Christopher had been stripped of his shirt. Dozens of white bandages encircled his narrow chest; blood had already soaked through some of them, forming a scarlet patch over his heart. His glasses were gone, and his eyes seemed sunk deep into his skull, the shadows below them dark purple. Black veins unfurled like coral beneath his skin. “Matthew,” he said with hoarse disbelief. “Jamie.”

James reached to touch his friend’s shoulder, and Christopher caught at his wrist. His fingers were twitching; he picked restlessly at the cuff of James’s jacket. “Tell Thomas,” he whispered. “He can finish the antidote without me. He only needs the root. Tell him.”

Matthew was silent; he seemed sick with pain. James said, “Thomas knows. He is with Lucie now, collecting the root. He’ll finish it, Kit.”

Cordelia cleared her throat, knowing her voice would come out as a whisper regardless. It did. “Jem,” she whispered. “Has Jem been in here, Christopher?”

He smiled at her sweetly. “James Carstairs,” he said. “Jem.”

Cordelia looked nervously at James, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Yes,” she said. “James Carstairs. My cousin.”

“James,” Christopher whispered, and then the figure in the bed next to his echoed the word.

“James,” whispered Piers Wentworth. “James.”

And then the next figure, in the next bed. “James.”

Matthew rose to his feet. “What’s going on?”

Christopher’s lilac eyes flew wide; his grip on James’s wrist tightened as he jerked him forward. Face inches from James’s, he hissed, “Get out of here—you have to get out of here. You have to leave. James, you don’t understand. It’s about you. It’s always been about you.”

“What does that mean?” Matthew demanded, as more and more voices were added to the chant:

“James. James. James.”

Matthew took hold of James’s sleeve and drew him back from Christopher, who let go of James reluctantly. Cordelia put her hand to the hilt of Cortana. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Christopher—?”

One by one the sick were rising into sitting positions, though it did not look as if they were doing so of their own volition. It seemed they were being dragged upward like puppets on strings; their heads sagged loosely to the side, their arms limp and dangling. Their eyes were wide open, white and shining in the dimness of the room. Cordelia saw with horror that the whites of them were also veined in black.

“James Herondale.” It was the voice of Ariadne Bridgestock. She sat at the edge of her own narrow bed, her body slumped forward. Her voice rasped, empty of emotion. “James Herondale, you have been summoned.”

“By who?” Matthew shouted. “Who’s summoning him?”