The Other World (A Shadowhunters Fanfiction)

Prologue: 48 Curzon Street

48 Curzon Street

Lucie was alive, sleeping safe in her bed in the Institute, under Jessamine's careful watch. And James clung to that when he finally returned back home in the dead of night, days after Jesse had been raised from the dead.

Jesse was being detained in the Silent City, though Raziel knows Lucie had tried to fight it. She'd explained over and over again, I raised Jesse! I brought him to life! I didn't use dark magic, I didn't use anything.

Will, their father, had restrained her and let Brother Zachariah take Jesse away. Jesse didn't protest; he was still clothed in those ancient garments he'd died in, and he still looked pale as death, feverish sweat coating his brow. He touched Lucie's face one last time, smiled, and let Jem take him.

James believed Lucie was telling the truth, but Jesse hadn't confirmed Lucie's words. He'd said that Malcolm raised him with dark magic. That Lucie lied to protect him.

And Jesse was lying to protect her. Because—as Will and James well knew—if it was thought that Lucie had done magic to raise the dead, she would be locked into the Silent City next. Or she would be delivered to the Clave.

James was calm knowing Lucie was safe, but even that couldn't assuage the bone-deep anxiety he had felt since Cordelia had gone. He kept the broken bracelet on his bedside, stared at it for hours that night as he tried to fall asleep. He was trying to wrap his head around the years of love he'd been certain he felt for Grace. He remembered it all as a fog now, like a malignant cancer had crept into his mind.

He held Cordelia's kidskin glove in his hand, still.

He'd hated Grace fiercely, those first few days. Hated her and raged against her in his mind—for stealing so many firsts, for stealing that perfect realization of his love for Cordelia. But hatred had grown exhausting, and now James only felt grief. Grief, and that vague anxiety he could not name.

He had lost so many things. He had had the possibility of a real marriage with Cordelia, from the start—if he'd even known his own heart. If she'd reciprocated his love.

And would it always be so overwhelming? This love didn't feel the way it had with Grace—an almost blind devotion, a pain that snaked beneath his ribs, a pain that felt so certain and worth it until it didn't.

It hit him like a shipwreck on sharp rocks, this love he had for Cordelia. This felt fierce and soft at once, flame-like but tender, a hundred contradictions. He understood now that there had never been anyone for him but Cordelia. His father had been correct. Herondales did only love once.

Eventually, he pushed aside his blankets and rose. He didn't understand where he was going until he reached Cordelia's room.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying. Cortana was not in its place, he realized.

James might have stayed there, that night. He might have fallen asleep in Cordelia's room just to be surrounded in the scent of her, simply because he missed her, the best friend whom he'd shared so much wonderful time with in the past several months.

But then he heard a violent knocking arising from the door, and a commanding voice to follow.

"JAMES! James, let me in, dammit!"

James recognized the voice as Matthew's. His blood chilled, and he bolted down the stairs quick as he could, distressed by the tenor of his parabatai's voice. The knock came twice more before James reached the door and wrenched it open.

Matthew stumbled in through the doorway.

In the moonlight, dimmed by London cloud cover, James registered red-black blood on Matthew's hands, ichor burns on his fine waistcoat and jacket. In a strangled voice, James said, "What happened?"

He didn't bother to answer; he went into the study, limped toward a chair, leaned heavily on it and tried to catch his breath. "I've just come from the Institute," he said. "Haven't you heard by now, James?"

"Let me draw you some iratzes—" James had already gotten to work, drawing the lines hastily with his stele, watching as they sank into his parabatai's skin.

"James, it's not my blood," Matthew was saying. "It is Cordelia's."

James finally went still and felt the panic start to rise. The anxiety he'd suppressed for days—the strange sensation that something was wrong, even though he didn't know what.

"Where is she?" James said. "By the Angel, Math, take me to her—"

James was already reached for a gear belt, a jacket, but Matthew was standing still as stone and watching him with a look he could not fathom. He felt hot-and-cold waves of fear wash through him.

"Math," he said. "Tell me where she is."

Matthew closed his eyes and swallowed.

"Matthew, dammit—"

"She's dead," Matthew whispered. "Cordelia is dead."