Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

She started toward the Portal; as she reached out for it, Cordelia saw the image within the enchanted door change from Westminster Bridge to the abbey, with its Gothic spires reaching toward the storm-struck sky.

A moment later Lucie went into the Portal and was gone. Then it was Matthew’s turn, and then Cordelia’s. As she stepped into the whirling darkness, letting it spin her away from Edom, she thought, What on earth did James mean by “the right moment to act”? And what if I don’t figure it out in time?





34 COMMUNION




Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers:

for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness?

and what communion hath light with darkness?





—2 Corinthians 6:14




It wasn’t at all as James had expected. He’d thought there would be wrenching pain, a sense of violation, perhaps the feeling of being caught in a nightmare. Instead, one moment he was in the courtyard in Edom, bracing himself, and the next he was walking across Westminster Bridge, with the Palace of Westminster and its famous clock tower straight ahead.

He could feel his legs carrying him forward. He could feel the air change from the choking heat of Edom to a wet, piercing chill. He could even feel the wind in his hair—a cold dark wind, blowing off a Thames the color of dried blood—and he wondered: Had something gone wrong with Belial’s plan? Was he really possessed?

The air stung his eyes; reflexively, he tried to raise his hand to shield them. And found he couldn’t. He could feel the impulse to lift the arm in his mind, but his arm didn’t respond. Without conscious planning he tried to look down at the arm, and felt a stab of horror as his gaze remained fixed on the far side of the river. Panic began to rise in him, and he realized he could feel something else—a burning ache in his chest, which flared in a stab of agony with each step.

The wounds of Cortana. Each one was a line of fire laid against his skin. How did Belial bear this constant pain?

He tried to clench his fists. Nothing. The sick panic of paralysis washed over him: his body was a cage, a prison. He was trapped. It didn’t matter that he’d prepared himself for it. He was panicking, and didn’t seem to be able to stop.

A familiar voice echoed through his mind.

“You’re awake,” his grandfather said with a terrible pleasure. James knew his mouth wasn’t moving; no sound was coming from him—this was Belial speaking to him mind to mind. Belial’s consciousness, locked with his own. “I’m sure you rather hoped I’d snuff your consciousness into oblivion. But what fun would that be for me?” He chuckled. “My triumph over London is at hand, as you can see. But my triumph over you is complete, and after anticipating it for so long, I wish to relish it as much as possible.”

London. They were at the middle of the bridge; James had a fine view of the city from here, and wished he didn’t. It had been transformed since he last saw it. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, casting an ashy pall over the city. London was frequently cloudy, of course, famous for its rain and its fog, but this was something else entirely. These clouds were ink black and roiling, reminding James of the sea below Malcolm’s cottage in Cornwall. Every few moments, red lightning speared the horizon, spilling a bloody light.

Normally there would be dozens of mundanes on this bridge, a constant stream of traffic in front of Westminster—but all was silent. The streets were utterly empty. The buildings that lined the river were dark, and there were no boats on the Thames. A dead city, James thought. A graveyard city, where skeletons might dance under an eerie moon.

The thought sickened him—and relieved him, all at once. Because though Belial was delighted, James felt only horror. His greatest fear had been that somehow, when possessed by his grandfather, James would think as Belial did, feel as he felt. But as Belial gloated over his imminent victory, James felt only disgust and fury. And determination, he reminded himself. He had chosen this; it was part of his plan.

Matthew had begged him to reconsider. But James knew his time of dodging Belial was over. The only way out was through.

“Might I ask where we’re going?” James said, his voice echoing oddly in his own head. “We seem to be headed for the Houses of Parliament.”

“We are not,” Belial said crisply. “We are going to Westminster Abbey. We are here for a coronation. Mine, that is. Twoscore generations of kings have been crowned here as rulers, and as you know, I am a stickler for tradition. I shall be crowned the king of London, as a start. After that—well, we will see how quickly the rest of the land bends its knee to me.” He chuckled. “I, Belial! Who was meant to never again walk on Earth! Let the Earth stretch herself under my boots in surrender; let Heaven watch in horror.” He flung back his head, staring up at the scorched sky. “You did not see the first revolt against your power coming, Great One,” he hissed. “And you have not stopped this one, either. Is it possible you are as weak as the Morningstar always said?”

“Enough,” James muttered, but Belial only laughed. They had reached the end of the bridge, were striding up onto the road. Parliament loomed up on their left. It was still and empty here, in the heart of the city; James could see where carriages had been abandoned, some tipped over as if they’d been dragged behind panicked horses.

“James!”

Belial whirled around as a figure slipped from behind an abandoned carriage. It was Thomas, his clear, honest face full of delight, stumbling over the debris on the ground in his haste to get to James. Behind him came Alastair, much more slowly. His expression was wary.

James felt his heart sink. You’re right, Alastair. Call out to Thomas, get him away from me—

But Thomas was already there, sliding his seraph blade back into his weapons belt, reaching his hand out to James. “Jamie! Thank the Angel! We thought—”

Belial moved, almost lazily, taking hold of the lapel of Thomas’s coat. Then, with no effort at all, he flung Thomas away. Thomas stumbled backward, and might have fallen had Alastair not caught him with an arm slung around his chest.

“Get away from me, you disgusting great lump,” said Belial; James could feel the words scratch their way out of his throat, laced with hateful venom. “Stupid as pigs, you Nephilim. Touch me again and you die.”

James felt sick at the look on Thomas’s face—hurt, horrified betrayal. But the look Alastair gave James was different. Cold and furious, yes, but narrow with realization.

“That’s not James, Tom,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Thomas paled. With every part of him, James wanted to stay, to somehow explain. But what was there to say? Alastair was right, and besides, Belial had already begun to turn away, dismissing Thomas and Alastair both.

He could try to force it, James thought. Make Belial turn back. A tiny thought, a whisper. But no. Not yet. It was too early. He pushed the thought down, forced himself to be calm, forced himself not to think about what it would mean if his plan didn’t work. That not only would Belial destroy everyone James loved, he would do it with James’s own hands, and James would see their fear, their pain, their pleading up close, through his own eyes.

Control yourself, James thought. Do as Jem taught you. Control. Calm. Hold tight to who you are, inside.

As the abbey rose in front of them, a mass of gray stone surmounted by towers, James felt another lick of horror down his spine. He watched, through eyes he could not close, as Belial approached the cathedral. There were Watchers in the streets, drifting in and out of Belial’s path, falling in behind him as he went. They circled like ghosts as he made his way across the Sanctuary, past the tall column of the War Memorial, and entered the abbey through the vaulted stone archway of the Great West Door, its ancient wooden panels flung wide open to receive him.

To James’s surprise, the Watchers did not follow Belial through the door. They waited outside the cathedral, clustered by the stone benches in the archway like dogs tied up outside a shop. Of course they could not come in, James thought; they were demons, and this was a holy place. But even as he thought it, he heard Belial’s laughter.

“I know what you’re imagining, and it’s wrong,” Belial said. “There are no holy places in London now, no space my influence does not touch. I could fill this ancient cathedral with all the demons in Pandemonium. They could desecrate the altar and spill their filthy blood upon the floor. But that would not serve my intentions, which are far more honorable than that.”

James did not ask what Belial’s intentions were; he knew it would mean another round of gloating. Instead, he said, “You wish to make sure you’re not interrupted. You’ve set them outside, like guard dogs, to keep away anyone who might try to stop you.”