Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

James felt Matthew shift beside him, and saw that he had slipped the flask from his pocket. He tipped it back, swallowing hard, staring at Belial as he sprang down from his bizarre-looking mount.

When Matthew replaced the flask into his jacket, his hand no longer shook. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet; James stood up quickly beside him, realizing that this was what Matthew had been saving the last mouthful of Christopher’s mixture for: so that when Belial came, they could face him together, on their feet.

Belial walked toward them, a gold riding whip in hand, an amused look on his face. “Aren’t you two adorable,” he said. “Your parabatai wouldn’t leave your side, James. Such a very holy bond, isn’t it, that love that passes all understanding. The very expression of God’s love.” He grinned. “Only God touches nothing here. This place lies beyond His sight, His touch. Your runes do not work here; adamas is dull in this world. Can your bond survive in such a place?” He slapped his palm with his riding whip. “Pity we’ll never know. You won’t be here long enough.”

“What a shame,” said James. “I was finding it all so pleasant here. Food, water, sunshine…”

Belial smiled. “Well, I did want you to be comfortable. It would be awfully inconvenient for me if you died of starvation or thirst while I was taking care of London. So fragile, these human bodies of yours.”

“And yet you want one,” said Matthew. “Isn’t that strange?”

Belial looked at him thoughtfully. “You would never understand,” he said. “Your world, and all its blessings, are forbidden to me, unless I inhabit a human body.”

“I’ve seen what your presence does to human bodies,” said Matthew tightly.

“Oh, indeed,” said Belial. “Which is why my grandson is necessary to me.” He turned to James. “James, I am going to offer you a deal. You should take it, because the offers will only get worse from here, and you have absolutely no leverage to negotiate.” When James didn’t respond, only folded his arms in reply, Belial went on. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. Beside you is your parabatai. The other half of your soul, who has followed you here out of loyalty, in faith that you would keep him safe.”

He’s manipulating you, James told himself, but still. He wanted to grind his teeth.

“He isn’t well,” Belial went on mercilessly. “Look at him; he can barely stand. He is sick, in body and soul.”

Unexpectedly, Belial’s bird-demon, which had been poking at the ground with its sharply angled head, spoke up in a voice like gravel rolling through a cast-iron pipe: “It’s true. Your bloke there looks like he just fell from a great height.”

Belial rolled his eyes. “Do shut up, Stymphalia. I’ll do the talking. You’re not here because you’re the brains of the operation.”

“?’Course not,” said Stymphalia. “It’s my bloody great wings, innit?” It flapped them proudly.

“The bird-demon sounds like a Londoner,” Matthew observed.

“Spent some time in London,” acknowledged the bird-demon. “Back in the day. Ate a few Romans. Delicious, they were.”

“Yes, yes,” said Belial. “Everyone loves London. Tea, crumpets, Buckingham Palace. If we may return to the matter at hand, James—agree to be possessed by me, and I will send him back to your people unharmed.” He pointed at Matthew.

“No,” Matthew said. “I didn’t come here to abandon James to his fate. I came to save him from it.”

“Good for you,” said Belial, sounding bored. “James, you must know this is the best thing for everyone. I don’t want to have to resort to violence.”

“Of course you do,” James said. “You love resorting to violence.”

“That seems true,” said Matthew.

“I only agreed to come,” put in Stymphalia, “because I thought there might be violence.”

“The birdie and the drunk are right,” Belial allowed. “But let me point out—if you refuse, I lose nothing but a bit of time. If you accept, this is all over and both of you survive and go back to your world.”

“I don’t survive,” James said. “I let you take over my body, my consciousness. In every meaningful way, I’d be dead. And while I don’t care about my life, I care very much about what you’d do if you could freely roam Earth in my body.”

“Then you must choose, I suppose,” said Belial. “Your life, your parabatai’s life—or the world.”

“The world,” said Matthew, and James nodded in agreement.

“We are Nephilim,” he said. “Something you would not understand. Every day we risk ourselves in service of the lives of others; it is our duty to choose the world.”

“Duty,” said Belial dismissively. “I think you will find little satisfaction in duty when the screams of your parabatai are echoing in your ears.” He shrugged. “I’ve much to do in London to ready it, so I will give you one more day. I imagine you’ll see sense by then. If that one”—he looked at Matthew—“even survives the night, which I doubt.” He turned, dismissing them both. “All right, you worthless bird, we’re leaving.”

“Not just a bird. I have a life of the mind too, you know,” Stymphalia grumbled as Belial climbed back into the saddle. Sand rose in a dark cloud as Stymphalia’s wings beat the air. A moment later Belial and his demon rose into the red-orange sky. Both Matthew and James watched in silence as they flew past the towers of the dark Gard, rapidly vanishing into the distance.

“If it happens,” James said. “If Belial possesses me—”

“He won’t,” Matthew interrupted. His eyes were enormous in his thin face. “Jamie, it can’t—”

“Just listen,” James whispered. “If it happens, if he possesses me, and snuffs out my will, and my ability to think or speak—then, Matthew, you must be my voice.”



* * *



“Where are you going this time of night?” said Jessamine.

Lucie, in the middle of buttoning her gear jacket, glanced up to see Jessamine perched on top of her wardrobe, looking half-transparent as usual. She also looked worried, her usual insouciant manner muted. She didn’t seem to be asking Lucie where she was going just for the sake of bothering her. There was real worry in her voice.

“Just on a short trip,” Lucie said. “I won’t be gone long.”

She looked over at the small rucksack on her bed, which she’d packed with just what she’d thought was necessary. A warm compact blanket, her stele, bandages, a few flasks of water, and a packet of ship’s biscuit. (Will Herondale was convinced that ship’s biscuit was the greatest contribution the mundanes had made to the art of survival, and he always kept plenty of it in the Institute stores; for once it seemed they might actually make use of it.)