James went over to Thomas. “It isn’t hard,” he said. “You push down the hammer, like this, and sight down along your arm. Aim and pull the trigger.”
With an intense look of concentration, Thomas followed James’s directions, the hammer clicking as he cocked the gun and aimed at the statue of Raziel. James hurriedly backed away as Thomas clamped down on the trigger.
There was a loud click. Christopher’s face fell. Thomas gave the gun a shake, as though it were a cart whose wheels had gotten stuck in snow.
“Don’t wave it about, Tom, even if it isn’t working,” James warned, and Thomas handed the revolver quickly to James. James examined it, taking care to keep the muzzle pointed at the wall, away from the others. The gun was heavier than he had expected, its river-gray barrel etched with the inscription LUKE 12:49.
“Where did you get that thing, anyway?” said Thomas.
“It’s from America,” Christopher said, looking discouraged by the failure of his experiment. “Henry acquired it years ago. It’s a Colt Single Action Army revolver. Mundanes call it a ‘Peacemaker.’？”
James wrapped his hand around the grip, finding it fit his hand comfortably. Experimentally he pushed down the hammer with his thumb. He squinted down the barrel, lining up the dusty alabaster statue with the sight. “But runes prevent it from firing.”
Christopher sighed. “They do. Only I thought I’d found a way around the problem. I tried different mixes for the gunpowder, different runes, I even said the protection spell over the gun—you know, ‘Sanvi to the right of me, Semangelaf behind me—’？”
“That’s part of the protection spells they say over Shadowhunters when they’re born,” said James. “It’s a gun, not a baby, Kit. And besides,” he added, resting his finger on the trigger experimentally, “it doesn’t—”
The gun bucked in James’s hand. A deafening crack echoed in the small room, followed by a muffled explosion. In the stunned silence that followed, the three of them watched a small cloud of blue smoke drift away from the gun.
The statue of Raziel was now deprived of its left wing. Bits of alabaster skittered off the mantel onto the worktable below.
James looked down at the gun in his hands with wonderment and not a little apprehension.
“Mundanes call that a Peacemaker, you say?” Thomas asked indignantly. “Mundanes are even odder than I thought.”
But Christopher gave a triumphant crow. “By the Angel, James, this is tremendous. Tremendous! You’ve made it work! Let me see.”
James held the gun out to Christopher, grip first. “It’s all yours.” He listened for hurried footsteps above, but none came. Henry had mentioned that he was improving the soundproofing of the laboratory—or maybe it was just that the residents were so accustomed to occasional explosions that they no longer batted an eyelash.
Christopher cocked the hammer with more assurance than James would have expected and pointed the gun at the dummy in the fireplace. James and Thomas both hastily covered their ears, but when Christopher pulled the trigger, there was only the click of the hammer returning to its starting position, and the cylinder revolving. Christopher tried twice more, then shook his head in frustration.
“Maybe it was just a fluke that it fired that one time,” he said, his disappointment evident.
“May I?” James took the gun back from Christopher. “I wonder…”
This time he aimed at the straw dummy in the fireplace, and this time he was ready for the gun’s strong recoil. With another almighty bang it jumped in James’s hand, and the dummy’s chest burst, straw exploding in all directions. Thomas inhaled a stray bit and fell into a coughing fit. James set down the revolver carefully on its side and knelt in the fireplace, searching for the slug, which he found embedded in a neat hole in the mortar.
“Maybe only you can fire it,” Christopher said, after thumping Thomas on the back until he could breathe again. “Because of your—your lineage. Interesting.”
Thomas picked up the gun and gave it one last curious look before handing it back to James. “Perhaps James should keep it.”
“As long as you’re willing to come back over for some experiments with it later, Jamie,” Christopher said. “We’ll try to find a safer place to test it out.”
James hefted the Colt in his hands, balancing its weight. He had heard other Shadowhunters talk about discovering the weapon that would become their favorite, the one they were never without, the one they reached for first in battle. James had always assumed his weapon was knives—he was good with them, but it was true there had never been a particular blade that had caught his fancy. That he might have just discovered his weapon of choice because of his heritage was not an altogether welcome thought.