“I haven’t,” Matthew said. For a moment, he wanted more than anything else to voice what he was thinking: that without James, he felt adrift. He had never been the planner, the one in charge; he was the one whose job it was to cheer up everyone else whiletheymade the plans. Perhaps his friends didn’t see it that way, but Matthew always had. Even now that he did have a plan, one that had taken shape in his mind over the past hour, he wished James was here to tell him whether it was a good plan or a bad plan.
He also realized that he wanted more than anythingelse to burrow his head into Sylvain’s shoulder, to have Sylvain’s arms around him. He wanted it enough that when he finally spoke, the words almost hurt. “What happened to yourparabatai, Sylvain?”
Sylvain let his head fall back against the wall. His legs were outstretched, his hands loose at his sides. He glanced down, his thick lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. “When I first met Lucas Dupont,” he said, “I did not like him. Not at all. We were ten years old and his family had just come to Paris. As I was the son of the Institute head, I went with my parents to officially welcome the Duponts to the city. Lucas invited me to play on the roof of the house and told me that his parents had given him permission to do it. It turned out, of course, that they had done no such thing, and we were both in a great deal of trouble when we were caught.” He smiled at the memory, a quick darting smile like a flame in the dark. “After that, every time I saw him he seemed to be doing another risky, reckless thing.”
“He sounds delightful,” Matthew said, thinking fondly of some of the risky and reckless things the Merry Thieves had done.
“Of course, you would think that,Mathieu,” Sylvain said, but his voice was gentle, and he reached out withhis right hand and laid it over Matthew’s. “After that first time, I avoided Lucas as much as I could. He was always getting himself and everyone else into trouble. And yet he was always around—I always seemed to be tripping over him everywhere I turned, and he was always asking me if I wanted to join him in playing a prank on the werewolves of Montparnasse, or put on glamours and pickpocket the rich tourists in Place Vendôme. I always said no.”
Matthew took Sylvain’s hand, the pads of their fingertips lightly touching. He felt the excitement of touching Sylvain, a low buzz, but more than that, it was as if he were creating a loop of connection between them. As if the same blood flowed through them both, driven by the beats of a single heart.
“Then we were assigned to train together one night,” Sylvain went on. “I believe my father hoped we would become friends; he was fond of the Duponts. It was meant to be an ordinary patrol near the oldObservatoire, but Lucas convinced me he had seen a group of suspicious faeries breaking into the Catacombs, and that we must follow them. We had not taken the time to glamour ourselves, and were spotted by the mundane police—oh, how they chased us through the streets!” Sylvain laughed, which made him sound younger than he usually did. “By the timewe reached the Institute, we were covered in mud, gasping for breath, and oh, how my parents shouted at us.” Sylvain ducked his head. “It was the most fun I’d ever had.”
“I know,” Matthew said. They were the only words he could find, though he wanted to say so much more: that he knew how it was when you met someone who seemed to speak the same secret language that you did. Who smiled at the same things that made you smile. Whose instinct to protect you seemed to run in their blood, just as your instinct to protect them ran in yours. Someone who made you feel more than you were: braver, better, cleverer. With James, Matthew had always felt immortal, as if the connection between them might cheat death itself.
“After that we were inseparable,” said Sylvain softly. “When he asked me to be hisparabatai, that was the happiest I have ever been. Before the ceremony I told him the truth about myself—that I was attracted to men, not women—in case he might want to change his mind about binding himself to me. But he just laughed and said, ‘The only thing I care about is that the person you love treats you well.’”
Sylvain’s grip on Matthew’s hand tightened. Matthew could feel the fine tremors that shook the other boy. They reminded him of an earthquake he had been present for inMorocco: the way the ground trembled before it exploded into motion. He pressed himself closer against Sylvain’s side, letting his body speak the words he could not: I am here. You are safe.
“One night we were alone in the Institute when a distress call came in from a clan of vampires in Pigalle. I cautioned Lucas that we had to wait—that we could not go out alone, for if something was bad enough to threaten a whole clan of vampires, how could we defeat it on our own? But he only shook his head. He did not believe there was anything we could not handle if the two of us were together.” Sylvain’s voice shook. “We argued, and he left without me. I was about to rush into the night after him when I recalled—fire-messages. They were brand new then. I sent one to the largest group of patrolling Shadowhunters, telling them they must make haste to the address I gave them, letting them know what was happening. Then I followed Lucas. But I was too late.”
