Chapter 25: Vexed with Tempest

25VEXED WITH TEMPEST

Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of Night

Starless exposed, and ever-threatening storms

Of Chaos blustering round, inclement sky;

Save on that side which from the wall of Heaven,

Though distant far, some small reflection gains

Of glimmering air less vexed with tempest loud.

—John Milton, Paradise Lost

“Laanati,” Alastair muttered. Damn it.He was staring out the window of the carriage, which he had been doing ever since he and Thomas had clattered out of the courtyard. Thomas had heard him tell Davies, the driver, “Just keep going around the streets, I don’t much care where,” and Davies seemed to have taken the directive to heart. Thomas, who had lived in London all his life, had absolutely no idea where they currently were.

It had been cold in the carriage at first, and both of them had snatched up blankets from a folded pile. After which Thomas had waited expectantly for Alastair to begin a conversation—after all, why would Alastair have requested his company if he didn’t have something to say?—but Alastair had only slumped back against his seat, occasionally muttering a curse in Persian.

“Look,” Thomas said finally, trying not to let disappointment gnaw at him. “We ought to go back to the Institute. The others will worry—”

“I imagine they will worry that I kidnapped you,” said Alastair.

Thunder cracked overhead like a whip. The wind was blowing hard enough to rock the carriage on its wheels. Dry brown leaves and flakes of icy snow were swept into small tornadoes, scraping the glass of the windows, rattling down the deserted streets. Even in the carriage, the air felt heavy and pressurized.

“Are you upset because of Charles?” Thomas asked. He worried the question was too blunt, but Alastair was so silent anyway. There seemed nothing to lose.

“That is a part of it,” Alastair said. The light coming into the carriage through the window was tinged with red, as if there was fire burning in the storm clouds above. “When I first met Charles, I would look at him and see who I wished to be. Someone confident, who knew his path, his future. I realize now it was a sham. That he feels utterly powerless. He is so overwhelmed with fear and shame that he believes he has no choices.” His hand made a fist in his lap. “And I fear that I am doing the same.”

Thomas could see row houses outside the window, and London plane trees laden with snow. The wind was a soft howl, the lampposts lining the street tinged with a smoky glow. “Are you saying that you’re afraid of what people would think if they knew your true feelings about—”

“About you?” Alastair said. His dark eyes were somber. “No.”

Of course not. Of course he doesn’t mean you.

“No,” Alastair went on. “I have presented this move to Tehran to myself, to you, to my sister, as a chance for a fresh start. They were words my father always spoke, every time we left a place we had made a home and set out for somewhere new. ‘A fresh start.’” His voice was bitter. “It was never the truth. We were moving to get away from the problems my father had created—from his debts, his drinking. As if he could outrun them. And I—” His eyes were haunted. “I never wanted to be like him, I fought so hard not to be like him. And yet I find myself planning to run away. To do what he would do. Because I’m afraid.”

Thomas kicked the blanket off his lap. The carriage rocked under his feet as he moved to sit on the opposite bench beside Alastair. He wanted to put his hand over Alastair’s but held back. “I have never thought of you as afraid,” he said, “but there is no shame in it. What are you afraid of?”

“Change, I suppose,” Alastair said, a little desperately. Outside, the branches of trees whipped back and forth in the wind. Thomas could hear a dull roaring sound—thunder, he guessed, though it was oddly muffled. “I know that I must change myself. But I don’t know how to do it. There is no instruction manual for becoming a better person. I fear that if I remain in London, I will only continue hurting the people I’ve hurt before—”

“But you have changed,” Thomas said. “Without being instructed on how to do so. The person you were when we were at school wouldn’t have rushed to help me when I got arrested. Wouldn’t have followed me in the first place, to make sure I was safe. The person you used to be wouldn’t have looked after Matthew. Wouldn’t be reading book after book about paladins to try to help his sister.” Thomas’s hands were shaking. It felt like a terrible risk, saying these things to Alastair. As if he were stripping away protective gear, leaving himself vulnerable. He swallowed and said, “I wouldn’t feel the way I do about you if you were the same person now that you were last year.”

Alastair looked at him. He said, his voice husky, “I thought you liked me last year.”

Thomas stared at him. And, unexpectedly, Alastair started to smile. “I was teasing you,” he said. “Thomas, you—”

Thomas kissed him. He caught Alastair by the lapel of his coat, and then he was kissing Alastair, and both their mouths were cold and then not cold at all. Alastair arched up against him as the carriage lurched, his hands twining in Thomas’s hair. He pulled Thomas against him, hard and then harder.

