Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I don’t think you heard me,” Cordelia said. “I am no longer your paladin, Lilith. Our deal is concluded, and I have fulfilled my end of our bargain.”


The Mother of Demons chuckled lightly. “Well, not quite. In the end, you did not kill Belial, did you? It was James Herondale who struck the killing blow.” Her lips curled into a grim smile. “What is it you Nephilim say? Something about how the Law is the Law, even if we might not wish it so?”

“Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law,” said Cordelia, looking down at Lilith. “Indeed, the letter of the Law, or of any vow or contract, is important. Which is why I was so careful when I asked you to make a vow to me. Do you remember what I asked you to promise?” She looked steadily at Lilith. “?‘Swear that if Belial dies by my blade, you will free me from my paladin’s oath. Swear on Lucifer’s name.’?”

A dark red light had begun to burn in Lilith’s eyes.

Cordelia said, “I never vowed to strike the killing blow myself. Only that it would be struck by Cortana. Which it was.”

Lilith bared her teeth. “Listen to me, girl—”

Cordelia laughed, a sharp bright laugh like a knife’s edge. “You cannot order me to do anything,” she said. “Not even listen to you. Your hold on me is broken; you are not my liege, and I am not your knight. You know I am telling the truth and that your vow binds you: you cannot harm me, nor anyone I love.” She smiled at the look of rage on Lilith’s face. “I would not remain here much longer, demon, if I were you. Belial’s hold on this world is broken, and this once more shall become consecrated ground.”

Lilith hissed. It was not a human sound, but rather the hiss of a snake. Black serpents burst from her eyes and lashed back and forth like whips as she started up the steps toward Cordelia. “How dare you disobey me,” she snarled. “Perhaps I cannot harm you, but I shall return with you to Edom, immure you there, imprison you where you cannot escape; if you are not mine you shall belong to no one—”

“Sanvi.” A familiar voice rang out like a bell. Lilith halted where she was, her face twisting. “Sansanvi. Semangelaf.”

Cordelia looked behind her. James was on his feet, Matthew by his side. In James’s right hand was his pistol, gleaming silver, the inscription along its side standing out starkly: LUKE 12:49. I have come to bring a fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.

James was swaying slightly, his clothes drenched in drying blood, but he was upright, his eyes blazing with fury.

“You recall this weapon,” he said to Lilith. “You recall the pain it causes you.” He grinned ferociously. “Take another step toward Cordelia, and I will riddle you with bullets. You may not die, but you will wish you had.”

Lilith hissed again, her dark hair lifting, twisting, each strand a slim, venomous serpent. “Belial is dead,” she said. “With him will go your power over shadow, your sister’s power over the dead. I doubt you can even fire that gun—”

James cocked the hammer of the gun with a decided click. “Try me,” he said.

Lilith hesitated. One moment, then another. James did not waver, his arm steady, the barrel of the gun pointed directly at the Mother of Demons.

And something shifted. Cordelia felt it as a change in the air, like the turning of a season. The stones on which Lilith stood began to glow a dark, molten red. Flames licked up suddenly, catching at the hem of Lilith’s dress, filling the air with the scent of burnt feathers.

Now Lilith screamed, a terrible wail that rose to become an unearthly shriek. Shadows swirled up around her body; great bronze wings beat the air. As she rose into the air, in the form of an owl, James pulled the trigger of the gun.

Nothing happened. There was a dry, metallic sound, and that was all. James lowered the pistol, his eyes on the owl, whose wings beat frantically as it sailed up and up, vanishing into the air.

Lilith had been right. James could no longer use the gun.

He exhaled and let it fall to the floor with a heavy thump; when he looked up at Cordelia, he was smiling. “Good riddance,” he said.

And Cordelia wanted nothing more than to go and throw her arms around him, to whisper to him that they were safe; that it was all finally, finally over. But as he smiled, great rays of illumination speared through the cathedral, turning the air to a shimmering cloud as dust motes sparkled in the sunlight—sunlight that poured through the doors of the cathedral, which had been thrown wide open.

And through the doors came Lucie, calling out Cordelia’s name, and then Jesse and Grace, and Will and Tessa, racing toward James. And a little way behind them, Eugenia, Flora, Gideon and Gabriel, Sophie and Charles, and even Charlotte, who gave a cry when she saw Matthew.

And there were dozens of others as well, Shadowhunters she didn’t know filling the cathedral as Cordelia sank to her knees beside James and Matthew. Matthew smiled at her and got to his feet, starting down the steps toward his mother and brother.

Beside her, James took her hand. It would only be a moment, Cordelia knew, before the others reached them, before they were caught up in a whirl of embraces and greetings and exclamations of gratitude and relief.

She looked at him—covered in blood and dirt and healing runes, with the dust of Edom still caught in his lashes. She thought of all the things she’d wanted to say, about how it was over and they were safe, and she had never thought it was possible to love someone so much as she loved him.

But he spoke first. His voice was rough, his eyes shining. “Daisy,” he said. “You believed in me.”

“Of course I did,” she replied, and she realized as she spoke the words that that was all she really needed to say. “I always will.”





CODA


Night had fallen over London. But it was not the unnatural night, heavy and black and silent, that had covered the city during the past terrible days. It was an ordinary London evening, full of life and noise: the sound of carriage wheels, the whistle of distant trains, the faraway shouts of Londoners passing under a sky full of moonlight and stars. And when Jem slipped out of the Institute and stood for a moment in the courtyard, the air was cold and clear and tasted of winter and the turn of the year.

Inside, there had been weariness and warmth, and even some laughter. Not for everyone, not yet; there was still shock, and grief and numbness. Anna Lightwood had returned to Alicante to be with her family, and Ari Bridgestock had gone with her. But as Jem had good cause to know, even after unimaginable loss, one continued: life had to be lived, and one learned to bear one’s scars.

And the young were resilient. Even after all she had been through today, Cordelia had wept with happiness when she found out she had a little brother now: his name was Zachary Arash Carstairs. Sona would be arriving the next morning, bringing the baby with her, and neither Cordelia nor Alastair could wait to meet him.

All things in balance, Jem thought. Life and death; grief and happiness. They had been brave, James and his friends, incredibly brave—they had lived through the nightmare of London under Belial’s control, and survived the wasteland of Edom. Outside Westminster Abbey, James, his clothes still drenched in blood, had told Jem that it was their years of training together, of sharpening and strengthening his will, that had given him the idea that he could resist Belial, could throw off his possession even for a moment.