Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Perhaps James had imagined things would be different, Cordelia thought. That he would not be trapped as he was. Or perhaps all he had wanted was for her to get close enough to kill him.

The thought made her sick. But she knew it was a possibility.

“I don’t want my life spared,” she whispered. “I want James.”

“James is gone,” said Belial dismissively. “No use being a child, crying for the toy you can’t have. Think of all you have in your life, should you live.” He furrowed his brow, clearly searching for anything he might consider a reason for Cordelia to keep on living. “You have a brother,” Belial said thoughtfully. “And though I slew your father myself, your mother lives. And”—his eyes sparked— “what of your newborn brother? A baby who has yet to speak a word or take a step? A child who needs you.”

He grinned loathsomely. Cordelia felt as though she had missed a step on a staircase, as if she were grasping at empty air. “The baby—?” She shook her head. “No. You’re a liar. You—”

“Really, Cordelia,” said Belial. He rose to his feet, the crown glittering in his hand. The light from the rose windows sparked fire from its gems as he raised it above his head. “You have made an offer you must know I will only refuse. Then you tell me I am a liar, which would suggest you are not interested in a negotiation. So, Cordelia Carstairs. Why are you really here? Just to watch me…” Belial smiled up at the crown. “Ascend?”

Cordelia raised her eyes to his. “I am here,” she said, “because I believe in James.”

Belial went still.

James, she thought. If there is any piece of you there. If any part of you remains, trapped beneath Belial’s will. Know that I have faith in you. Know that I love you. And nothing Belial can do can change that.

And still, Belial was unmoving. It was not a natural sort of stillness, but looked as if he had been frozen in place by a warlock’s spell. Then slowly, jerkily, his arms began to move, lowering themselves to his sides. He let go his hold on the crown, which fell heavily to the floor. Even more slowly, he raised his head and looked directly at Cordelia.

His eyes, she realized with a jolt—a jolt she felt at the very center of her soul—were gold.

“James?” she whispered.

“Cordelia,” he said, and his voice, his voice was James’s, the same voice that called her Daisy. “Give me Cortana.”

It was the last thing she’d expected James to ask for—and the first thing Belial would have wanted. Belial was a master of lies. Surely he could change the timbre of his voice, sound like James in an effort to fool her… And if she chose wrong, she would doom her city and, ultimately, her world to ruin.

She hesitated. And heard Matthew’s voice in her head: He said you would know the right moment to act. And to believe in him. She hadn’t lied when she spoke before. She was here because she believed in James. She had to have faith, not only because James had told her to, but because she’d come this far on her own instincts and her belief in her friends. And there was no turning back.

She still could not move forward, could not walk to the High Altar. She drew her arm back and flung Cortana. She almost cried out as it hurtled away from her, spinning end over end, and James’s hand shot out and caught it out of the air by the hilt.

He looked at her. His eyes were still gold, and full of sorrow.

“Daisy,” he said.

And plunged the sword into his own heart.



* * *



All Shadowhunters believed that they would die in battle; indeed, they were raised from childhood to understand it as the preferred method of death. Ari Bridgestock was no different. She had always wondered what battle would be her last, but in the past few minutes, she had developed a strong feeling that it was going to be this one.

It was cold comfort that Anna was here with her. Anna was a great warrior, but Ari did not think that even a great warrior had a chance in this situation. There seemed an endless horde of Watchers, enough to overwhelm an army of Shadowhunters and still keep coming and coming.

They had decided without needing to discuss it aloud that there was neither time, nor room, for the subtle maneuvering necessary to destroy the possession runes. All they could do was beat back the tide, knocking down enough Watchers to give themselves some breathing space—only to see them rise to their feet again.

Anna was a long blur of movement, her ruby necklace gleaming against her chest like a drop of angelic blood. Her seraph blade moved so quickly in her hand that Ari’s eye could not catch it—it seemed a silvery shimmer painted against the air. The thought appeared in Ari’s mind: I could accept dying here, right now, as long as it meant that Anna would live.

Once she had had the thought, and knew in an instant that it was utterly true, everything became clearer. A new energy flowed into her; she redoubled her attack, using her khanda to harry a tall Watcher whose white robes were stained with blood. She plunged her blade into its chest.

And heard Anna scream her name. She twisted around, her blade still in the Watcher, and saw another of them rising up behind her, a once Iron Sister raising a barbed black staff to plunge it into Ari’s back. Ari yanked her khanda free, leaving the first Watcher to sink to the ground, but there was no time—the second Watcher was upon her, the staff coming down—

The Watcher crumpled, hitting the ground with the force of a felled tree. The staff clattered from its hand. Ari looked immediately to Anna. Surely Anna had come from behind to injure the Watcher, to keep it from hurting Ari. And Anna was there, her seraph blade in hand, but she was still too far from the fallen Watcher to have touched it. Her face was a mask of shock and even fear. Ari had never seen her look afraid before.

“What on earth?” Anna whispered, and Ari realized all the Watchers were falling. Folding like puppets with cut strings, collapsing onto the bloodstained grass. And then, before either Anna or Ari had even lowered their weapons, came a terrible ripping sound. From the fallen bodies of the Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers the Chimera demons emerged: some crawling out of open mouths or eyes, one tearing its way free from an open wound in a shower of blood.

Ari backed up, half in revulsion, half readying herself to battle the Chimeras, as they emerged, chittering and blood-slicked, their fangs flashing. They were smaller than she’d imagined, the size of piglets, and she raised her khanda high—only to be startled when they turned to flee like a pack of rats, slithering and hopping across the damp grass of the cloister, scrambling up the walls to vanish onto the roof.

Silence fell. Ari stood over the bodies of the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters, who lay as still as effigies. She could hear no sound from inside the abbey, nothing that explained what had just happened—had Cordelia reached James? Had Belial been killed? Something had happened, something huge—

“Ari!” Anna caught Ari by the arm, swinging her around so they faced each other. Anna had dropped her seraph blade; it sputtered in the grass like a dying candle, but she didn’t seem to care. She touched Ari’s face—Anna’s hand was crusted with dried blood and dirt, but Ari leaned into the touch, into Anna. “I thought you were going to die,” Anna whispered. “That we were both going to die.” Her dark hair tumbled into her blazing blue eyes; Ari wanted nothing more in this moment than to kiss her. “And I realized—I would sacrifice myself in a moment. But not you. I could not bear to lose you.”

“And I could not bear to lose you,” Ari said. “So there will be no sacrificing yourself. For my sake.” She let her khanda fall from her hand as Anna pulled her close; her hand stroked Ari’s hair, which had come loose and fell about her face.

“You will not leave me,” Anna said fiercely. “I want you to stay, with me, at Percy Street. I do not want you to move to some flat somewhere, with sconces—”

Ari was shaking her head, smiling; she could not believe they were having this conversation now, but when had Anna ever waited to say what she thought needed to be said?

She raised her face to Anna’s; they were so close together she could feel the brush of Anna’s eyelashes. “No sconces,” Ari said. “No flats in Pimlico. Just us. Wherever you are is home to me.”



* * *



Cordelia screamed.

The blade went into James with a sickening noise, the awful shearing of bone and muscle. Cordelia felt it through her body as if she were the one stabbed; as James sank to his knees, she threw herself at the invisible wall separating her from the High Altar, threw herself against it as if it were glass that could shatter, but it held her back, pinning her in place.