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Before he even touched the mirror’s handle, he felt as though it were in his hand: smooth and cool to the touch, humming with power. It seemed made of black adamas, or something very close to it, surrounding a circle of dark glass. And around the edge of the glass were runes, obviously demonic, though not in a language James recognized.
He touched the glass. When his finger made contact, though, there was a sudden flash, like an unexpected leaping ember from a fire. He sucked in his breath.
“Belial,” he said, and everyone seemed to jump. He was conscious of Cordelia looking at him with wide eyes, darker than the mirror’s glass. He forced himself not to stare at her. “I—cannot tell you what the mirror does; I’ve no idea. But I would swear on my life that Belial gave it to Tatiana. I can feel his touch on it.”
“It looks just like the pithos,” Lucie observed. “Belial’s stele-thingy that he used to steal runes from his victims’ bodies. Maybe Belial gave Tatiana a whole vanity set?”
“Try touching it yourself, Luce,” Anna suggested, and after a moment, Lucie reached out her hand and skated it across the mirror’s surface.
This time, there was a flicker from within the mirror, like a dancing flame. It was faint, but it continued to glow as long as Lucie was touching it.
She drew her hand back, biting her lip. “Indeed,” she said, her voice subdued. “It has Belial’s aura.”
“I doubt it was just a gift,” said Cordelia. “I don’t think Belial would have given it to Tatiana unless it had some darker purpose.”
“More than just looking up chimneys,” Ariadne agreed.
“We should bring the book and the mirror back to the Institute,” Jesse said. “Have a closer look at both. And I’ll start trying to decipher my mother’s notes; they are written in a sort of code, but not a complicated one.”
James nodded. “And I agree about returning to the Institute. It’s warded, for one thing, and I would also rather we not remain at Chiswick after dark, all things considered. Who knows what else might be roaming the grounds?”
16 CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT
We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.
—Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2
Cordelia had been nervous about approaching the Hell Ruelle, given what had happened at the cabaret in Paris, but the doorman (a squat, broad-shouldered fellow with a square jaw and lidless toad’s eyes) gave her only a cursory glance before allowing her in. It seemed she was a known visitor, a fact that Cordelia was not sure whether she should be pleased about. She hadn’t visited the Ruelle that many times, she thought, but it appeared she’d left an impression.
This was the first time she’d ever come to the Downworlder salon alone. She had not told anyone what she was planning. She felt a little guilty about it—Anna had been so kind to her, and Alastair had spent all day with Christopher and Thomas in the Institute library, searching out ways to help her. When she had returned to the Institute from Chiswick House with the others, they had found the boys waiting for them in the chapel. Apparently Christopher had only just returned from Limehouse, where he had purchased an amulet from Hypatia Vex’s magic shop.
“It seems there are loads of these,” he’d said, passing it over to her. It was silver, round like a coin, with a pin on the back that allowed it to be worn as a brooch. “Protective amulets against Lilith specifically. Even mundanes used to wear them, and Shadowhunters did before the protection rituals were invented. It has the names of the three angels who oppose Lilith etched on it, the ones who blessed James’s gun. Sanvi, Sansanvi, Semangelaf.” He traced the Hebrew letters with his fingers before handing the amulet to Cordelia. “It won’t make you not a paladin anymore, but it may discourage Lilith from approaching you.”
That night, after dinner, she’d pinned it to the sleeve of her dark blue dress before clambering out her window—with a silent apology to Alastair, but there was no point telling him where she was going; he would only worry—and hurrying to hail a hansom cab on the street.
She had been too worried about Matthew to sleep. Anna’s words kept echoing in her head: He needs help now. The sort I am afraid I cannot give him, because he will refuse it. Did Anna know about Matthew’s drinking? And regardless of whether she did or not, Cordelia did know—and had not spoken to him about it since they’d returned to London. She’d been too angry, too caught up in protecting herself against the kind of pain her father had caused her.
But Matthew deserved—needed—friends. And instinct told her that if she were to find him, it would be here.
The place was bustling, as usual. Tonight the main salon was done in a kind of deep winter theme, with walls of deep blue, and papier-mâché sculptures of snow-burdened trees dangling in midair. The floor was covered with a sort of brilliant false snow, made of what looked like tiny pearls. The tips of Cordelia’s black velvet boots scattered them as she walked; they turned colors as they rose into the air, reflecting miniature rainbows. Everywhere were stamped images of the moon, in various phases—full, half, crescent—in gold paint.
Cordelia was surprised; it did not seem long since she had last been here, and the theme had been a celebration of Lilith, which she had braced herself to endure. She was relieved to see the change and tried to look about unobtrusively, seeking a glimpse of a familiar head of blond curls.
As always, there were sofas and low divans scattered around the salon, and Downworlders crowded onto them, most deep in conversation. There were vampires with powder-white faces, and werewolves in sack suits; faeries dressed as parlormaids, with seaweed curls peeking out from under their mobcaps, moved among the guests, carrying trays of drinks. An unfamiliar warlock with cat’s ears sat across from a round gnome in a pin-striped suit, arguing about the Boer Wars.
But she did not see Matthew. Cordelia blew out a frustrated breath, just as Hypatia Vex herself glided up to her. She wore a silver gown that spread in a pool around her feet, but somehow did not catch on things as she walked—magic, surely—and, atop her head, a massive midnight-blue headdress into the center of which was set a white pearl, the size of a dinner plate and etched to resemble the moon.
“Shadowhunter,” Hypatia said pleasantly, “if you must insist on attending my salon, I’d thank you to take a seat. I cannot tell you how much having Nephilim hovering about unnerves my guests.”
The first time Cordelia had met Hypatia, she had found her terrifying. Now she just smiled politely. “Good evening, Hypatia. Your hat matches your eyes.”
Hypatia’s eyes, whose pupils were the shape of stars, sparkled a bit. Cordelia had known Hypatia long enough to recognize that a bit of flattery was helpful when speaking with her. “Thank you. It was a gift from a sultan. I don’t recall which one.”
“I haven’t any intention of staying and disturbing your guests,” Cordelia said. “I only came to see if Matthew Fairchild was here.”
Hypatia’s perfectly plucked brows rose. “It distresses me that Shadowhunters have decided the place they are most likely to find wayward members of the Enclave is in my salon.”
“He’s not some wayward member of the Enclave,” Cordelia said. “He’s Matthew.”
