A heavy knock came at the front door. Cordelia exchanged a surprised look with her mother before heading to the entryway. Risa had answered the door, and on the front step stood the grubby newsboy Matthew had given her satchel to outside Gast’s flat. One of the Irregulars, she recalled, the Downworlder boys who worked out of the Devil Tavern and ran errands for James and the others.

“Got a message here for Miss Cordelia Carstairs,” he said, clinging to a folded piece of paper.

“That’s me,” Cordelia said. “Do you, er, require payment?”

“Nope,” said the boy, grinning cheerfully. “Been paid already by Mr. Matthew Fairchild. ’Ere you go!”

He handed over the message and scrambled down the steps, whistling. Risa shut the door, sharing a puzzled look with Cordelia. Why would Matthew send her a note like this? Cordelia wondered, unfolding the paper. What could be so urgent?

The note fell open. There were only a few words on the page, but they stood out in shocking black ink.

Come at once to the Devil Tavern. There was an attack. Christopher is badly wounded.

—James

“Cordelia?” Sona had come into the entryway. “What’s going on?”

Her hands shaking, Cordelia handed the note to her mother. Sona read it quickly before pressing the note back into Cordelia’s hand. “You must go and be with your friends.”

Relief washed over Cordelia. She started to dash upstairs for her things but paused. “I should wear my gear,” she said. “But it’s still damp from the river.”

Sona smiled at her—a weary, worried smile, the smile of so many Shadowhunter parents down through the ages who had watched their children march into the night, carrying blades blessed by angels, knowing they might never return. “Layla, my daughter. You can wear mine.”

Cordelia raced up the steps inside the Devil Tavern and burst into the Merry Thieves’ clubrooms. It was quite late in the afternoon now, and sunlight filtered through the east window, laying gold bars of light across the shabby little space and its occupants. Matthew was sprawled on the sofa, Lucie in a ragged armchair. Lucie looked up and smiled when Cordelia came in, but her eyes were red. James alone was standing: he leaned against the wall by the window, the shadows deep under his eyes. All three Shadowhunters were in gear.

“What happened?” Cordelia said, a little breathless. “I—what can I do?”

Matthew looked up at her. His voice was hoarse. “We were at my house, using my father’s laboratory,” he said. “They—the Khora demons—were waiting for us when we left.”

“We ought to have been prepared,” said James. He was opening and closing his right hand, as if he wished to crush something in his palm. “We should have remembered. We were hurrying for the carriage—they attacked us in front of the house. One of them tore a gash across Christopher’s chest.”