Chapter 5
FIVE
Sylvain sat up. The moonlight made the parabatai mark on Sylvain’s chest gleam: a mark that should have been black, but had turned a phantasmic silver.
James’ father, Will, had a similar mark, also on his chest; James said Will sometimes rested his fingers against it when he was thinking, as if he could still feel his ghostly connection to Jem.
Sylvain was still flushed, his hair in his face; Matthew could not read his expression. The other boy tugged his shirt back on, awkwardly buttoning the front so that it hung half-open, covering the old Mark.
“Sylvain?” Matthew said.
The other boy sat very still, not looking at Matthew. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he pushed his tangled hair out of his face. “I should go,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Don’t.” Impulsively, Matthew reached out toward Sylvain. “Is that why you said you were running away? Because you lost your parabatai?” He knelt up on the bed, conscious of his own state of deshabille—his shirt had been kicked to the foot of the bed somewhere. “Believe me, I’ll understand—”
“How could you understand?” Sylvain bit out between his teeth. “You still have your parabatai. Mine is ashes in the Silent City.”
“I nearly lost James,” Matthew said. “I can imagine—”
“I don’t think you can.” Sylvain looked stark, his face white as bone. “I don’t think anyone can.”
“Sylvain—” Matthew started, but the other boy was already sliding off the bed, landing barefoot on the polished wooden floor. Still not looking at Matthew, he began to button his shirt in earnest.
And paused. Matthew watched him, breath caught, as Sylvain’s dark eyes narrowed. He bent down and picked up something that gleamed a dark silver, holding it up to the light to examine it.
It was a knife. Not a particularly elegant one—it looked as if it had been swiped from the captain’s table at dinner. “I don’t suppose this is yours?”
“Of course not.” Matthew shook his head. “My attacker must have dropped it. But—”
“What use would a vampire have for a knife?” Sylvain’s dark eyebrows knitted together. “I think I might know who it was.” He flicked his gaze to Matthew. “Now will you come with me to question someone?”
“Now?” Matthew looked down at himself. For a moment, he contemplated going shirtless to the vampires’ lair, but his seminude splendor would probably only make him look more like a potential tasty treat.
“We ought to go now,” Sylvain said, with dry practicality.
If Matthew had not known better, he would have thought he’d hallucinated the last ten minutes of passionate kissing.
And even more, that he’d hallucinated Sylvain’s faded parabatai mark, and the anguish that had passed over Sylvain’s face when he realized Matthew had seen it.
Sylvain pointed at a tangled mass of linen among the sheets. “Your shirt’s there, if you’re looking for it.”
Matthew didn’t particularly want to get dressed and go interrogate a vampire. He wanted to stay and talk to Sylvain. But he knew when circumstances had him beaten. With a sigh, he began to get dressed.
* * *
Sylvain, of course, already knew where the vampires were berthed—down among the second class cabins, where a hallway had been set aside for the use of the theater troupe.
The hall was entirely dark, without a single lamp lit. Vampires could see at night, of course—and so could Shadowhunters, with the application of a rune—but the sight was still eerie. A reminder that the creatures who inhabited this space were alien, with needs that were not human needs.
Sylvain led the way, edging along the corridor wall, Matthew just behind him. Both carried seraph blades that had not yet been named; Matthew’s blade hung at his side, the dull color of smoked glass. His hand rested on the cool hilt.
He gazed up and down the corridor. No patches of light showed beneath the various closed doors. Sylvain came to one of them and pressed his ear to the door before taking out his stele and carving an Open rune into the chipped wood.
The door swung wide; Sylvain scrambled inside silently, followed by Matthew. Sylvain shut the door while Matthew took a witchlight rune-stone from his pocket and raised it above his head, illuminating the room.
It was fairly bare—a wooden bed that looked as if it had never been slept in, the bedspread, embroidered with the anchor symbol of the Black Star Line, smooth and unwrinkled. There was a desk and chair, a sink and vanity, and an oval mirror that had been turned to face the wall.
Interesting. This was the room of a vampire who hadn’t been a vampire for very long.
Vampires could see themselves in mirrors, contrary to some myths, but it was often difficult for them at first because they were so changed: the new pallor to their skin, the veins that showed when they were hungry, the pin-sharp tips of fangs: they were troubling to look at in the beginning.
Before one got used to it. One could get used to anything, Matthew had learned.
