Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

He led her back out into the hall; it wasn’t long before Cordelia realized where they were going. “The weapons room?” she demanded, as they approached its metal doors. “You hid a sword in a room full of weapons?”


Alastair smiled crookedly. “Have you never read Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter’?” He pushed the doors open and led her inside. “Sometimes ‘in plain sight’ is the best place to hide something.”

At the far end of the room was a small wooden door, half-hidden behind a display of hand axes. Alastair rolled them aside and threw the door open, beckoning for Cordelia to follow him into a room that turned out to be the size of a large closet. Sagging shelves held battered weapons—a sword with a bent blade, a rusty iron mace, a pile of simple longbows with no strings. Across from the door was a workbench of some kind, with wrought-iron legs and a heavily pitted wooden surface. On it were a number of short wooden rods that she realized after a moment were axe handles, denuded of their blades.

“The repairs room,” he said. “This is where broken weapons go—bows that need restringing, blades that need sharpening. It was Thomas’s idea,” he added, with a slight flush, and knelt down to look under the workbench. “He pointed out that this is the most heavily warded area of the Institute, and hardly anyone ever comes in here. They wouldn’t notice—” He grunted. “Give me a hand with this, will you?”

He was reaching for a large oilskin cloth that had been wrapped around a bundle and tucked under the workbench. She grabbed one end of it and he the other, and with some difficulty they dragged it out. Alastair folded back the oilcloth, revealing a pile of swords in scabbards, most of their blades wrapped in cheap, protective leather pouches. Their hilts rattled as Alastair fanned them out, and a dark gold gleam shone from the oilcloth.

Cortana.

There it was, as beautiful and golden as ever, sheathed within the exquisite scabbard that had been a wedding gift from her father. The intricate pattern of leaves and runes carved into its hilt seemed to glow. Cordelia yearned to reach out and snatch it up, but she turned to Alastair instead.

“Thank you,” she said, her throat tight. “When I asked you to look after it for me—I knew how much I was asking. But there was no one else I trusted. That Cortana trusted. I knew you’d keep it safe.”

Alastair, still kneeling, regarded her with thoughtful dark eyes. “You know,” he said, “when Cortana chose you as its bearer instead of me, everyone thought I was upset because I had wanted to be the one. The bearer. But—it wasn’t that. It was never that.” He rose to his feet, laying Cortana atop the workbench. “When you first picked up the sword… I realized, in that instant, that being its wielder would mean you were always the one in danger. You would be the one to take the bigger risks, to fight the harder fights. And I would be the one who would watch you, again and again, walk into danger. And I hated that thought.”

“Alastair…”

He held up his hand. “I should have told you that. A long time ago.” His voice carried the weight of a thousand emotions: resignation, loss, anger—and hope. “I know I cannot fight beside you, Layla. I only make one request. Be careful with your life. Not only for your own sake, but for mine.”



* * *



James didn’t know how much time had passed since they’d come to Edom. Matthew had fallen asleep after his small dose of sedative; James had lain down beside him and tried to rest, but the glaring orange-red of the daytime sky, and his own racing thoughts, had kept him awake.

Eventually he’d given up and circled the courtyard a few more times, searching for anything that might be a means of attack or escape. He found neither.

He had discovered, to his surprise, that while his seraph blades and other weapons had been taken away before he’d woken up in Edom, he still had his pistol on him, stuck through his belt. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to fire in this dimension, which was no doubt why Belial had let him keep it.

Eventually, he’d used the barrel of the gun to try digging into the ground beneath the walls, but the soil crumbled into powder to fill in any hole he started.

He’d returned to the stone bowl to drink more water and found that at some point a second bowl had appeared, this one full of hard green apples and stale rolls of bread. James wondered if the apples were meant to be an ironic nod to Lilith, or whether Belial was simply thinking about how to feed James and Matthew without giving them anything they’d actually enjoy eating.

He brought an apple over to Matthew, who was sitting up, having unbuttoned his coat and thrown it off. He was flushed, his hair and collar wet with sweat. When James handed him the apple, he took it with a hand that shook violently.

“Maybe you should drink a little more,” James suggested. “The remainder in the flask, at least.”

“No,” Matthew said shortly. He looked up at the burning orange sky. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I doubt that,” James said mildly.

“That there was little point in my following you here when I can barely stand up,” said Matthew. “It isn’t as if I can fight to defend you.”

James sat down beside him. “It’s Belial we’re up against, Math. There isn’t a single one of us who could stand against him, no matter how sick or well we were.”

“No one,” said Matthew, “except Cordelia.”

James glanced down at his hands. They were filthy from digging in the dirt, two of his nails bloody. “Do you think they’re still there? In London? Or have they gone to Idris?”

Matthew was looking at the sky again. “Our friends? They’d never take Belial’s offer. They’ll find some way to stay in London, whatever happens.”

“I agree,” said James. “Although I wish—”

Matthew held up a hand, interrupting James. He narrowed his eyes. “James. Look up.”

James looked. A few flying things had passed overhead while he was searching for an exit, too big and misshapen to be birds. It looked as if another was passing, much bigger and closer than the ones he’d seen before. As he watched, he realized with surprise that it was coming closer. And then it was definitely descending toward them.

It was an enormous creature, with feathered black wings, a long insectile body, and a triangular face like an axe-head, with oblong, marble-white eyes and a gaping circle of teeth.

Riding on the bird-demon’s back, on a tooled gold saddle, was Belial.

He had abandoned his usual trousers and jacket: he wore instead a silk doublet and a long cloak of white samite, like the angel he had been once. It flapped in the hot wind as the bird-demon alighted on the rocky ground of the courtyard, sending up a small tornado of dust.