Thomas’s pulse beat hotly in every part of his body. Alastair pressed his mouth against his, his lips finding ways to tease and explore, and then their mouths were open, their tongues sliding against each other, and the carriage lurched hard, throwing them both to the floor.

Neither of them cared. They had landed on Thomas’s discarded blanket. Thomas tore at Alastair’s coat, yanking the buttons free. He wanted to feel Alastair, feel the shape of him, not just crumpled wool under his hands. Alastair was on top of him; behind Alastair he could see the sky through the windows. It was riven by storm, the clouds slashed through with a bloody channel of fire.

Thomas struggled out of his own coat. Alastair was leaning over him, his eyes black as a starless night. He opened the collar of Thomas’s shirt and kissed his throat. He found the notch of Thomas’s collarbone and licked it, making stars explode behind Thomas’s eyes.

He tore at Thomas’s shirt. The buttons came free, and he shoved Thomas’s undershirt up, baring his chest. “Look at you,” Alastair said, in a low voice. “Beautiful. You’re so beautiful, Tom.”

Thomas felt tears burn behind his eyes. He tried to tell himself not to be ridiculous, but that little buzzing voice in the back of his head, the one that mocked him when he was fanciful, was silent. There was only Alastair, who bit and kissed and licked at him until he was writhing and crying out, until he was pulling Alastair’s shirt free, running his hands over Alastair’s bare skin, silk pulled tight over hard muscle.

He rolled over, pinning Alastair beneath him. His naked skin against Alastair’s was driving him out of his mind. He wanted more of it. More of Alastair. Alastair’s bare chest was gorgeous, marked with old scars, his nipples peaked in the cold air. Thomas bent his head and circled one with his tongue.

Alastair’s whole body arched. He whimpered low in his throat, clawed at Thomas’s back. “Tom. Tom—”

With a slamming lurch, the carriage struck hard against something. Thomas heard the wheels scream, the whinny of the horses as the whole thing tilted to the side. A clap of thunder, loud as the crack of a whip, sounded overhead as the carriage came to a grinding halt.

Alastair was already sitting up, buttoning his shirt. “Bloody hell,” he said. “What was that?”

“We must have hit something.” Thomas did his best to put his clothes back as they had been, though half his buttons were torn. “You’re all right?”

“Yes.” Alastair looked at Thomas, then leaned over and kissed him, hard, on the mouth. A second later he was throwing the carriage door open and leaping out.

Thomas heard him hit the ground, heard him suck in his breath. There was a bitter smell on the air, he thought as he clambered after Alastair, like charcoal. “Bloody hell,” Alastair said. “What is all this?”

A moment later, Thomas was leaping out of the carriage after him.

---

“Well,” Matthew said as Tatiana’s shriek faded on the air, “I think we can all agree that that’s one invitation we should turn down.” He looked around the room at the others, all of whom seemed stunned, even Anna. “We should at least wait until Charles gets back with the First Patrol.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say we should wait for Charles,” said Anna, who was already drawing a seraph blade from her belt.

“Tatiana’s a madwoman,” said Matthew. “There’s no telling what she’ll do.”

“She’ll break the doors down,” Jesse said. “Those things with her—they’re Shadowhunters. Demons in Shadowhunter skin. They can come inside the Institute.”

“Jesse’s right,” said Grace, who had begun to shake again. “Mama’s only making it an invitation now because it amuses her to force you to do what she wants.”

“So if we don’t go down there,” said Cordelia, “she and her demon companions will burst in here.”

“Then we’ll all go,” James said, “and hold her off at the front door. The Sanctuary’s locked; there’s no other way in.” He turned to the others, who were busy laying hands on whatever weapons they had. Most had a seraph blade or two; Ari had her khanda, Jesse the Blackthorn sword. “I think Jesse and I should go outside and confront her in the yard. The rest of you remain at the entryway, as defense. Keep the false Silent Brothers from trying to creep around and get inside. I’ll try to keep her talking, at least until Charles and the First Patrol return—”

“Jesse isn’t trained, though,” Matthew said, buckling on his weapons belt. “Let me go outside with you. She demanded a Fairchild, didn’t she?”

James said, “Jesse’s the one of us she’s least likely to hurt. The only one who might give her pause.”

“I should confront Tatiana,” Cordelia said.

James turned to face her. She had her chin up, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on his. “I am a paladin. She should fear me. She should fear Lilith.”

“But she won’t know that unless you start fighting,” Lucie protested. “Unless Lilith is summoned. And I can’t imagine summoning Lilith will make the situation better.”

“There may be a point where it can’t make it worse,” Cordelia said quietly. “I promise—I won’t lift a weapon unless there’s no other choice. But I want to go out there.”

