Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

And that had been part of it, Jem thought. Strength of will could not be dismissed, but there was also the great weakness of demons: they did not understand either love or faith. Belial had underestimated not just Cordelia, Lucie, and James, but also their friends, and what they would all do for each other. He had not seen them as Jem had, in the drawing room tonight: Cordelia sleeping in an armchair with James holding her; Alastair and Thomas, hand in hand before the fire; Lucie and Jesse, communicating with whispers and looks. Matthew, being gentle with his parents and, for the first time in a long time, with himself. And Will and Tessa, their hands outstretched for Jem, as they always were.

Now Jem looked out over the courtyard; snow had begun to sift from the sky, whitening the black iron of the gates, dusting the steps with silver. He could hear the murmurs of his Brothers in the back of his mind: a continuous soft rumble of silent conversation. They spoke of the cruel violation Belial had visited upon those Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers whose souls had gone voyaging outside their bodies. They spoke of returning those bodies to the Iron Tombs the next morning, returning them to their more dignified state. They spoke of Bridget Daly, the mundane who had been stricken by unearthly lightning, and of what changes might be worked in her, if any. And they spoke of London: that the mundane inhabitants of the city would remember the last days as those of a terrible snowstorm that had trapped them in their houses, cutting off London from the outside world. It was already beginning: the rest of the world reporting on the extreme weather in London that had downed the telegraph lines and prevented the movement of trains.

The Clave had hired Magnus Bane to repair the destruction wrought at Westminster Abbey, but no warlock, no magic Jem knew, was responsible for this great forgetting. It seemed a direct intervention of angels. Such has happened before, Brother Enoch had told him, only you, Zachariah, are too young to recall it. Belial upset the balance of things; sometimes Heaven rights that balance, though we can only guess at when it will do so. Angels, after all, do not answer to us.

The Downworlders who had been trapped in the city would, it seemed, remember, though Magnus had said their memories were dim and confused. From what Cordelia and Lucie had said, Jem thought, it was better that way. He did wonder about Malcolm; whether the High Warlock had been in London when it had been taken over was still an open question—

Movement caught Jem’s eye, a flicker of shadow at the Institute’s entrance. He heard the squeal of twisting metal. Though the gates had been locked, they creaked open, just wide enough to allow a shadow to slip through the gap.

Jem straightened, his hand on his staff, as a man strode toward him across the flagstones. A handsome man of middle years, in a well-cut suit. He had dark hair, and there was something peculiar about his face. Despite the lines on it, the marks of age and experience, he seemed oddly young. No, not young, Jem thought, tightening his grip on his weapon. New. As if he had just been made, shaped out of some strange clay: Jem could not quite explain it, even to himself. But he knew what he was looking at.

Demon, breathed a voice in the back of his head. And not just any demon. There is great power here.

Stop, Jem said, holding up a hand, and the man stopped, casually, hands in his pockets. He wore a long, leathery greatcoat, with an unpleasant-looking texture. The snow still fell, soft and white, but no flakes clung to his hair or clothes. It seemed to be falling around the man, as if it could not touch him. Why have you come here, demon?

The man grinned. An easy, lazy grin. “Now, that’s rather rude,” he said. “Why not give me my proper name? Belial?”

Jem drew himself up. Belial is dead.

“A Prince of Hell cannot die,” said the demon. “Yes, the Belial you knew is dead—well, I might not use that word precisely, but certainly his spirit will trouble your realm no more. I have been assigned his place. I am Belial now, the eater of souls, the eldest of the nine Princes of Hell, the commander of countless armies of the damned.”

I see, said Jem. And yet I still wonder—why have you come here? What message do you hope to convey? There was a great murmuring in the back of his mind, but he ignored it—the more ordinary human part of him was in control now. The part that loved and felt, that wished above all things to protect his family: Will, Tessa, and their children. Your predecessor had an unhealthy obsession with a Shadowhunter family, he said. It caused much suffering and destruction and resulted eventually in his death. I hope you will not be continuing that fixation.

“I will not,” said the new Belial. “That was his bloodline, not mine. I do not care about the family you speak of; they are nothing to me. The previous Belial diminished his strength in his fascination with them. I wish only to build that strength back up again.”

And you came by, out of the goodness of your demonic heart, to tell me this? Jem mused. No. You fear Cortana. You know it killed your predecessor. You fear you will be the next target of its wielder.

“Humans have such trouble understanding the ways of Heaven and Hell,” said Belial, but there was a stiffness to his smile. “There would be little point in the Carstairs girl slaying me; I will only be replaced by another, one perhaps more determined to do away with her.”

Quite simply, said Jem, you are saying: if the Herondales leave you alone, you will leave them alone.

“Eternally,” said Belial. “As I said, I have no interest in them. They are only ordinary Nephilim now.”

Jem was not sure he agreed with that, but he let it pass. I will convey that information, he said. I am sure they will have no interest in pursuing a connection with you, either.

Belial grinned, his teeth white and sharp. “Delightful,” he said. “I will owe you a favor, then, Silent One.”

No need for that, Jem protested, but Belial was already fading from view; there was only a shimmer where he had stood, and then, not even that. The only evidence of his presence was a strange bare circle of stone in the center of the courtyard where no snow had fallen.





EPILOGUE


Summer had come late to London this year, Cordelia thought, and at Chiswick House it seemed to have come even later, as if the place possessed its own distinct climate. Despite the blue sky overhead, the gardens of the manor seemed cast into shadow; the trees were cloaked in green, but few flowers had bloomed in the overgrown gardens. Cordelia found herself reminded of the first time she’d seen the house: at night, in demon-haunted darkness, the wind itself seeming to whisper, Go, you are not wanted here.

Now, things were different. The manor itself had not changed, perhaps, but Cordelia had. She was not here only with Lucie, embarking on a clandestine mission, but rather surrounded by her friends, her family, her husband, and her parabatai. She would not have minded had it been snowing. In this group, she could not help but be content.

The ground had been hard, rocky, and difficult to dig out; it had taken them most of the morning—even trading turns with the shovels—to hollow out a rectangle in the ground that would fit Jesse’s old coffin, which was balanced precariously at the edge of the hole.

They had brought picnic baskets—though they did not intend to picnic here—and had made inroads into the ginger beer; everyone was a bit sweaty and dirty, and the boys had all stripped off their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves. James had done a great deal of the digging, which Cordelia had enjoyed watching. He consulted briefly with Matthew now, and, apparently having decided that the hole was big enough, he turned to the rest of the group: Lucie and Jesse, Thomas and Alastair, Anna and Ari, Matthew (and Oscar), Cordelia, and Grace.

“All right,” James said, leaning on his shovel like the gravedigger in Hamlet. “Who wants to start?”

They all looked at each other—a bit sheepishly, like children caught breaking a rule. (Well, not Anna. Anna never looked sheepish.) But it had been Matthew’s idea in the first place, so in the end all eyes fell upon Matthew, who had knelt down to ruffle Oscar’s head.

Matthew looked amused. “I see,” he said. “Very well. I shall show you how it’s done.”

Oscar barked as Matthew strode up to Jesse’s empty coffin, its lid thrown back. The trees cast the shadows of leaves across it, and across Matthew’s green waistcoat. His hair had grown long since the winter, almost touching his collar. He had been training hard and no longer looked too thin. There was a depth to his smile that had not been there when Cordelia had first come to London; it had not been there even when they had been in Paris together.