Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Belial? Anyone’s guess,” James said. “In the fortress, perhaps. Riding some sort of demonic hell-beast around Edom, chortling to himself. Admiring the wastelands. He’ll turn up when he wants to.”


“Do you think there are any nice demon dimensions? You know, green lands, fruitful hills, beaches and things?”

“I think,” James said, “that demons feel the same way about barren hellscapes as we do about pleasant countryside retreats.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “I know there’s no point to it. But I’ll feel ridiculous if I don’t even try to search for a way out of here.”

“I won’t judge,” said Matthew. “I admire a pointless heroic quest.”

James laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder before rising to his feet. He paced the perimeter of the yard, finding nothing he didn’t expect. The walls were smooth and unclimbable. There was no doorway into the fortress, no gaps in the walls that would suggest a secret panel, no unusually flat piece of ground that might indicate a trapdoor.

He tried not to feel hopeless. There were crumbs of comfort. Belial had sworn he wouldn’t hurt the others, the ones they had left back in London. He had even agreed not to target Cordelia. James could not help but recall how happy he had been, only a short time ago, waking up in his bedroom at Curzon Street and realizing Cordelia was there next to him. How he had thought it was the first morning of many, how he had let himself believe this would be the rest of his life. It was so cruel, how little time they had had before he was taken away.

“I don’t suppose you have any control over this realm, the way you did the other,” Matthew said as James circled back in his direction.

“I don’t,” James said. “I can tell. In Belphegor’s realm, there was something always calling to me, like something just out of earshot that I could hear if I really listened. But this place is dead.” He paused. He had reached the broken statuary he’d seen before, and he realized the bowl balanced atop it wasn’t empty. It was full of clear liquid.

Water. In fact, next to the bowl, a metal cup rested, placed there by some helpful invisible hand.

James narrowed his eyes. The water could, of course, be poisoned. But was it likely? Belial would be happy to poison Matthew, but poisoning James—well, Belial wanted him alive.

And every cell in James’s body was crying out for water. If Belial had decided to poison him, so be it; he’d just kill him another way if this didn’t succeed. James took hold of the metal cup and dunked it into the bowl. The water was pleasantly cold against his fingers.

“James—” Matthew said warningly, but James was already drinking. The water tasted cold and clear, surprisingly delicious.

James lowered the cup. “How long do you think we need to wait to see if I dissolve or turn into a pile of ashes?”

“Belial wouldn’t poison you,” Matthew said, echoing James’s own thoughts. “He doesn’t want you dead, and if he did, I imagine he’d want to take the opportunity to kill you in a more spectacular fashion.”

“Thank you. Very reassuring.” James filled the cup again and carried it over to Matthew. “Drink.”

Matthew did, obediently, though without the enthusiasm James had expected. He’d drunk only half the water when he pushed the cup away, his hand trembling.

He didn’t look at James. But he didn’t have to; James realized in that moment that Matthew was shivering all over—shivering violently, despite the heat in the air and the long coat he wore. His blond curls were damp with sweat.

“Math,” James said quietly. “Do you have your flask with you? The one Kit gave you. With the sedative.”

Matthew flinched; James didn’t blame him. It hurt to say Christopher’s name.

“I have it,” Matthew said quietly. “There’s only a bit left in it.”

“Let me see,” James said, and Matthew handed it over without protest. James unscrewed the top of the flask and peered in, his stomach sinking: there were probably two swallows of the liquid remaining.

Trying to keep his own hands steady, James poured a thimbleful of liquid into the cap of the flask and handed it to Matthew. After a moment Matthew tossed it down his throat, before slumping back against the wall.

When he gave the cap back to James, his hand was steadier, James thought. Or perhaps he just wanted it to be true. He closed up the flask and tucked it back into Matthew’s pocket. He let his hand rest there for a moment, feeling the warmth of Matthew’s skin through his shirt, the steady beat of his heart.

“They’ll come for us, you know,” he said, and felt Matthew’s heart jump under his hand. “Our friends. They know where we are. Cordelia, Lucie, Thomas, Anna—”

“We haven’t just popped round the corner shops,” Matthew said wearily, though without any rancor. “We’re in another world, James.”

“I have faith,” James said.

Matthew looked at him, his green eyes steady. “Good,” he said, and put his hand over James’s, where it rested on his heart. “It’s good to have faith.”





28 TIDES OF LONDON




And only the tides of London flow,

Restless and ceaseless, to and fro;

Only the traffic’s rush and roar

Seems a breaking wave on a far-off shore.

—Cicely Fox, “Anchors”



Thomas led Jesse and Grace through the streets of Mayfair, feeling as if he were leading untrained hunters through a forest of tigers.

They’d had to find gear in the Institute storerooms, and Jesse had needed to help Grace put it on, as she’d never worn it before. All three of them were armed, as well—Jesse had the Blackthorn sword, and Grace a long silver dagger—but Thomas was very aware of how much they lacked a Shadowhunter’s usual training. He knew that Jesse had taught himself years ago, and that he had been working to catch up, but it was a far cry from the years of intensive training a normal Shadowhunter would have had by Jesse’s age. Grace, of course, had never been trained at all except for the few things Jesse had taught her, and while she held the silver dagger carefully, Thomas wished she’d had more training with long-range weapons. If she got close enough to a Watcher to use the dagger, he suspected, she would already be as good as dead.

It was midday, though it was hard to tell given the constantly shifting black clouds in the sky. The Watchers were out, though not in force. They seemed to be wandering the streets in a sort of disorganized patrol, keeping an eye on things in a desultory fashion. Luckily, they stood out sharply in their white robes, and Thomas was able to drag everyone safely into doorways each time a Watcher appeared.