The Other World (A Shadowhunters Fanfiction)

Chapter 10: The Alchemist

James was lost in a blur of desperation for days. Alastair took him to all the places Cordelia was most likely to hide Cortana, and Lucie helped as well, but the trouble was everyone knew how unlikely it was that Cordelia would put it somewhere she might subsequently want to return to. James cursed Lillith bitterly for it—for leaving Cordelia so vulnerable, for putting her in danger. Lillith had overestimated Cordelia's hubris; she was humble, even if she was a warrior, and it might cost her her life.

James spent nights in Cordelia's room, drifting in and out of a feverish sleep—he dreamt delirious visions of Cordelia, in agony, at Belial's hand. He suspected the dreams were real, being sent to him by Belial—a ticking clock over his head. Over hers.

Whenever he awoke between dreams, it was to anxiety like nothing he had ever known; feverish fear that bordered on hysteria. Pacing, screaming into her pillow until his throat was raw, puking in the small bathroom. He often re-awoke there later, on the bathroom floor, and rinsed his mouth and washed his face so he could face the day ahead of him. At least, in the day, he could do something with his adrenaline, with his fury. Belial did not know the fire he was kindling.

He forced himself not to think of her in the day—the agony she was in. He needed to focus on finding her, and to do that, he could not be focused on how badly he wanted to cut out Belial's heart.

It took six days to find the goddamn sword.

It was Lucie who figured it out. "Where would she put Cortana, if she wanted to know she would not be able to use it? Who would Cordelia give it to?"

"Brother Zachariah," James breathed, catching on.

Lucie nodded.

They went to the Silent City—James, Lucie, and Alastair, leaving the others behind—and James wondered how he would be able to persuade Jem that this was the right thing, giving Cordelia's sword to a group of rogue teenagers who likely inherited a streak of their parents' independence.

And Uncle Jem seemed to know, immediately, that they were up to something.

The Silent City was chill that day, at least to James, in comparison with when he'd been here last—with Matthew, for his parabatai ceremony. Jem had deep grooves carved into his face from the shadows—beneath his closed eyes, in the lines in his face.

We have not seen much of you at the Institute since news arrived about Cordelia, he began, voice echoing in their heads.

"No," James agreed. "We are—here about that, actually. We have an inquiry we believe could be of some assistance in the search for her. But first—"

A lump caught in his throat. Lucie looked at him sideways, her expression doused in shadow. James couldn't tell anything from her silence.

"How is the search effort progressing?" Alastair said finally.

Jem was solemn. No decisions have been made.

James had expected it. Still—it hurt to hear, like a punch to the gut, because every second the damned Clave wasted was another second of Cordelia's pain.

He decided to skip the pleasantries. "We need to find Cortana."

"And," Lucie said, "we suspect she entrusted it to you."

Jem did not need to ask who she was. I think I do not need to warn out of the danger. Although I understand why you feel the need to... to try to speed along the search... perhaps you should inform Will and Tessa, and Sona Carstairs, of course.

"Of course," James said, and the lie slipped from his tongue so easily that it almost scared him.

But... there was almost nothing he felt truly afraid of anymore.

Alastair, eyes hard, spoke next. "Please, Brother Zachariah, I am begging you—not just as a Shadowhunter, but as a Carstairs." He swallowed. "As a nephew. She is my sister. I can think of nothing but her, day or night, for fear that she is in pain—"

That lump rose again, in James' throat, and Brother Zachariah seemed to see that, too—even with closed eyes. Finally, he nodded.

Very well. If this is what you feel you must do, I will not stop you. I will bring you Cortana.

James worried, later, that to do what needed to be done, he needed to leave Alastair behind. It was cruel; he knew it was cruel, and that it could very nearly break Cordelia's brother—for the boy was more fragile than he ever showed.

But James knew he could not think of that, or of everyone else he was leaving behind—not if he wanted to make this happen.

That night, while the others waited behind in the parlor on Curzon Street for James to arrive with Cortana, he returned to the Institute, where the courtyard was still in ruins. He knew the fabric that separated worlds was thinner here.

He hefted Cortana in one hand. He had a pack on his back filled with water and supplies, and his runed gun tucked into his belt. It felt wrong to hold Cortana, wrong in his hand, as though the blade longed for her, for its rightful bearer. He wore Cortana's sheathe on his back, and slid the sword back into place there before he began to reach out, with his mind, for the door.

It was easy, to his surprise. He felt the other realm wrap itself around his mind, like the tendrils of a plant or the creeping of insects, pouring through the cracks. He flinched away from it, from the way it crawled beneath his skin, from the discomfort—and he heard a small voice in his mind murmuring this.

This is familiar; I've felt this before.

He knew he recognized the feeling, but he couldn't pin down where it was from. He shook off the unease, and tried to let himself give into it, let himself be drawn in by the vines, the tendrils, the strangely malignant living thing that was this other realm. He could sense the entrance, opening, unfurling like petals in sunshine.

Or perhaps like the mouth of a Venus Fly Trap.

Nevertheless, he took a breath and stepped inside.