Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Instantly, the little girl’s eyes rolled up in her head. She collapsed to the ground, her small body still and barely breathing. As she exhaled, a plume of dark smoke emerged, rising and diffusing into the air. Rosamund dropped to her knees beside the girl and put her hand against the girl’s shoulder. Above them all, the smoke-shadow began to coalesce, spinning like a small tornado.

“James, no.” Matthew started toward him, the wind whipping his blond hair. “You can’t agree to that—”

“He’s right.” Cordelia caught at James’s arm. “James, please—”

James turned toward her. “This was always going to happen, Daisy,” he said, catching urgently at her hands. “You have to believe me, believe in me, I can—”

Cordelia screamed as her hands were torn from his. She was lifted off her feet—it was as if a hand were gripping her, squeezing her. She was flung aside like a doll; she hit the stone steps with a force that knocked the breath from her body.

Shadow swirled around her. As she struggled to sit up, gasping past her broken ribs, she saw James, half-hidden from her by darkness. It was as if she were looking at him through dimmed glass. She saw him turn toward her, saw him look directly at her, even as she tried to get to her feet, tasting bitter blood in her mouth.

I love you, she read in his eyes.

“James!” she screamed, as the shadows between them thickened. She could hear Lucie screaming, hear the others shouting, hear the terrible beating of her own terrified heart. Holding her side, she started toward James, aware of the Watchers moving toward the steps, toward her. If she could just reach him first—

But the shadow was everywhere now, cutting off her vision, filling the world. She could barely see James—the smudge of his pale face, the gleam of the pistol at his waist. And then she saw something else—Matthew, moving more quickly than she would have thought possible, shot through a gap in the darkness and flung himself at James, catching hold of his sleeve just as the darkness closed in on them both.

It seemed to boil and churn—there was a flash of bloody gold light, as if Cordelia looked through a Portal—and then it was gone. Gone entirely, not the wisp of a shadow remaining, only empty steps, and a scatter of what looked very much like sand.

Belial was gone. And he had taken James and Matthew with him.





INTERMISSION: GRIEF


Grief, Cordelia would realize during that night and the next day, was like drowning. Sometimes one would surface from the dark water: a period of brief lucidity and calmness, during which ordinary tasks might be accomplished. During which one’s behavior was, presumably, normal, and it was possible to hold a conversation.

The rest of the time, one was pulled deep below the water. There was no lucidity, only panic and terror, only her mind screaming incoherently, only the sensation of dying. Of not being able to breathe.

She would remember the time later as flashes of light in the dark, moments when she surfaced, when the making of memories was possible, if incomplete.



* * *



She did not remember getting from the courtyard into her bedroom—James’s bedroom—at the Institute. That was a drowning time. She remembered only suddenly being in the bed, a bed that was much too big for her alone. Alastair was leaning over her, his eyes red, drawing healing runes on her left arm with his stele. “Tekan nakhor,” he said, “dandehaat shekastan.” Don’t move; your ribs are broken.

“Why are we here?” she whispered.

“The Enclave seems to think we might as well trust Belial’s bargain,” said Alastair, misunderstanding her. “What other choice do we have? We have to assume we’re safe from the Watchers for the next day and a half. I have to go home,” he added. “You know I do, Layla. I have to bring Mother here, to be with us. She’ll need help getting out of London.”

Make someone else go, Cordelia wanted to say. Don’t leave me, Alastair.

But the dark was coming down, she was being swallowed up in it. She tasted bitter water, salt on her lips.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “Be careful.”



* * *



She was in the corridor, unable to remember how she got there. The Institute was full of people. The whole Enclave had been notified of what had happened, an emergency meeting called. Many Nephilim were moving to the Institute, not wishing to be alone in their homes. Patrols had searched houses and office buildings for a working telephone or telegraph to no avail: they were, as Belial had promised, entirely cut off from the outside world.



* * *



Martin Wentworth came up to Cordelia, shamefaced, as did Ida Rosewain. “So sorry to hear,” they said. “About James. About Matthew. About Christopher.”

Cordelia nodded, accepted their apologies. Wished they would leave her alone. She looked for Anna but couldn’t find her. Couldn’t find Lucie, either. She went to her room to sit by the window, waiting for Alastair’s return.



* * *



The little girl who had been the last mundane possessed by Belial had died. She had been brought into the infirmary by Jesse, and been tended to carefully, but her body had been too damaged to survive. Lucie said that Grace had wept over her; Cordelia could not find it within herself even to be surprised.



* * *



Night was day, and day was night. There seemed no difference here in Belial’s London: the heavy clouds were constant, and while sometimes strange light shone, it came irregularly, with no notice paid to the time. Watches and clocks were still, or the hands spun unceasingly; the Institute’s inhabitants charted the time as best they could using an hourglass taken from Will’s office.



* * *



Understanding that she might never return to Cornwall Gardens, Sona had not been able to decide what to bring and what to leave behind. Cordelia found herself stacking an odd assortment of ornaments and books, clothes and keepsakes, on a dresser in one of the Institute’s spare rooms. When she was done, her mother held out her arms from the bed. “Come here,” she said. “My poor baby girl. Come here.”

Cordelia wept in her mother’s arms, holding on tightly until the waves took her down again.



* * *



As she passed through the drawing room, Cordelia saw Thomas. He was with Eugenia, both of them talking intently, yet he seemed alone. He was the last of the Merry Thieves left in this world, Cordelia realized with a dull horror. The last of four. If they did not get James and Matthew back somehow, he would always be alone.



* * *



Charles led the meeting. His face was calm, but Cordelia could see he felt utterly unprepared for the situation. His hands shook like fluttering paper, and he was drowned out quickly by a chorus of voices from those in the Enclave who were older, and more determined, than he was.

“We are not remaining in London and endangering our families,” roared Martin Wentworth. “We have been given a chance to escape. We should take it.”



* * *