James wanted to shake his head, wanted to protest that Cordelia should stay inside, stay safe. But he knew that was a kind of protection Cordelia would never accept. He could ask her to remain inside, and perhaps she would do it because he had requested it, but it would be asking her to be someone other than who she was.

“Come out!”Tatiana shrilled, and Lucie felt the shriek in her bones. “Come out, Herondales! Come out, Carstairs! Come out, Lightwoods! I will not ask again!”

“I’m going outside,” Cordelia said firmly, and there was no chance for James to protest anyway; they were all headed downstairs, all save Grace, who watched them go, her face blank and sad, as if she had exhausted even her capacity to be afraid.

---

Tatiana had not moved from her place in the center of the courtyard. As James walked out the front door of the Institute, followed by Cordelia and Jesse, he saw her standing below them, near the foot of the steps. She faced the Institute, grinning, surrounded by demons and shadow.

The sky overhead was a boiling mass of dark gray clouds, laced with black and scarlet. The moon was visible only as a dim and flickering lamp behind a frost of reddish-white, casting the courtyard of the Institute into a bloody light.

Tatiana’s white hair streamed around her like smoke. It was as if she had brought storm and darkness with her, as if she had ridden the forked lightning that crackled through the clouds. On either side of her stood three Silent Brothers, in the white robes Grace had described. The runes that edged the cuffs and plackets were runes of Quietude and Death; Grace would not have recognized them as such, but James did. Each held a staff, as the Silent Brothers usually did, but their staffs crackled with a dark energy, and each wooden tip had been sharpened to a wicked point. They flanked Tatiana like foot soldiers flanking a general.

James held his pistol firmly in his right hand. Cordelia had taken up a place on his left; Jesse stood at his right. The others were inside the entryway, waiting with weapons in hand.

“Tatiana Blackthorn,” James said. “What do you want?”

He felt strangely calm. He had faced Tatiana before, when she had surrendered to him at the Lightwoods’, but she had been lying and pretending then. Perhaps she intended to lie and pretend again, but now he expected it. Now there was a metallic taste in his mouth, and a hot wire of rage running through his veins. He had been angry at Grace for some time, and still was, but in truth, it was Tatiana who had been the architect of his misery. Grace had only ever been the blade in her hand.

She narrowed her eyes, looking at him. It was clear she’d thought he would be shocked at her appearance, and she was taken aback by his calm. “Grace,” she hissed. “My traitor daughter came before me, did she not? She told you I had taken the Silent City. That stupid child. I should have ordered my Watchers to kill her when the chance presented itself, but… my heart is too soft.”

Jesse made a noise in the back of his throat. Tatiana was clearly quite out of her mind at this point, he thought. She had been bitter and falling apart for as long as he had known of her, and then Belial came along, like the spider in the children’s rhyme, and offered her power. The power to have the revenge she had only ever dreamed of. She was a shell scraped clean now, her humanity gone, hollowed out by hatred and revenge.

“I want one thing from each of you,” she said, her gaze moving restlessly between the three Shadowhunters ranged on the steps. “One thing, or my Watchers”—she gestured at the white-clad figures on either side of her—“will be turned loose upon you.” She turned to Cordelia with a sneer. “From you—Cortana. The sword of Wayland the Smith.”

“Certainly not,” said Cordelia. Her head was held high; she looked at Tatiana as if Tatiana was a bug spitted on a needle. “I am Cortana’s rightful bearer. The sword chose me; you have no right to it.”

Tatiana smiled as if she had expected, and even welcomed, such an answer. She turned to Jesse. “From you, my son,” she said, “I wish for you to drop your ruse. You need not pretend you are one of the Nephilim any longer. Abandon these traitors. Join me. There will be a New London soon, and we will rule it. Your father will be raised, and we will be a family again.”

A New London?James turned to Jesse, worried—but Jesse’s face was like stone. The Blackthorn sword gleamed in his hand as he raised it, holding it across his body. “I’d rather be dead than join with you, Mother,” he said, “and since I’ve been dead already, I can say that with great confidence.”

“Belial can give you worse than death,” Tatiana murmured. There was an odd light in her eyes, as if she were contemplating the joys of Hell. “You will reconsider, child.”

She turned to James.

“And you, James Herondale,” she said. “You who consider yourself a leader. Give yourself up to Belial willingly. He has given me his word, and I pass it on to you, that he will spare those you love, and let them live, if only you come willingly to him. Even the Carstairs girl he will allow to live; he will gift her to you. She left you once, but she will never be able to leave you again. She will have no choice but to remain at your side.”

