do miss Cortana. Is that odd, to miss a sword?”

“Not if the sword has a great deal of personality—which Cortana does.”

She smiled, grateful at his understanding. She did not think he would like that she had given the sword to Alastair for safekeeping. Her brother and Matthew continued to dislike each other. So she had kept it to herself; besides, she had no idea where Alastair had hidden it. Before she could say anything else, the lights began to go down above them, and to come up on the empty stage.

Conversation died down, and a silence hung in the air, suddenly eerie. Into that silence came the tapping of shoes, and after a few moments a woman emerged onto the stage. Warlock, Cordelia guessed; she had that indefinable aura about her, of controlled power. Her hair was iron gray, knobbed into a chignon at the back of her head, though her face was youthful enough. She wore a deep blue velvet robe, embroidered all over with the symbols of the planets and stars.

A blue silk blindfold was tied around her eyes, but it didn’t appear to prevent her from knowing when she had reached the middle of the stage. She reached her arms out toward the audience and opened her hands, and Cordelia gasped. In the middle of each palm was a long-lashed human eye, bright green and sharply knowing.

“Quite a warlock mark, don’t you think?” Matthew whispered.

“Is she going to tell fortunes?” Cordelia wondered.

“Madame Dorothea is a medium,” said Matthew. “She claims she can speak to the dead—which all spiritualists claim, but she is a warlock. It’s possible there’s something to it.”

“Bon soir, mes amis,”said the warlock. Her voice was deep, strong as coffee. For such a small woman, her voice carried loudly to the back of the room. “I am Madame Dorothea, but think of me as Charon, child of Night, who plies his ferryboat over the river that divides the living and the dead. Like him, I am equally at home with life and death. The power I have through these”—and she held up her hands—“my second set of eyes, allows me to glimpse the worlds between, the worlds beyond.”

She moved to the edge of the stage. The eyes set into her palms blinked, turning back and forth within their sockets, examining the audience.

“There is someone here,” Madame Dorothea said. “Someone who has lost a brother. A beloved sibling who cries out now to be heard… by his brother, Jean-Pierre.” She raised her voice. “Jean-Pierre, are you here?”

There was an anticipatory silence, and slowly a middle-aged werewolf rose to his feet at one of the back tables. “Yes? I am Jean-Pierre Arland.” His voice was quiet in the emptiness.

“And you have lost a brother?” Madame Dorothea cried.

“He died two years ago.”

“I bring you a message from him,” Madame Dorothea said. “From Claude. That was his name, correct?”

The whole room was silent. Cordelia found that her own palms were damp with tension. Was Dorothea really communing with the dead? Lucie did it—it was possible—Cordelia had seen her do it, so she didn’t know why she felt so anxious.

“Yes,” said Arland warily. He wanted to believe, Cordelia thought, but he was not sure. “What—what does he say?”

Madame Dorothea closed her hands. When she opened them again, the green eyes were blinking rapidly. She spoke, her voice low and gruff: “Jean-Pierre. You must give them back.”

The werewolf looked baffled. “What?”

“The chickens!” Madame Dorothea said. “You must give them back!”

“I… I will,” Jean-Pierre said, sounding stunned. “I will, Claude—”

“You must give them all back!” Madame Dorothea cried. Jean-Pierre looked around him in a panic, and then bolted for the door.

“Maybe he ate them,” Matthew whispered. Cordelia wanted to smile, but the odd feeling of anxiety was still there. She watched as Dorothea gathered herself, glaring at the audience through her open palms.

“I thought we would get to ask questions!” someone cried from a corner of the room.

“The messages come first!” Madame Dorothea barked in her original voice. “The dead sense a doorway. They rush to deliver their words. They must be allowed to speak.” The eyes in her palms closed, then opened again. “There is someone here,” she said. “Someone who has lost her father.” The green eyes swiveled and came to rest on Cordelia. “Une chasseuse des ombres.”

A Shadowhunter.

Cordelia went cold as whispers flew through the room: most had not known Shadowhunters were in their midst. She looked quickly at Matthew—had he known about this?—but he seemed just as surprised as Cordelia was. He slid a hand toward hers on the table, their fingertips brushing. “We can leave—”

“No,” Cordelia whispered. “No—I want to stay.”

She looked up to find Madame Dorothea gazing fixedly at her. The lights at the edge of the stage cast her shadow back against the wall, massive and black. As she raised her arms, the sleeves of her robe appeared as dark wings.

“Cordelia. Your father is here,” Madame Dorothea said simply, and her voice was oddly quiet now, as though she were speaking so only Cordelia could hear. “Will you listen?”

Cordelia gripped the edge of the table. She nodded, aware of the gaze of the whole cabaret. Aware that she was exposing herself, her grief. Unable to stop, regardless.

When Madame Dorothea spoke again, her voice was deeper. Not gruff, but modulated, and in English, without the trace of a French accent. “Layla,” he said, and Cordelia tensed all over. It was him. It could be no one else; who else would be aware of the family nickname? “I am so sorry, Layla.”

“Father,” she whispered. She glanced quickly at Matthew; he looked stricken.

“There is much I would tell you,” said Elias. “But I must warn you first. They will not wait. And the sharpest weapon lies close at hand.”

There was a murmur in the club, those who could speak English translating for those who could not.

“I don’t understand,” Cordelia said, with some difficulty. “Who will not wait?”

“In time there will be sorrow,” Elias went on. “But not regret. There will be quiet. But not peace.”

“Father—”

“They wake,” Elias said. “If I can tell you nothing else, let me tell you this. They are waking. It cannot be stopped.”

“But I don’t understand,” Cordelia protested again. The green eyes in Dorothea’s palms stared at her, blank as paper, without compassion or sympathy. “Who is waking?”

“Not we,” Elias said. “We who are already dead. We are the lucky ones.”

And Madame Dorothea collapsed to the ground.