“Save your strength,” Malcolm said, rather curtly. “You’ll never get your political career off the ground if you die of your wounds today.” He turned to James. “This talk of a sigil is very interesting, but I can keep mundanes out of this garden for only so long. There is a school here, and a church; fairly soon there will begin to be a commotion. I suggest we return to the Institute.”

“Not without Jesse,” said Lucie. “He fought back, he—” She broke off, looking at Malcolm. “He ought to have the Shadowhunter funeral his mother denied him years ago.” She turned to Matthew. “Math, could we borrow your ridiculous overcoat? To wrap Jesse in?”

Matthew looked both sympathetic and slightly vexed as he shucked off the coat. “Yes,” he said, “but it isn’t ridiculous.”

“It isn’t nearly your most ridiculous overcoat,” James allowed. “But it is also far from your least.”

Muttering, Matthew rose and handed the overcoat to Lucie. James and Matthew maneuvered Charles to his feet, draping his arm over Matthew’s shoulder. The group made their way the short distance across the park to where Jesse’s body lay, the Blackthorn sword fallen nearby.

Lucie knelt down and, with her fingertips, closed his eyes gently. She laid the sword on his chest and folded his arms over it, tucking his hands over the hilt.

“Ave atque vale, Jesse Blackthorn,” said James, looking at the pale face he remembered from Highgate Cemetery. The ghost who had saved his life. Hail and farewell, my brother. I wish I had known you.

Flame sparked from Malcolm’s fingers as he began to open a Portal through to the Institute. James wrapped Jesse’s body in Matthew’s medium-ridiculous overcoat, and Malcolm scooped him up as though he weighed no more than a child. Matthew and Charles approached, slowly; Charles was walking under his own power, although leaning heavily on Matthew. Cordelia had taken hold of Lucie’s hand, and she held it tightly as—without a glance back—Malcolm went through the Portal carrying Jesse.

The rest of them followed.

26 OLDER THAN GODS

With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour;

And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour:

And its vapor and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be;

And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depths as the roots of the sea:

And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air:

And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare.

Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea with rods?

Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye Gods?

—Algernon Charles Swinburne, “Hymn to Proserpine”

The Portal deposited them just inside the front gates of the Institute.