The ghost let out a long sigh—a sigh without breath; it sounded for all the world like wind through broken boughs. “Thank you.”
“But first,” she said, “tell me where Filomena is.”
* * *
They found their way to the library. The world was swaying around James like the rolling deck of a ship. He staggered over to a long table and braced his hands on it; he was dimly aware of Matthew beside him, of Cordelia’s soft voice as she spoke to Anna. He wanted to go over and put his head in Cordelia’s lap. He imagined her stroking his hair, and pushed the image away: he already owed her an apology for earlier that morning.
Memories of his dream were pouring into his mind like water through a smashed dam. London streets—light glinting off a blade. Red blood, red as roses. The recollection of a song, sung in delicate Italian, verses turned into screams.
And that hatred again. That hate he could not fathom or explain.
“Math,” he said, rigid with strain. “Tell—Anna. Explain to her.”
Voices swirled around James, Anna’s calm and measured, Matthew’s urgent. Thomas and Cordelia chiming in. I have to get hold of myself, James thought.
“Daisy,” he said. “Constantinople.”
“Oh God, he’s raving,” said Thomas dismally. “Perhaps we ought to get Aunt Charlotte—”
“He’s not,” said Cordelia. “He’s just having an awful time—Thomas, do move out of the way.” James felt her cool hand on his shoulder. Heard her soft voice as she bent toward him. “James, just listen for a moment. Focus on my voice. Can you do that?”
He nodded, grinding his teeth. The hatred was like knives in his skull. He could see hands scrabbling at cobblestones, feel a sick sort of pleasure that was the worst bit of all.
“Once Constantinople was called Basileousa, the Queen of Cities,” Cordelia said, in a voice so low he suspected only he could hear it. “The city had a golden gate, used only for the return of emperors. No one else could pass through it. Did you know the Byzantines created Greek fire? It could burn underwater. Mundane historians have lost the source of the fire, the method of its making, but some Shadowhunters believe it to have been heavenly fire itself. Imagine the light of angels, burning beneath the blue waters of the Stamboul port.…”
James closed his eyes. Against the back of his eyelids, he could see the city take shape—the minarets flung darkly against a blue sky, the silver river. Cordelia’s voice, low and familiar, rose above the clamor of his nightmare. He followed it out of the darkness, like Theseus following the length of thread out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth.
And it was not the first time. Her voice had lifted him out of fever, once, had been his light in shadows.…
A sharp pain spiked through his temples. He blinked his eyes open: he was firmly back in the present, his friends all looking at him worriedly. Cordelia had already moved away from him, leaving behind the lingering scent of jasmine. He could still feel where her fingers had rested against his shoulder.
“I’m all right,” he said. He stood up straight; there were lines across his palms where the edge of the table had cut into his skin. His head ached abominably.
“You dreamed of Filomena’s death?” said Anna, perching on the arm of a chair. “And this has nothing to do with your visions of the shadow realm?”
“I did dream of her death. Pounceby’s, too. But they’re not dreams of a different world,” James said, drawing out his stele. An iratze would fix his headache, at least. “I dream of London. The details are real. The only death I didn’t see was Amos Gladstone’s, and I still had a nightmare that night, a sort of vision of blood.”
“The Enclave is fairly certain that he was also murdered,” said Thomas. “His throat was slashed roughly—they had assumed by a demon talon, but it could have been someone with a serrated blade.”
“Perhaps the murderer was still working out his technique,” said Matthew. “I suppose even killers have to practice.”
“He certainly seemed to be taking more pleasure from killing Filomena,” said James. Having sketched a quick healing rune on his wrist, he put his stele back in his pocket. “It was sickening.”
Lucie appeared in the doorway, giving them a start. She was very pale. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I stayed behind—”
“Lucie!” Cordelia exclaimed, hurrying over to her friend. “Are you all right?”