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James swept up the steps, letting her pass by him into the entryway. When they were inside, he slammed the door behind him, shoving his pistol into a holster on his belt.
“Hello?” Effie’s voice drifted up from downstairs, sounding querulous. Well, that answered that question.
“It’s nothing, Effie!” James shouted. He caught hold of Cordelia’s arm—his grip was firm, but not painful—and half herded her down the hall to the study.
Once inside, he flung the study door shut behind them. There was no other light in the room but the fire Cordelia had noticed earlier, and the shadows in the corners were deep and black. James rounded on Cordelia, his face white with fury. “What,” he said, between gritted teeth, “the bloody hell did you think you were doing?”
Cordelia was stunned. She had never seen James like this. He looked as if he wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands; the pulse at his throat showed the battering of his heartbeat. “I—”
“I heard you,” he said tightly. “It wasn’t as if you just wandered out at nightfall, which would have been foolish enough, and happened to encounter a group of demons. You summoned them.”
“I had to,” Cordelia gasped. She took a step back, nearly knocking into their chess table. “I had to ask them—about Belial—”
“Are you mad? Do you think you’re the first Shadowhunter to think of capturing and questioning demons? They lie. And they’ll attack if they have the slightest opportunity.”
“But I am a paladin,” Cordelia cried. “It’s awful, I loathe it—don’t imagine that I feel anything other than hatred for this thing that binds me to Lilith. But they fear me because of it. They dare not touch me—”
“Oh?” snarled James. “They dare not touch you? That’s not what it bloody looked like.”
“The demon at Chiswick House—it was about to tell me something about Belial, before you shot it.”
“Listen to yourself, Cordelia!” James shouted. “You are without Cortana! You cannot even lift a weapon! Do you know what it means to me, that you cannot protect yourself? Do you understand that I am terrified, every moment of every day and night, for your safety?”
Cordelia stood speechless. She had no idea what to say. She blinked, and felt something hot against her cheek. She put her hand up quickly—surely she was not crying?—and it came away scarlet.
“You’re bleeding,” James said. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He caught her chin and lifted it, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “Just a scratch,” he breathed. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Daisy, tell me—”
“No. I’m fine. I promise you,” she said, her voice wavering as his intent golden gaze spilled over her, searching her for signs of injury. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s the furthest thing from nothing,” James rasped. “By the Angel, when I realized you’d gone out, at night, weaponless—”
“What were you even doing at the house? I thought you were staying at the Institute.”
“I came to get something for Jesse,” James said. “I took him shopping, with Anna—he needed clothes, but we forgot cuff links—”
“He did need clothes,” Cordelia agreed. “Nothing he had fit.”
“Oh, no,” said James. “We are not chatting. When I came in, I saw your dress in the hall, and Effie told me she’d caught a glimpse of you leaving. Not getting into a carriage, just wandering off toward Shepherd Market—”
“So you Tracked me?”
“I had no choice. And then I saw—you had gone to where your father died,” he said, after a moment. “I thought—I was afraid—”
“That I wanted to die too?” Cordelia whispered. It had not occurred to her that he might think that. “James. I may be foolish, but I am not self-destructive.”
“And I thought, had I made you as miserable as that? I have made so many mistakes, but none were calculated to hurt you. And then I saw what you were doing, and I thought, yes, she does want to die. She wants to die and this is how she’s chosen to do it.” He was breathing hard, almost gasping, and she realized how much of his fury was despair.
“James,” she said. “It was a foolish thing to do, but at no moment did I want to die—”
He caught at her shoulders. “You cannot hurt yourself, Daisy. You must not. Hate me, hit me, do anything you want to me. Cut up my suits and set fire to my books. Tear my heart into pieces, scatter them across England. But do not harm yourself—” He pulled her toward him, suddenly, pressing his lips to her hair, her cheek. She caught him by the arms, her fingers digging into his sleeves, holding him to her. “I swear to the Angel,” he said, in a muffled voice, “if you die, I will die, and I will haunt you. I will give you no peace—”
He kissed her mouth. Perhaps it had been meant to be a quick kiss, but she could not help herself: she kissed back. And it was like breathing air after being trapped underground for weeks, like coming up into sunlight after darkness.
James caught at her waist, pulled her tight against him, his mouth slanting over hers. She had kissed him before, and it had always been overwhelming, an experience that shattered all her senses. But there was something different in this kiss—never had she felt such unbridled desperation in him, such a consuming blaze of need and fury and love, a whirlwind that seemed to spin her high into the upper atmosphere, where she could barely breathe.
They fell back against the wall. Her hands threaded themselves into his dark hair, soft and familiar. He bit at her lower lip, sending a shudder of exquisite sharpness through her before he soothed the sting with his tongue. She delved into his mouth; the sweet heat of him was like hot honey, and the moan she wrung from him was pure gratification. Kissing him was like traveling, exciting and unfamiliar, and at the same time it was coming home. It was everything.
“Daisy,” he whispered against her mouth, sending delicious shivers through her, a chorus of cascading sparks. “Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you? Do you?”