Along one wall was a rack of clothes, hung with costumes: chiffon peeked out, and glittering, sequinned sleeves. Matthew was admiring a slightly moth-eaten velvet opera cloak when Sylvain said, “Viens ici, Matthew. Look at this.”
There was something about viens ici that just sounded a great deal more enticing than the English come here. Matthew dropped the cloak and joined Sylvain, who was gazing down at a leather-covered album. The kind people pasted old photographs and dried flowers into.
And indeed, as Sylvain turned the pages, Matthew saw sepia-tinted photographs dating back more than a decade.
Photographs of a family. A stiff father, bearded and uncomfortable-looking; a round-faced woman in the brocaded fashions of twenty years past. A little girl with blond curls in a white dress, and a boy a few years older, in knickerbockers and a suit jacket, a serious expression stamped on his face.
“Melody Morrow,” Matthew murmured, as the pages turned and the boy and the girl aged into teenagers: the girl’s hair no longer fell past her shoulders, but had been smoothed into a chignon at the back of her head.
The boy had become a man, with sideburns and an even more serious expression. “And her brother.”
Something white, tucked behind one of the photographs, caught Matthew’s eye. He tugged it free, unfolding it to find a scrawled letter, addressed to Melody Morrow.
My dear sister,
I know that when you first broke the news to me of your changed nature, I responded unkindly.
I have rethought my position. I know I told you that it would be better for everyone if it were believed that you were dead, but after consulting with a priest who believes he could exorcise the demon from you, I beg you to consider this course of action.
I know you think I care only for the Queen of Night, but I assure you that I am doing this because it is the only way I can think of to get my sister back.
With hope,
Bartholomew
Sylvain wrinkled his nose curiously. He had been reading over Matthew’s shoulder, which was rather pleasant. “The Queen of Night? Who is that?”
“No idea.” Matthew folded up the letter and set it back behind the photograph—just as the door to Melody’s room burst open.
In the doorway stood Orville Cole, but the small, self-effacing man seemed greatly changed.
His eyes flashed with anger, his lips drawn back from his teeth.
He seemed almost feral, snarling as he launched himself at Matthew.
Matthew yelled, mostly in surprise, as the onslaught knocked him to the floor.
He rolled aside, Orville half atop him, as the other man’s fist slammed into the floor beside his head. This would have been enough to annoy anyone, and Matthew was already out of patience. He grabbed hold of Orville by the front of his shirt and flung him.
Orville smashed headlong into the dresser.
Matthew started to scramble up, and found himself hauled to his feet by Sylvain, who let his hands linger on Matthew’s shoulders a moment longer that strictly necessary.
“Nom de l’ange,” Sylvain murmured, as Orville—who should by all rights have been knocked out by his collision with the furniture—stumbled to his feet, blood streaming down his face.
He gazed wild-eyed at Sylvain and Matthew.
“Interfering Shadowhunters,” he hissed, and leaped again—this time something silver flashed in his hand; he brought it down, and Matthew felt the impact as it struck his chest. He staggered back against the wall as Sylvain let out a cry and caught at Orville’s arm.
The weapon Orville had been holding fell with a clatter to the floor as Orville clawed for Sylvain’s face.
Sylvain ducked and came up, ramming his fist into Orville’s chin. The man stumbled but Sylvain didn’t let up—he slammed Orville with blow after blow, driving him backward until he collapsed, bloody and stunned, onto the narrow bed.
Sylvain whipped around to catch hold of Matthew, who stood with his hand pressed to his chest, his ears ringing. Christopher, Matthew thought, and a moment later Sylvain had hold of him, his face white, his dark eyes distraught. “Matthew—are you all right—let me see—”
Matthew caught Sylvain’s hand in his. “I’m fine,” he said. “It was a stage knife. Look.” He indicated where the remains of the knife had fallen, the blade having retracted into the handle.
Sylvain said nothing, only shuddered once and stepped back. Matthew ached to ask him if he was all right, but the other boy had already turned on Orville, his rage plain in his voice as he said, “You crawling worm. You’re not a fan of this theater troupe. You’re a thrall.”
Matthew had guessed as much himself. Thralls, also called darklings and subjugates, were servants of vampires, exchanging their services and their blood for the vampire’s favor and protection, or even the promise that one day they, too, would be made immortal.