James hefted the Colt in his hands, balancing its weight. He had heard other Shadowhunters talk about discovering the weapon that would become their favorite, the one they were never without, the one they reached for first in battle. James had always assumed his weapon was knives—he was good with them, but it was true there had never been a particular blade that had caught his fancy. That he might have just discovered his weapon of choice because of his heritage was not an altogether welcome thought.

“If it works on demons,” Thomas said, as though he guessed what James was thinking, “it could change things. Change the way we fight. Make it safer for Shadowhunters. That’s worth the risks.”

“Yes—you’re probably right.” James carefully settled the revolver in his jacket. “Kit, I’ll keep you informed of any—developments.”

He could have stayed longer, he supposed, but he found he wanted to be back at Curzon Street when Cordelia returned from the Institute. She couldn’t be training too much longer—it was nearly dusk. Christopher had packed up a few tinctures meant to promote sleep: sliding them into his pocket, James hurried upstairs, where he found Charlotte’s study door closed. He could hear her voice, blended with Matthew’s and now Henry’s, rising and falling behind the door. It was too bad, he thought; he would have liked to tell Matthew about the gun, but Christopher and Thomas would have to catch him up.

As he set out for home, he thought of the inscription on the barrel of the gun—LUKE 12:49. He knew the Biblical verse; any Shadowhunter would.

I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.

9 THE SCARS REMAINING

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining—

They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;

A dreary sea now flows between;—

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,

Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Christabel”

“Tell me, James,” Elias said with a gleam in his eye, “have you ever heard of the fearsome demon Yanluo?”

Papa, of course he’s heard of Yanluo, Cordelia wanted to say, but she held her tongue. From the moment they’d arrived at the door, it had been clear that her mother had put an enormous amount of effort into making the evening special. Their most beautiful china, from Paris, was on display, as was the damask table linen with delicate floral sprigs. Epergnes of expensive hothouse flowers—jasmine and heliotrope—decorated the table, and the house smelled of spices and rose water.