James felt his lip curl. “It says much of you, that you think that would tempt me,” he said harshly. “That you think love is the ability to possess another person, to force them to your side, even if they hate you, even if they can hardly bear it. You offer me what Grace had of me—not a partner, but a prisoner.” He shook his head, noting that Tatiana looked angry, which was good; they were stalling for time, after all. “Belial cannot understand, nor you, Tatiana. I want a Cordelia who can leave me, because then I know that when she stays with me, it is by choice.”

“A meaningless distinction,” said Tatiana. “You speak of morals that belong to a world that is receding into the past. Belial is coming; there will be a New London, and its denizens will either serve Belial or die.”

“Belial will abandon you when he has no further use for you,” said James.

“No.” Tatiana’s eyes glittered. “For I have granted Belial an army, one he could never have had without me.” She gestured at the Silent Brothers on either side of her, and James saw with a start that there were more of them now—at least five on either side of Tatiana. Somehow more of the creatures Tatiana had called Watchers had glided into the courtyard without being noticed. Their eyes were sewn shut, but in the darkness James could see the gleam of an ugly green light beneath their lids. “Your own Silent Brothers have abandoned you and joined with Belial—”

“That is a lie.” James tried not to look at the gates; surely Charles and the First Patrol had to return soon. “Do you wish me to tell you what we know? You arranged to be sentenced to imprisonment in the Adamant Citadel so you could steal the key to the Iron Tombs. You escaped and gave it to Belial. You opened the Tombs for him. He summoned an army of Chimera demons, and now they possess these bodies—these who were once Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters. Once you were in the Silent City, you let them in, let them take it over. We know our own do not act against us willingly. As always, you and your master must force others to act for you. No one is loyal to you, Tatiana. You know only coercion and possession, threats and control.”

For barely a moment, something flickered across her face—was she angry? Taken aback? James could not tell—before she forced a nasty smile. “Clever boy,” she said. “You discerned our plan. But not, alas, soon enough to stop it.” She looked up at the spire of the Institute, piercing the bloodred sky, which rumbled and shook with such force James half expected the ground to rock under his feet. “All of London will soon fall. I have stated the three things I want. Do you still refuse to give them to me?”

James, Cordelia, and Jesse exchanged a look. “Yes,” Cordelia said. “We still refuse.”

Tatiana looked delighted. “Wonderful,” she said. “Now you will have a chance to see what demons in the bodies of Nephilim can do.” She turned to the Watchers. “Show them!”

The Watchers moved as if they were one being. Gripping their lightning staffs, they began to swarm up the steps of the Institute. James raised his pistol and fired at one of the Watchers; it fell back, but the others kept coming, as Jesse drew his sword and Cordelia raced to fling the entryway door open. The Shadowhunters of the Institute poured out, seraph blades glowing in their hands.

The battle had begun.

---

The Institute’s carriage had run up onto the curb, one wheel on the pavement, the other three still in the road. It was likely due to the horses, still in their harnesses, that it hadn’t struck any of the trees lining the street: it certainly wasn’t thanks to the driver, who had climbed down from his seat and was wandering along the road ahead of them, seemingly in a daze.

Alastair cupped his hands around his mouth. “Davies!” he called into the shrieking wind. “Davies, what’s wrong?”

Davies didn’t seem to hear. He kept walking—not in a straight line, but in a dizzy zigzag, lurching from one side of the street to the other. Thomas started forward, worried that Davies would be struck by oncoming traffic—and realized as he did so that there was no oncoming traffic. As he and Alastair hurried down the street, Thomas saw other carriages standing abandoned; there was a stopped omnibus, too, and through its windows he could see mundanes milling about in confusion.

They were on Gray’s Inn Road, usually a busy thoroughfare. Now there were few pedestrians, and even the pubs, which should still have been open, were dark and lightless. Wind howled down the street as if it were a tunnel, and the clouds overhead seemed to froth and boil like the chaos at the base of a waterfall.

As they reached the intersection with High Holborn, they caught up with Davies, who had sunk to his knees on the icy ground. He appeared to have found a discarded child’s hoop toy, which he was rolling back and forth with a blank, perplexed expression.

“Davies!” Thomas shook the driver by the shoulder. “Davies, for the Angel’s sake—”

“There’s something wrong,” Alastair said. “More than with just poor Davies. Look around.”

