Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I hope so,” Lucie said. “It’s all going to be over soon—one way or another. Isn’t it?” She shuddered. “Shall we go? It feels terrible to be out on the street right now, but it’s better than the creeping feeling this place gives me.”


They left Malcolm’s office and made their way back into the main room of the Ruelle. As they headed for the exit, something caught Cordelia’s eye: a patch of wall that had been painted with the image of a forest, small owls peeking from between the trees. She recognized it as a piece of the mural of Lilith that had covered the wall during Hypatia’s celebration of the Festival of Lamia, now incompletely painted over.

The image of the mural remained with her, and by the time they were back out on Tyler’s Court, it had given her an idea. A very, very bad idea. It was exactly the sort of idea that seized the imagination and, against one’s own will, took hold, growing stronger by the moment. It was a dangerous idea, perhaps a mad idea. And there was no James around to tell her not to do it.



* * *



There had been a long, long time of darkness before James awoke. How long, he could not have said. He had been in London, in the courtyard of the Institute, looking at Cordelia through a mist of shadow. Then he had seen Matthew rush toward him and heard Belial’s roar in his ears—and then it was the roar of the wind, a tempest that tumbled him head over heels, and darkness had come down like an executioner’s hood.

The first thing he had noticed upon awaking was that he was lying flat on his back, staring up at a sky that was a sickly yellow-orange, roiling with dark gray clouds. He scrambled to his feet, head and heart pounding. He was in a courtyard with a flagged stone floor, surrounded on all sides by high, windowless walls. Above him on one side rose a fortress of gray stone that looked very much like the Gard in Alicante, though this version of it had high black towers that vanished into the low-hanging clouds.

The courtyard looked as if it had once been a sort of garden, a pleasant, enclosed outdoor space meant for the enjoyment of the occupants of the fortress. There were stone walkways, which had probably once bordered a riot of flowers and trees; now, all there was between them was packed dirt, gray and stony; not so much as a single weed poked up from the unfriendly ground.

James whirled around. Cracked, ancient marble benches, the stumps of withered trees, a stone bowl placed precariously atop a broken bit of statuary—and there, a flash of green and gold. Matthew.

He took off running across the courtyard. Matthew sat propped against one of the stone walls, in the shadow of the dark Gard. His eyes were closed. He peeled them open slowly as James sank down on his knees beside him, and offered an exhausted-looking smile. “So,” he said. “This is Edom. I’m not sure I see what all the fuss”—he coughed and spat black dust onto the ground—“is about.”

“Math,” James said. “Hang on—let me look at you.” He pushed Matthew’s hair back from his face, and Matthew winced. There was a jagged cut across his forehead; though the blood had dried, it looked painful.

James fumbled for his stele and took Matthew’s arm, pushing his sleeve up. Matthew watched with a sort of distant interest as James drew a careful iratze against his friend’s forearm. They both stared as the iratze seemed to tremble, and then faded, as if it were being absorbed by Matthew’s skin.

“Let me guess,” Matthew said. “Runes don’t work here.”

James swore and tried again, concentrating fiercely; the iratze seemed to hesitate for a moment this time, before abruptly fading like the other one.

“It feels a bit better,” Matthew offered.

“You needn’t humor me,” James said darkly. He had been kneeling; now he sank down beside Matthew, feeling drained of energy. Overhead, a dark red sun was drifting in and out of the black masses of cloud above the fortress. “You shouldn’t have come, Math.”

Matthew coughed again. “Whither thou goest,” he said.

James picked up a jagged black pebble and threw it at a wall, where it made an unsatisfying plink. “Not if you’re following me into death.”

“I think you’ll find it’s especially when I’m following you into death. ‘And naught but death part thee and me.’ No exceptions for demon dimensions.”

But there’s nothing you can do to help, James thought, and But Belial will kill you if it amuses him, and I will have to watch. He said neither of those things. It would be cruel to say them. And there was a part of him, though he was ashamed of it, that was very glad Matthew was here.

“You need water,” James said instead. “We both do. It’s dry as a bone here.”

“And we’ll need food soon enough,” Matthew agreed. “I assume Belial knows that and will try to starve us out. Well, starve you out. You’re the one he wants to break. I am an annoyance.” He sifted his hand through a pile of dark pebbles. “Where do you think he is?”

“Belial? Anyone’s guess,” James said. “In the fortress, perhaps. Riding some sort of demonic hell-beast around Edom, chortling to himself. Admiring the wastelands. He’ll turn up when he wants to.”

“Do you think there are any nice demon dimensions? You know, green lands, fruitful hills, beaches and things?”

“I think,” James said, “that demons feel the same way about barren hellscapes as we do about pleasant countryside retreats.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “I know there’s no point to it. But I’ll feel ridiculous if I don’t even try to search for a way out of here.”

“I won’t judge,” said Matthew. “I admire a pointless heroic quest.”

James laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder before rising to his feet. He paced the perimeter of the yard, finding nothing he didn’t expect. The walls were smooth and unclimbable. There was no doorway into the fortress, no gaps in the walls that would suggest a secret panel, no unusually flat piece of ground that might indicate a trapdoor.

He tried not to feel hopeless. There were crumbs of comfort. Belial had sworn he wouldn’t hurt the others, the ones they had left back in London. He had even agreed not to target Cordelia. James could not help but recall how happy he had been, only a short time ago, waking up in his bedroom at Curzon Street and realizing Cordelia was there next to him. How he had thought it was the first morning of many, how he had let himself believe this would be the rest of his life. It was so cruel, how little time they had had before he was taken away.

“I don’t suppose you have any control over this realm, the way you did the other,” Matthew said as James circled back in his direction.

“I don’t,” James said. “I can tell. In Belphegor’s realm, there was something always calling to me, like something just out of earshot that I could hear if I really listened. But this place is dead.” He paused. He had reached the broken statuary he’d seen before, and he realized the bowl balanced atop it wasn’t empty. It was full of clear liquid.

Water. In fact, next to the bowl, a metal cup rested, placed there by some helpful invisible hand.

James narrowed his eyes. The water could, of course, be poisoned. But was it likely? Belial would be happy to poison Matthew, but poisoning James—well, Belial wanted him alive.

And every cell in James’s body was crying out for water. If Belial had decided to poison him, so be it; he’d just kill him another way if this didn’t succeed. James took hold of the metal cup and dunked it into the bowl. The water was pleasantly cold against his fingers.

“James—” Matthew said warningly, but James was already drinking. The water tasted cold and clear, surprisingly delicious.

James lowered the cup. “How long do you think we need to wait to see if I dissolve or turn into a pile of ashes?”

“Belial wouldn’t poison you,” Matthew said, echoing James’s own thoughts. “He doesn’t want you dead, and if he did, I imagine he’d want to take the opportunity to kill you in a more spectacular fashion.”

“Thank you. Very reassuring.” James filled the cup again and carried it over to Matthew. “Drink.”

Matthew did, obediently, though without the enthusiasm James had expected. He’d drunk only half the water when he pushed the cup away, his hand trembling.

He didn’t look at James. But he didn’t have to; James realized in that moment that Matthew was shivering all over—shivering violently, despite the heat in the air and the long coat he wore. His blond curls were damp with sweat.

“Math,” James said quietly. “Do you have your flask with you? The one Kit gave you. With the sedative.”

Matthew flinched; James didn’t blame him. It hurt to say Christopher’s name.

“I have it,” Matthew said quietly. “There’s only a bit left in it.”