Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cordelia ran. But this time, as she ran, the wind whipped tears from her face. Tears for Christopher, for London. For Tatiana. For herself.

The fog that hung over the city had thickened. Lampposts and stopped carriages loomed up out of the mist, as if she were fleeing through a snowstorm. There were other shadows too, moving ones, appearing and disappearing in the fog—mundanes, wandering? Something more sinister? She thought she saw the flash of a white robe, but when she dashed toward it, it had vanished into the mist.

All Cordelia knew was that she had to get back to the Institute. Over and over she saw the tableau of Christopher lying dead, so vivid in her mind that when she finally reached the Institute gates and the courtyard beyond, she was shocked to find it deserted.

It was clear there had been a battle—the snowy ground was disturbed, spotted with blood and thrown weapons; even ragged chunks of the Watchers’ staffs. But the silence that hung over the place was eerie, and when Cordelia went into the cathedral, it held the same tomb-like quiet.

She had not realized how cold she was. As the warmth of the Institute enveloped her, she began shivering uncontrollably, as if her body had finally been given permission to feel the chill. She made straight for the Sanctuary, where the doors were already open. The great, high-ceilinged room yawned beyond.

And inside, silence. Silence and a grief so palpable it was like a living force.

Cordelia was reminded of the awful room in the Silent City where her father’s body had been laid out. She recalled Lucie saying that no one had cleared away the bier Jesse had been laid out on, and indeed, here it was, with Christopher stretched atop it. He was on his back, his hands folded across his chest. Someone had closed his eyes, and his spectacles had been laid neatly beside him, as if at any moment he might awake and reach out for them, wondering where they had gone.

Around Christopher’s body knelt his friends. James, Lucie, Matthew, Anna. Ari. Jesse. Anna was at the head of the bier, her hand lightly against Christopher’s cheek. Cordelia did not see Alastair or Thomas, and she felt a small chill—she had been glad, selfishly, that Alastair had not been there for the battle, that he had been well out of it. But now that she had been out in the city, she had begun to worry. Were they lost in the creeping fog? Or worse, facing whatever creatures were hiding in that fog?

As Cordelia approached, she caught sight of Grace, huddled alone in a corner. Her feet were bare and bloody; she was curled in on herself, her face in her hands.

James looked up. He saw Cordelia and rose to his feet, his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. Something in his eyes had changed, Cordelia thought with an awful pang. Changed forever. Something had been lost, as he seemed lost, like a little boy.

Not caring if anyone was watching, she held out her arms. James crossed the room and caught her tightly to him. For a long time he held her, his face pressed against her loose hair, though it was damp with melting snow. “Daisy,” he whispered. “You’re all right. I was so worried—when you ran—” He took a deep breath. “Tatiana. Did she get away?”

“No,” Cordelia said. “I killed her. She’s gone.”

“Good,” Anna said savagely, her hand still against Christopher’s cheek. “I hope it was painful. I hope it was agony—”

“Anna,” Lucie said gently. She was looking from Jesse, who was expressionless, to Grace, still huddled against the wall. “We should—”

But Grace raised her head from her arms. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks with dried tears. “You promise?” she said, her voice trembling. “You promise me she’s dead? Belial cannot raise her?”

“There is nothing to raise,” Cordelia said. “She is dust and ashes. I promise that, Grace.”

“Oh, thank God,” Grace whispered, “oh, thank God,” and she began to shake violently, her whole body shuddering. Jesse got to his feet and went across the room to his sister. Kneeling down beside her, he took one of her hands, pressing it between his own, murmuring words Cordelia could not hear.

James’s lips brushed Cordelia’s cheek. “My love,” he said. “I know it is not easy to take a life, even such a life as that.”

“It does not matter now,” Cordelia said. “What matters is Christopher. I am so, so sorry, James—”

His face tightened. “I can’t fix it,” he whispered. “That is the unbearable part. There is nothing I can do.”

Cordelia only murmured and stroked his back. Now was not the time to speak of how no one could fix this, how death was not a problem to be solved, but a wound that took time to heal. Words would be meaningless against the chasm of the loss of Christopher.

Cordelia looked over at the bier and caught Lucie’s gaze. Alone among them all, Lucie was weeping—silently and without movement, the tears trickling down her cheeks one by one. Oh, my Luce, Cordelia thought, and wanted to go to her, but there was noise at the Sanctuary door, and a moment later, Thomas and Alastair came in.

“Oh, thank the Angel,” James said, hoarsely. “We had no idea what happened to you—”

But Thomas was staring past him. Staring at Christopher and the others. At the bier, the lighted tapers. The scrap of white silk in Matthew’s hands. “What…” He looked at James, his eyes bewildered, as if James would have an answer, a solution. “Jamie. What’s happened?”

James squeezed Cordelia’s hand and went over to Thomas. Cordelia could hear him speaking, low and fast, as Thomas shook his head, slowly and then faster. No. No.

As James finished the story, Alastair backed away, as if to give James and Thomas privacy. He came to join Cordelia, and he took her hands in his. He turned them over, silently, looking at the red frost burns where she’d held the ice sword. “Are you all right?” he said, in Persian. “Layla, I am so sorry I was not here.”

“I am glad you were not here,” she said fiercely. “I am glad you were safe.”

He shook his head. “There is nothing safe about London now,” he said. “What is happening out there—it is Belial’s doing, Cordelia. He has turned the mundanes of the city into mindless puppets—”

He broke off as Thomas approached the bier where Christopher lay. As big and broad-shouldered as Thomas was, he seemed somehow shrunken as he stared at Kit’s body, as if he were trying to disappear into himself. “It’s not possible,” he whispered. “He doesn’t even look wounded. Have you tried iratzes?”

No one spoke. Cordelia recalled her vision of Anna, drawing healing runes on Christopher over and over, becoming more and more frantic as they vanished against his skin. She was not frantic now—she stood like a stone angel at the head of the bier and did not even look at Thomas.

“There was poison on the weapon, Thomas,” said Ari gently. “The healing runes could not save him.”