I have come here to speak to Cordelia, Enoch went on, on a subject related to the murders and their investigation.
Cordelia stood up straighter. “Anything you want to say to me privately, you can say to all of my friends.”
As you wish. In the Ossuarium you asked me a question about Filomena di Angelo’s Strength rune.
The others were looking at Cordelia in confusion. “I had asked,” Cordelia explained, “whether she had one.”
She did, Enoch said. She wore a permanent Strength rune on her wrist, according to her family, but that rune is missing now.
“Missing?” Christopher sounded baffled. “How’s that possible? Scarred over, you mean?”
There is no scar. A rune can be used up, leaving only a phantom of itself behind, but it cannot vanish from one’s skin entirely once it has been drawn. Enoch’s focus shifted to Cordelia. How did you know?
“I saw my father’s Voyance rune was missing,” Cordelia said, “and in the courtyard, when Filomena’s body was there, I thought I noticed her Strength rune missing from her wrist. It could have been nothing, my own memory playing tricks—but after I noticed my father’s rune, I had to ask.…”
She could feel the weight of Brother Enoch’s gaze, as if he were staring at her, though she knew he did not see as ordinary people did. She tried to keep her face expressionless. She hoped the others were doing the same. Lying to a Silent Brother was more than difficult: if Enoch chose to rummage in her mind, he’d see easily enough that it had been Filomena’s ghost herself who’d hinted at the truth.
He took my strength.
If she told the truth, though, there would be inquiries—prodding—questions that might turn toward Lucie. She willed herself to look pleasant and blank, as James did when he wore the Mask.
“But what could it mean?” James said, the sharpness in his tone cutting the tension like a knife. “The fact that two of the victims are missing runes? It’s not possible to steal runes, and even if one did, what use would they be?”
“As some sort of trophy, maybe?” Lucie said, with a grateful look in Cordelia’s direction.
Christopher looked slightly ill. “Jack the Ripper took… parts… of the people he killed.”
Lucie said, “Or as proof the person is dead? If the killer was acting at the behest of someone else—if he had hired himself out, perhaps, and had to prove he’d done the deed—”
That could not be. It is not that the skin where the rune is inked has been cut away, said Enoch. The rune itself has been taken. Its spirit. Its soul, if you will.
Anna was shaking her head. “But what could one do with a rune that’s been removed? It’s bizarre—”
She broke off as Enoch went suddenly, perfectly still. He held his hands up, as if to stop all noise. He was speaking with the other Silent Brothers in his head, Cordelia realized. She knew they were all connected, a strange and silent chorus bound together across the globe.
After a long moment, Enoch lowered his hand. His blind gaze swept over the group. I have received a message from my brothers. Lilian Highsmith has been murdered, and an arrest made. The Inquisitor believes he has found the murderer.
Cordelia could not prevent herself from shooting a quick look at James. Someone had been murdered while James had been literally bound and imprisoned: it was impossible for him to have done it. Relief went through her in a wave, followed immediately by horror and shock: horror that someone had died, shock that the culprit might have been found.
“Who have they arrested?” Anna demanded. “Who did this?”
I believe it is someone you know, said Enoch, his silent voice grim. Thomas Lightwood.
* * *
The carriage hurtled through the streets of London, whipping in and out of traffic: thank Raziel it was a Sunday, and the roads were not crowded. It had barely come to a stop in the Institute courtyard before James had flung open the door and leaped down onto the flagstones.
There was already a crowd in the courtyard: Shadowhunters milling about, murmuring among themselves and stamping their feet in the cold of the morning. Some were in gear, others in their normal day dress. Cordelia and Lucie were scrambling down after James; the second carriage pulled in after them, disgorging Anna, Matthew, and Christopher. Everyone looked as stunned as James felt. It was some kind of thundering, bitter irony, like an awful revenge of the angels, he thought, giving the crowd a wide berth as he headed to the front door of the Institute. No sooner had it been proven that he was not guilty of the murders than Thomas was falsely accused.