Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

When the red sun rose over the courtyard the next morning, James had not slept. His eyes felt as if they were full of sand, and his mouth was bone-dry. Matthew sat next to him, his legs drawn up, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the horizon.

At some point, James had stopped the drawing of iratzes. Matthew had stopped shaking and fallen asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, his head heavy against James’s shoulder. Some hours later, when he had woken up, he had turned to look at James thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what you did,” he said. “At least, I don’t know how it was possible. But—I feel better. Physically, at least.”

He looked at his forearm. It was a latticework of pale white lines, the ghosts of vanished runes.

“That shouldn’t have worked,” he said. “But then, that’s true of so many things we’ve done.”

He was right, James thought. It shouldn’t have worked. He’d put every bit of his concentration into drawing the healing runes, trying to imbue them with his own strength, his own will, hoping that if he could get each one to remain just a little while, the combined force of a hundred of them would get Matthew through the night.

As Matthew stood up now and went to get water, he was steady on his feet. There was color in his face, he wasn’t shivering, and his hands didn’t shake as he came back with the cup. This was not a cure, James knew. Matthew, if he survived Edom, would still crave alcohol; there was much work still to be done. But to have kept him alive so he could do that work—

A shadow passed overhead. Matthew reached James, held out a hand to help him up. As James brushed dust off his clothes, he said, “Do you mean that? About things we’ve done that shouldn’t have worked?”

Matthew eyed him oddly. “Of course.”

“So you’ll go along with my plan,” James said. “The one you hate.”

Matthew glanced at James hard, and then up at the sky—where a dark, winged shape was growing closer. A pure white cloak flew on the wind like a flag.

“Belial,” Matthew said flatly.

He set the cup down, and he and James moved to stand shoulder to shoulder. It was a gesture, James knew. Belial could separate them both with a snap of his fingers. Fling them to opposite sides of the courtyard. But gestures mattered. They were important.

Belial sprang off the back of Stymphalia even before the bird-demon touched down in the pebbled black dirt. As dust flew, he marched across the courtyard to James and Matthew. He looked annoyed, James thought, which was something: he had expected gloating. This seemed a bit more complex.

“Your companions,” Belial snapped. “Cordelia Carstairs, your sister, the others—you know I offered them safe passage out of London. Did they refuse it? Are they still in the city?”

James felt his heart swell. I knew, he thought. I had faith.

He spread his hands wide. “I couldn’t possibly answer that,” he said. “We’ve been here.”

Belial’s lip curled. “I suppose. But I imagine you have a guess.”

“Why?” James said. “Are you afraid of them? A bunch of Nephilim children?” He grinned, feeling his dry lips crack. “Or just of Cordelia?”

Belial sneered. “She will not touch me with her foul blade,” he said. “For I will be possessing you—and for her to harm me, she would have to end your life. Which she will not do. Women,” he added, “are notoriously sentimental.”

“Wonderful,” Matthew muttered. “Advice about human women from a Prince of Hell.”

“You will be quiet,” Belial said. “The time for playing and posturing has come to an end. You have been an amusing adversary, grandson, but there was never a chance for you. If you do not agree to let me possess you, I will torture your parabatai to death in front of your eyes. After that, I will bring you with me to London. I will kill every man, woman, and child we encounter until your fragile human spirit breaks and you beg me to put an end to it.”

James raised his head slowly. He met his grandfather’s gaze. The urge to look away was immediate, intense. Behind those eyes something slithered—something primordially evil, cold, reptilian, and venomous.

He kept his gaze steady. “First, you promise not to hurt Matthew,” James said. At the edge of his vision, he saw Matthew close his eyes. “And I will let you have what you want—with a few more conditions.”

Belial seemed to purr. “Which are?”

“You will not hurt my friends, my family, or Cordelia.”

“Having her run around freely with Cortana is inconvenient,” Belial said. “If she attacks, I will defend myself. Surely you can see there is no agreement otherwise.”

“All right,” James said. He could barely breathe, but he knew better than to show it. “But as you said—she won’t.”

“Hmm,” Belial said. There was a hunger in his expression now. A look that twisted James’s insides with nausea. “We seem to have reached an agreement.”

“Not yet.” James shook his head. “I require something more formal. You’re a Prince of Hell. You must vow on Lucifer’s name.”

Belial chuckled. “Ah, the Lightbringer. You had better hope, Nephilim, that you never have cause to meet him.” He flung out his arm, his white robe swirling around him like smoke. “I, Prince Belial, Lord of Edom, of the First Nine, do swear on the name of Lucifer, He that is everything, that I will not cause harm to befall any of those dear to my blood grandson James Herondale. May I be struck into the Pit if such comes to pass.”

He looked at James; his eyes were wide and black and flickering, dark and empty as the end of all hope. “Now, come here, boy,” he said. “It is time.”





33 A FORTRESS FOILED




A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,

A siren song, a fever of the mind,

A maze wherein affection finds no end,

A raging cloud that runs before the wind,

A substance like the shadow of the sun,

A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

—Sir Walter Raleigh, “A Farewell to False Love”



To Ari’s surprise, she and Anna reached the heart of the Silent City without seeing a single Watcher. They had started out keeping to the shadows, checking doors and archways before passing from one room to another, and communicating only in hand gestures. But as their map led them up from the prisons through the living quarters and on past the libraries and the Ossuarium, they exchanged puzzled glances. They had seen not a soul, nor heard so much as a mouse scrabbling behind a wall since their arrival.

“Where are they all?” Anna murmured. They were passing through a tunnel, which widened out into a large square. At each cardinal point of the square rose a spire of carved bone. Alternating squares of red and bronze, like a checkerboard, made up the floor. Their witchlights gave the only illumination; the torches set in brackets along the walls had long burned out.

“Perhaps out in London,” Ari said. Her witchlight danced over a pattern of silver stars set into the floor. “They have no real need to occupy the Silent City, I suppose.”

“I would have thought they would at least be on guard against anyone entering,” said Anna. “Let me see the map again.”

They bent their heads over it. “We are in the Pavilion of Truth, here,” Ari said, pointing. “Usually the Mortal Sword would be on the wall—”

“But it’s in Idris, thankfully,” said Anna. “Here—through these rows of mausoleums—it’s marked on the map. Path of the Dead.”

Ari nodded slowly. As she fell into step beside Anna, she thought it seemed as if she’d barely taken a real breath since they’d entered the Silent City. The scent on the air—ashes and stone—was a cold reminder of the previous time she’d been here, when she had nearly died from the poison of a Mandikhor demon. The experience had not given her any desire to return.

They continued through stone halls that led them to a vaulted room filled with mausoleums, many with Shadowhunter names or symbols carved above their stone doors. They cut down a narrow path between CROSSKILL and RAVENSCROFT and ducked through a narrow dark archway like a keyhole—