Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

They cut down a passageway that led into a larger, square garden, surrounded by arcaded walls. The Great Cloister. The dry grass square was surrounded by corridors paved with ancient, pitted stone slabs and lined with arched doorways.

In the silence, the creak of metal hinges was as loud as a shriek. Ari straightened as, from the darkened hallway they’d come from, the telltale white robes of the Watchers appeared. Apparently they’d been seen; apparently they’d been followed; apparently the Watchers could enter the church unimpeded. From the far corner behind them came half a dozen more, moving fast, swarming across the cloister’s lawn toward them. There was nowhere to hide, nothing to duck behind.

Anna whirled on the others. “All of you, go. We have to get Cordelia to James. I’ll hold these off.”

Ari thought of Anna’s face in the corridor, her fierce desperation, her need to stand against the Watchers—and her apparent desire to do it alone.

Cordelia seemed paralyzed, her hand on Cortana, her face a mask of indecision. “Anna—”

“Anna’s right,” Alastair said. “Cordelia. Let’s go.”

Ari said nothing as the others raced from the cloisters, through an arched doorway that led into the abbey. But she did not follow them—only gestured, when Thomas paused to look back at her, that they should go on ahead.

“I’m staying,” she said, and Anna spun to stare at her. She held a seraph blade in one hand, and her expression was furious, her blue eyes blazing.

“Ari—you idiot—get out of here—”

But it was too late for her to protest; they were already surrounded by Watchers. Anna swore and raised her blade: “Kadmiel!”

The glow of the blade seared Ari’s eyes; she reached over her shoulder and drew her khanda free. Her mind was already passing from the place of conscious thought to the place of battle, where her hands and body seemed connected to a force outside herself. An avenging, ruthless force.

She charged at the nearest Watcher. It raised its staff, but not fast enough. Her khanda punched into it with a sickening thud. But it only twisted away, leaving Ari’s sword bright with blood, and the Watcher’s wound already beginning to close.

Ari looked past it, meeting Anna’s blazing eyes with her own. With her gaze, she told Anna what she needed; she could only hope Anna understood as Ari harried the Watcher back, landing blow after blow, making it retreat, maneuvering it into just the right position—

Behind the Watcher, Kadmiel blazed. Blade in hand, Anna tore away the Watcher’s hood, and sliced her weapon across the back of its neck. It crumpled to the ground, its body spasming as the smaller Chimera demon began to worm its way free of the body that could no longer hold it.

Ari didn’t wait for the other Watchers to react; she immediately leaped forward, catching one that was facing away from her, ripping away its hood, destroying the mark of Belial with a single sweep of her khanda. As it folded in on itself, she looked over at Anna in triumph—only to see that Anna, her bloodstained seraph blade held high, was staring past her with a look of sickening dismay.

Ari turned her head and saw why: more Watchers were pouring into the cloister. Too many for the two of them to possibly handle. What had been a risk before, fighting the Watchers on their own, was now far more. Now, it was suicide.

She caught Anna’s eye. They looked at each other for a long moment before, together, they turned to face the demons.



* * *



There were four of them now. Matthew, Alastair, Thomas, and Cordelia.

They had fled from the Great Cloister, leaving Anna and Ari to face the Watchers. The thought of it made Thomas feel sick to his stomach—even though he knew both were excellent warriors. Even though he knew that in reality, they’d had no choice.

They had to get Cordelia to Belial.

It was Matthew who had taken over as their navigator; he led them through a heavy oak door along the south side of the great cathedral, swung them along the lower part of the nave, and then came back up along the north wall. They stayed out of sight of the central part of the church, the High Altar blocked by the choir screen. Which was nerve-racking, Thomas thought, since they all knew that was where Belial was, doing only the Angel knew what.

Whatever Belial was doing, it was quiet. They stopped near the north transept, listening, Thomas leaning silently against the cold stone wall for a moment. There were few things that made him feel small, but he was struck by the sheer vast height of the cathedral; the great rows of impossibly high arches going up and up, like an optical illusion.

He wondered if it was that enormity that had brought Belial here. Or something about the solemnity of it, the ceremonial effigies of soldiers and poets, royalty and statesmen, that lined the walls. He realized he was facing the large statue of a Major General Sir John Malcolm, a balding gentleman leaning on a stone sword. According to the inscribed marble pillar on which he stood, his memory is cherished by grateful millions, his fame lives in the history of nations. This statue has been erected by the friends whom he acquired by his splendid talents, eminent public services and private virtues.

Well, thought Thomas, I’ve never heard of you.

Sir John Malcolm scowled.

Thomas jerked bolt upright. He glanced to the right, at Alastair, and then at Matthew and Cordelia. None of them seemed to have noticed anything amiss. Cordelia and Matthew seemed to be assessing Cordelia’s best route to the High Altar, and Alastair was looking away, frowning.

Thomas followed his gaze and realized that Alastair was staring at another monument, a huge bas-relief of multicolored marble, featuring Britannia, the emblem of Britain, holding a massive spear. An intense scarlet light had appeared within the stone spear, as if it were being heated from below.

“Alastair,” Thomas whispered—just as, with a horrendous tearing sound, Sir John Malcolm stepped down from his pillar and raised his marble sword; it, too, was burning with an intense scarlet light.

Thomas lunged out of the way just as the sword came down, slamming into the floor of the abbey and sending up a cloud of stone dust. He heard Alastair call his name, and scrambled to his feet.

In seconds, chaos had erupted in the north transept. Britannia was tearing herself free of her imprisoning stone carving, her blank gaze fixed on Cordelia. Several knights in full armor began to rise from their sleeping positions atop their tombs.

Matthew whirled, white-faced. “Run, Cordelia,” he said.

She hesitated—just as a Roman soldier bearing a gladius lurched around the corner. He made straight for her, and without a moment’s thought, Matthew stepped into its way. He raised his seraph blade, and the stone gladius slammed into it, sending him skidding back several feet. Cordelia started toward him, and so did Thomas, but it was as if the statues sensed blood—Britannia bore down on him, raising her spear—