Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

And there were dozens of others as well, Shadowhunters she didn’t know filling the cathedral as Cordelia sank to her knees beside James and Matthew. Matthew smiled at her and got to his feet, starting down the steps toward his mother and brother.

Beside her, James took her hand. It would only be a moment, Cordelia knew, before the others reached them, before they were caught up in a whirl of embraces and greetings and exclamations of gratitude and relief.

She looked at him—covered in blood and dirt and healing runes, with the dust of Edom still caught in his lashes. She thought of all the things she’d wanted to say, about how it was over and they were safe, and she had never thought it was possible to love someone so much as she loved him.

But he spoke first. His voice was rough, his eyes shining. “Daisy,” he said. “You believed in me.”

“Of course I did,” she replied, and she realized as she spoke the words that that was all she really needed to say. “I always will.”





CODA


Night had fallen over London. But it was not the unnatural night, heavy and black and silent, that had covered the city during the past terrible days. It was an ordinary London evening, full of life and noise: the sound of carriage wheels, the whistle of distant trains, the faraway shouts of Londoners passing under a sky full of moonlight and stars. And when Jem slipped out of the Institute and stood for a moment in the courtyard, the air was cold and clear and tasted of winter and the turn of the year.

Inside, there had been weariness and warmth, and even some laughter. Not for everyone, not yet; there was still shock, and grief and numbness. Anna Lightwood had returned to Alicante to be with her family, and Ari Bridgestock had gone with her. But as Jem had good cause to know, even after unimaginable loss, one continued: life had to be lived, and one learned to bear one’s scars.

And the young were resilient. Even after all she had been through today, Cordelia had wept with happiness when she found out she had a little brother now: his name was Zachary Arash Carstairs. Sona would be arriving the next morning, bringing the baby with her, and neither Cordelia nor Alastair could wait to meet him.

All things in balance, Jem thought. Life and death; grief and happiness. They had been brave, James and his friends, incredibly brave—they had lived through the nightmare of London under Belial’s control, and survived the wasteland of Edom. Outside Westminster Abbey, James, his clothes still drenched in blood, had told Jem that it was their years of training together, of sharpening and strengthening his will, that had given him the idea that he could resist Belial, could throw off his possession even for a moment.

And that had been part of it, Jem thought. Strength of will could not be dismissed, but there was also the great weakness of demons: they did not understand either love or faith. Belial had underestimated not just Cordelia, Lucie, and James, but also their friends, and what they would all do for each other. He had not seen them as Jem had, in the drawing room tonight: Cordelia sleeping in an armchair with James holding her; Alastair and Thomas, hand in hand before the fire; Lucie and Jesse, communicating with whispers and looks. Matthew, being gentle with his parents and, for the first time in a long time, with himself. And Will and Tessa, their hands outstretched for Jem, as they always were.

Now Jem looked out over the courtyard; snow had begun to sift from the sky, whitening the black iron of the gates, dusting the steps with silver. He could hear the murmurs of his Brothers in the back of his mind: a continuous soft rumble of silent conversation. They spoke of the cruel violation Belial had visited upon those Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers whose souls had gone voyaging outside their bodies. They spoke of returning those bodies to the Iron Tombs the next morning, returning them to their more dignified state. They spoke of Bridget Daly, the mundane who had been stricken by unearthly lightning, and of what changes might be worked in her, if any. And they spoke of London: that the mundane inhabitants of the city would remember the last days as those of a terrible snowstorm that had trapped them in their houses, cutting off London from the outside world. It was already beginning: the rest of the world reporting on the extreme weather in London that had downed the telegraph lines and prevented the movement of trains.

The Clave had hired Magnus Bane to repair the destruction wrought at Westminster Abbey, but no warlock, no magic Jem knew, was responsible for this great forgetting. It seemed a direct intervention of angels. Such has happened before, Brother Enoch had told him, only you, Zachariah, are too young to recall it. Belial upset the balance of things; sometimes Heaven rights that balance, though we can only guess at when it will do so. Angels, after all, do not answer to us.

The Downworlders who had been trapped in the city would, it seemed, remember, though Magnus had said their memories were dim and confused. From what Cordelia and Lucie had said, Jem thought, it was better that way. He did wonder about Malcolm; whether the High Warlock had been in London when it had been taken over was still an open question—

Movement caught Jem’s eye, a flicker of shadow at the Institute’s entrance. He heard the squeal of twisting metal. Though the gates had been locked, they creaked open, just wide enough to allow a shadow to slip through the gap.

Jem straightened, his hand on his staff, as a man strode toward him across the flagstones. A handsome man of middle years, in a well-cut suit. He had dark hair, and there was something peculiar about his face. Despite the lines on it, the marks of age and experience, he seemed oddly young. No, not young, Jem thought, tightening his grip on his weapon. New. As if he had just been made, shaped out of some strange clay: Jem could not quite explain it, even to himself. But he knew what he was looking at.

Demon, breathed a voice in the back of his head. And not just any demon. There is great power here.

Stop, Jem said, holding up a hand, and the man stopped, casually, hands in his pockets. He wore a long, leathery greatcoat, with an unpleasant-looking texture. The snow still fell, soft and white, but no flakes clung to his hair or clothes. It seemed to be falling around the man, as if it could not touch him. Why have you come here, demon?

The man grinned. An easy, lazy grin. “Now, that’s rather rude,” he said. “Why not give me my proper name? Belial?”

Jem drew himself up. Belial is dead.