Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

James felt his lip curl. “It says much of you, that you think that would tempt me,” he said harshly. “That you think love is the ability to possess another person, to force them to your side, even if they hate you, even if they can hardly bear it. You offer me what Grace had of me—not a partner, but a prisoner.” He shook his head, noting that Tatiana looked angry, which was good; they were stalling for time, after all. “Belial cannot understand, nor you, Tatiana. I want a Cordelia who can leave me, because then I know that when she stays with me, it is by choice.”


“A meaningless distinction,” said Tatiana. “You speak of morals that belong to a world that is receding into the past. Belial is coming; there will be a New London, and its denizens will either serve Belial or die.”

“Belial will abandon you when he has no further use for you,” said James.

“No.” Tatiana’s eyes glittered. “For I have granted Belial an army, one he could never have had without me.” She gestured at the Silent Brothers on either side of her, and James saw with a start that there were more of them now—at least five on either side of Tatiana. Somehow more of the creatures Tatiana had called Watchers had glided into the courtyard without being noticed. Their eyes were sewn shut, but in the darkness James could see the gleam of an ugly green light beneath their lids. “Your own Silent Brothers have abandoned you and joined with Belial—”

“That is a lie.” James tried not to look at the gates; surely Charles and the First Patrol had to return soon. “Do you wish me to tell you what we know? You arranged to be sentenced to imprisonment in the Adamant Citadel so you could steal the key to the Iron Tombs. You escaped and gave it to Belial. You opened the Tombs for him. He summoned an army of Chimera demons, and now they possess these bodies—these who were once Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters. Once you were in the Silent City, you let them in, let them take it over. We know our own do not act against us willingly. As always, you and your master must force others to act for you. No one is loyal to you, Tatiana. You know only coercion and possession, threats and control.”

For barely a moment, something flickered across her face—was she angry? Taken aback? James could not tell—before she forced a nasty smile. “Clever boy,” she said. “You discerned our plan. But not, alas, soon enough to stop it.” She looked up at the spire of the Institute, piercing the bloodred sky, which rumbled and shook with such force James half expected the ground to rock under his feet. “All of London will soon fall. I have stated the three things I want. Do you still refuse to give them to me?”

James, Cordelia, and Jesse exchanged a look. “Yes,” Cordelia said. “We still refuse.”

Tatiana looked delighted. “Wonderful,” she said. “Now you will have a chance to see what demons in the bodies of Nephilim can do.” She turned to the Watchers. “Show them!”

The Watchers moved as if they were one being. Gripping their lightning staffs, they began to swarm up the steps of the Institute. James raised his pistol and fired at one of the Watchers; it fell back, but the others kept coming, as Jesse drew his sword and Cordelia raced to fling the entryway door open. The Shadowhunters of the Institute poured out, seraph blades glowing in their hands.

The battle had begun.



* * *



The Institute’s carriage had run up onto the curb, one wheel on the pavement, the other three still in the road. It was likely due to the horses, still in their harnesses, that it hadn’t struck any of the trees lining the street: it certainly wasn’t thanks to the driver, who had climbed down from his seat and was wandering along the road ahead of them, seemingly in a daze.

Alastair cupped his hands around his mouth. “Davies!” he called into the shrieking wind. “Davies, what’s wrong?”

Davies didn’t seem to hear. He kept walking—not in a straight line, but in a dizzy zigzag, lurching from one side of the street to the other. Thomas started forward, worried that Davies would be struck by oncoming traffic—and realized as he did so that there was no oncoming traffic. As he and Alastair hurried down the street, Thomas saw other carriages standing abandoned; there was a stopped omnibus, too, and through its windows he could see mundanes milling about in confusion.

They were on Gray’s Inn Road, usually a busy thoroughfare. Now there were few pedestrians, and even the pubs, which should still have been open, were dark and lightless. Wind howled down the street as if it were a tunnel, and the clouds overhead seemed to froth and boil like the chaos at the base of a waterfall.

As they reached the intersection with High Holborn, they caught up with Davies, who had sunk to his knees on the icy ground. He appeared to have found a discarded child’s hoop toy, which he was rolling back and forth with a blank, perplexed expression.

“Davies!” Thomas shook the driver by the shoulder. “Davies, for the Angel’s sake—”

“There’s something wrong,” Alastair said. “More than with just poor Davies. Look around.”

Thomas looked. More mundanes were emerging onto the street, but they were wandering aimlessly, without purpose. All were blank-faced. A costermonger stared vacantly into the distance as a riderless horse, reins dragging, helped itself to the fruit in his barrow. A man in an overcoat was stumbling back and forth across the pavement as if trying to keep his balance on the rolling deck of a ship. An old woman, wearing only a thin dress, stood staring up at the bloodred sky. She was weeping loudly and inconsolably, though none of the passersby seemed to notice, or stopped to help. On the street corner, a young man was hitting out at a lamppost, over and over, as his glove darkened with blood.

Thomas started forward—not sure what to do, but feeling as if he must do something—but was stopped by Alastair’s hand on his shoulder. “Thomas,” Alastair said. He was gray-faced, the mouth Thomas had kissed mere minutes ago tight with fear. “This is Belial’s doing. I’m sure of it. We need to get back to the Institute now.”



* * *



The battle was not going well, Lucie thought grimly.

It had seemed otherwise at first. She and the others who had crowded into the entryway had been listening to Tatiana as she argued with James—listening and growing angrier and angrier. By the time Cordelia reached the door and threw it open, they had burst out with a furious will to fight.

They had been struck first by the wind, tearing at them, distant claps of rumbling thunder like the beating of a vast drum. Lucie was halfway down the steps when she heard James’s pistol fire, the crack of it almost lost in the train-like roar of the wind overhead, screaming through the sky above London.

Something white had surged up in front of her—a Watcher, fire crackling along its staff. She had swung her axe with a shriek, burying it in the creature’s midsection. It had gone down, silently, without even a look of surprise.

The blood that edged her axe when she pulled it back was a dark, dark red, very nearly black.

Something shot by her head—a chalikar; Matthew was throwing them fast, the bladed discs slamming into one Watcher and then another, sending the second tumbling down the steps. Jesse was swinging his sword with admirable skill, nearly severing the arm of the tallest Watcher. Anna plunged her seraph blade into another, leaving a wound in its chest that was rimmed with fire. It went to its knees, its chest burning, its face devoid of expression.

It was Ari, brandishing her bloody weapon with a look of horror, who shouted, “They’re getting back up!”

And it was true. The Watcher James had shot was on its feet again, starting back toward the Institute. Then the next false Silent Brother rose, plucking Matthew’s chalikars from its body as if it were ridding itself of fleas. Though their white robes were slashed and stained, their wounds had already stopped bleeding.

Tatiana was laughing. Lucie could hear the sound of her high-pitched giggles as she whirled to look for the Watcher she had wounded. It was already climbing the steps again, swinging its staff toward Christopher, who ducked under it.

Cordelia, behind him, caught the staff between her hands. If it burned, she gave no sign, only gripped the staff and pushed, using its own force to drive the creature back down the steps.

But the other wounded Watchers were already rising like a wave. One after another they staggered back to their feet; one after another they returned to assail the Institute, and the small group of Shadowhunters defending its entrance.