Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

The Institute’s carriage had run up onto the curb, one wheel on the pavement, the other three still in the road. It was likely due to the horses, still in their harnesses, that it hadn’t struck any of the trees lining the street: it certainly wasn’t thanks to the driver, who had climbed down from his seat and was wandering along the road ahead of them, seemingly in a daze.

Alastair cupped his hands around his mouth. “Davies!” he called into the shrieking wind. “Davies, what’s wrong?”

Davies didn’t seem to hear. He kept walking—not in a straight line, but in a dizzy zigzag, lurching from one side of the street to the other. Thomas started forward, worried that Davies would be struck by oncoming traffic—and realized as he did so that there was no oncoming traffic. As he and Alastair hurried down the street, Thomas saw other carriages standing abandoned; there was a stopped omnibus, too, and through its windows he could see mundanes milling about in confusion.

They were on Gray’s Inn Road, usually a busy thoroughfare. Now there were few pedestrians, and even the pubs, which should still have been open, were dark and lightless. Wind howled down the street as if it were a tunnel, and the clouds overhead seemed to froth and boil like the chaos at the base of a waterfall.

As they reached the intersection with High Holborn, they caught up with Davies, who had sunk to his knees on the icy ground. He appeared to have found a discarded child’s hoop toy, which he was rolling back and forth with a blank, perplexed expression.

“Davies!” Thomas shook the driver by the shoulder. “Davies, for the Angel’s sake—”

“There’s something wrong,” Alastair said. “More than with just poor Davies. Look around.”

Thomas looked. More mundanes were emerging onto the street, but they were wandering aimlessly, without purpose. All were blank-faced. A costermonger stared vacantly into the distance as a riderless horse, reins dragging, helped itself to the fruit in his barrow. A man in an overcoat was stumbling back and forth across the pavement as if trying to keep his balance on the rolling deck of a ship. An old woman, wearing only a thin dress, stood staring up at the bloodred sky. She was weeping loudly and inconsolably, though none of the passersby seemed to notice, or stopped to help. On the street corner, a young man was hitting out at a lamppost, over and over, as his glove darkened with blood.

Thomas started forward—not sure what to do, but feeling as if he must do something—but was stopped by Alastair’s hand on his shoulder. “Thomas,” Alastair said. He was gray-faced, the mouth Thomas had kissed mere minutes ago tight with fear. “This is Belial’s doing. I’m sure of it. We need to get back to the Institute now.”



* * *



The battle was not going well, Lucie thought grimly.

It had seemed otherwise at first. She and the others who had crowded into the entryway had been listening to Tatiana as she argued with James—listening and growing angrier and angrier. By the time Cordelia reached the door and threw it open, they had burst out with a furious will to fight.

They had been struck first by the wind, tearing at them, distant claps of rumbling thunder like the beating of a vast drum. Lucie was halfway down the steps when she heard James’s pistol fire, the crack of it almost lost in the train-like roar of the wind overhead, screaming through the sky above London.

Something white had surged up in front of her—a Watcher, fire crackling along its staff. She had swung her axe with a shriek, burying it in the creature’s midsection. It had gone down, silently, without even a look of surprise.

The blood that edged her axe when she pulled it back was a dark, dark red, very nearly black.

Something shot by her head—a chalikar; Matthew was throwing them fast, the bladed discs slamming into one Watcher and then another, sending the second tumbling down the steps. Jesse was swinging his sword with admirable skill, nearly severing the arm of the tallest Watcher. Anna plunged her seraph blade into another, leaving a wound in its chest that was rimmed with fire. It went to its knees, its chest burning, its face devoid of expression.

It was Ari, brandishing her bloody weapon with a look of horror, who shouted, “They’re getting back up!”

And it was true. The Watcher James had shot was on its feet again, starting back toward the Institute. Then the next false Silent Brother rose, plucking Matthew’s chalikars from its body as if it were ridding itself of fleas. Though their white robes were slashed and stained, their wounds had already stopped bleeding.

Tatiana was laughing. Lucie could hear the sound of her high-pitched giggles as she whirled to look for the Watcher she had wounded. It was already climbing the steps again, swinging its staff toward Christopher, who ducked under it.

Cordelia, behind him, caught the staff between her hands. If it burned, she gave no sign, only gripped the staff and pushed, using its own force to drive the creature back down the steps.

But the other wounded Watchers were already rising like a wave. One after another they staggered back to their feet; one after another they returned to assail the Institute, and the small group of Shadowhunters defending its entrance.

After that the battle became a nightmare. Tatiana danced an odd, jerking dance of delight as one by one they beat the Watchers back and one by one the demons rose again. Throwing weapons were abandoned. They would not kill the Watchers, and would only become weapons in the creatures’ hands if they chose to use them. Matthew and Christopher drew seraph blades, their glow helping to illuminate the courtyard even through the thickening fog. James kept his gun—it seemed able to put the Watchers down for longer than a blade, though it would not kill them. Nothing seemed to. And worse, they healed—Jesse had nearly severed one’s arm, but Lucie saw that the arm had been restored, the Watcher seemingly unhurt as it battled Matthew, its staff blazing as it slammed over and over into Matthew’s seraph blade.

Matthew had already slipped once on the icy step. He had caught himself and rolled fast away from the downward slice of the Watcher’s staff, but Lucie knew that their time was limited. They were Nephilim, but they were human; they would grow exhausted eventually. Even the blood of the Angel could only hold out so long against unstoppable foes.

They were already getting hurt. James had a torn and bleeding sleeve where his arm had been gashed, Ari a bad scrape from a staff that had slammed against her torso. And Cordelia—Lucie was desperately worried about Cordelia. Cordelia was doing what she could, using the Watchers’ own staffs to drive them back—apparently this did not count as raising a weapon, as Lilith had not appeared—but there was already a bad burn on her cheek, and it would only be a matter of time—