“Sylvain,” Matthew murmured. “You don’t have to—”
Sylvain turned and buried his face against Matthew’s shoulder. In a muffled voice, he said, “But I do. I have wanted to tell you this since I met you. I have never told it to anyone else, never, but if these creatures are to return,and to put an end to us, then I cannot bear that it should be without my having ever told Lucas’ story.”
Matthew could understand that, better than perhaps Sylvain imagined. He often found himself wishing to speak of Christopher, even to strangers; he would silence himself, but the stories, untold, seemed to float inside his chest like bubbles of air that restricted his breathing.
“The Pigalle vampires had summoned a demon,” Sylvain said. “It turned on them, as demons do, and tore them apart. I arrived along with the other Shadowhunters to find the place awash in blood. The demon was gone, and Lucas was dead—he had died killing it. Its poison had left him almost unrecognizable, but I knew him. I knew him at once.” Sylvain’s voice was a whisper. “When you told me that you lost someone whose face you see in your dreams at night—I know exactly how that is. It happens to me too. I see Lucas’ smile, his eyes. I feel a part of me has been ripped away and will never be healed.”
Matthew laid a hand on Sylvain’s head, stroking the silk of his curling hair. “The person I lost—Christopher— was one of my best friends. Almost a brother. We had known each other all our lives.” Matthew could taste tears in the back of his throat, or perhaps it was the salt of the air, so full of the sea. “I know it is not the same. I know thatto lose yourparabataiis a unique sort of pain, for I almost lost James. And I know it because my godfather lost hisparabatai, and that loss has shaped his whole life. But—Will hashada life. He has had love, and happiness.”
Sylvain lifted his faced to Matthew’s. “How?”
“Will told me once that the grief becomes a part of you. That it transforms into a reflection of the love you had for the person you lost. And he told me that you have to forgive yourself. It is not your fault, Sylvain, what happened to Lucas. It is not your fault, any more than what happened to Christopher…” Matthew spoke slowly, with a full realization of the meaning of the words for the first time. “… is my fault. Has anyone else blamed you for what happened to Lucas?”
Sylvain was sitting up. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and said, “No, but—”
“No, because you are not to blame. Yet you blame yourself. Because if it is your fault, then you could have changed things. You could have had Lucas for longer, you could have had a different life. You could have had control. There is so much pain for us in accepting that we have no hand in fate, that sometimes tragedies simply happen. That we are a people who put ourselves in danger over and over and therefore sometimes we will lose others, orbe lost ourselves. We can’t bear that, so we tell ourselves there is something we could have done. It isn’t true.”
“I try not to think about him.” Sylvain half-closed his eyes. “But he seems to be everywhere I look.”
“So let him be there,” Matthew said, thinking of Christopher in his dreams, looking at him with angry eyes. It was his own anger against himself, of course. Christopher would never blame him for anything. “He is not Banquo’s ghost, accusing you of murder. When you see him you are seeing a memory and memories are a gift. Surely you would not want—”
The door flew open. Matthew and Sylvain scrambled to their feet, straightening their clothes, as the vampires came in. One by one they followed Virgil into the small, costume-strewn room. They moved with unnerving silent grace, their steps making no sound on the floorboards, their faces like a procession of pale masks. Matthew recognized a few of them: the boy who had replaced Melody as Ariel, the vampires who had been with Virgil on deck earlier.
Matthew had not noticed, he had been too intent on Sylvain, but the light through the porthole window had dimmed: it was nearly sundown. They would not have much luck running, though Matthew did not intend to run. He stood beside Sylvain, doing his best to look natural,as the last of the vampires came into the room. It was Melody Morrow, her face very pale as she swept a look over Matthew, then lowered her eyes. He checked quickly to make sure he could see the gold chain around her neck.
Virgil smirked a bit as he glanced over Sylvain and Matthew. “Having a last cuddle before the end?” he said. “How romantic.”
“The end of what?” Matthew said pleasantly. “You don’t want to kill us. I know you don’t.”
He could tell Sylvain was looking at him quizzically. It took a great deal not to look back; the best thing they could do now was appear confident and unworried.
Virgil made a face. He had a narrow, mobile actor’s countenance, the kind that showed emotion easily. At the moment, he looked annoyed. “You haven’t left us much choice,” he said. “We are not fools. If we don’t get rid of you now, there will be dozens of Shadowhunters lying in wait for us in Constantinople when we dock.”
“It’s not fair,” said the curly-haired boy. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“They believe we have,” said Virgil. “They believe one of us has committed a murder.”