Thomas looked. More mundanes were emerging onto the street, but they were wandering aimlessly, without purpose. All were blank-faced. A costermonger stared vacantly into the distance as a riderless horse, reins dragging, helped itself to the fruit in his barrow. A man in an overcoat was stumbling back and forth across the pavement as if trying to keep his balance on the rolling deck of a ship. An old woman, wearing only a thin dress, stood staring up at the bloodred sky. She was weeping loudly and inconsolably, though none of the passersby seemed to notice, or stopped to help. On the street corner, a young man was hitting out at a lamppost, over and over, as his glove darkened with blood.

Thomas started forward—not sure what to do, but feeling as if he must do something—but was stopped by Alastair’s hand on his shoulder. “Thomas,” Alastair said. He was gray-faced, the mouth Thomas had kissed mere minutes ago tight with fear. “This is Belial’s doing. I’m sure of it. We need to get back to the Institute now.”

---

The battle was not going well, Lucie thought grimly.

It had seemed otherwise at first. She and the others who had crowded into the entryway had been listening to Tatiana as she argued with James—listening and growing angrier and angrier. By the time Cordelia reached the door and threw it open, they had burst out with a furious will to fight.

They had been struck first by the wind, tearing at them, distant claps of rumbling thunder like the beating of a vast drum. Lucie was halfway down the steps when she heard James’s pistol fire, the crack of it almost lost in the train-like roar of the wind overhead, screaming through the sky above London.

Something white had surged up in front of her—a Watcher, fire crackling along its staff. She had swung her axe with a shriek, burying it in the creature’s midsection. It had gone down, silently, without even a look of surprise.

The blood that edged her axe when she pulled it back was a dark, dark red, very nearly black.

Something shot by her head—a chalikar; Matthew was throwing them fast, the bladed discs slamming into one Watcher and then another, sending the second tumbling down the steps. Jesse was swinging his sword with admirable skill, nearly severing the arm of the tallest Watcher. Anna plunged her seraph blade into another, leaving a wound in its chest that was rimmed with fire. It went to its knees, its chest burning, its face devoid of expression.

It was Ari, brandishing her bloody weapon with a look of horror, who shouted, “They’re getting back up!”

And it was true. The Watcher James had shot was on its feet again, starting back toward the Institute. Then the next false Silent Brother rose, plucking Matthew’s chalikars from its body as if it were ridding itself of fleas. Though their white robes were slashed and stained, their wounds had already stopped bleeding.

Tatiana was laughing. Lucie could hear the sound of her high-pitched giggles as she whirled to look for the Watcher she had wounded. It was already climbing the steps again, swinging its staff toward Christopher, who ducked under it.

Cordelia, behind him, caught the staff between her hands. If it burned, she gave no sign, only gripped the staff and pushed, using its own force to drive the creature back down the steps.

But the other wounded Watchers were already rising like a wave. One after another they staggered back to their feet; one after another they returned to assail the Institute, and the small group of Shadowhunters defending its entrance.

After that the battle became a nightmare. Tatiana danced an odd, jerking dance of delight as one by one they beat the Watchers back and one by one the demons rose again. Throwing weapons were abandoned. They would not kill the Watchers, and would only become weapons in the creatures’ hands if they chose to use them. Matthew and Christopher drew seraph blades, their glow helping to illuminate the courtyard even through the thickening fog. James kept his gun—it seemed able to put the Watchers down for longer than a blade, though it would not kill them. Nothing seemed to. And worse, they healed—Jesse had nearly severed one’s arm, but Lucie saw that the arm had been restored, the Watcher seemingly unhurt as it battled Matthew, its staff blazing as it slammed over and over into Matthew’s seraph blade.

Matthew had already slipped once on the icy step. He had caught himself and rolled fast away from the downward slice of the Watcher’s staff, but Lucie knew that their time was limited. They were Nephilim, but they were human; they would grow exhausted eventually. Even the blood of the Angel could only hold out so long against unstoppable foes.

They were already getting hurt. James had a torn and bleeding sleeve where his arm had been gashed, Ari a bad scrape from a staff that had slammed against her torso. And Cordelia—Lucie was desperately worried about Cordelia. Cordelia was doing what she could, using the Watchers’ own staffs to drive them back—apparently this did not count as raising a weapon, as Lilith had not appeared—but there was already a bad burn on her cheek, and it would only be a matter of time—

“Cordelia Carstairs!” Tatiana had stopped dancing; she had her hands clasped under her chin in glee, like a little girl on Christmas morning. “Is this really the great wielder of Cortana? Look at you. Too afraid to even use it in battle, lest my master find you out and take it.” She turned to the Watchers at her side. “Capture her. We will get that blade.”

Cordelia froze. Two Watchers started up the steps, moving quickly toward her. The next moments were a blur. Lucie began to run toward Daisy and saw that James was doing the same, raising his pistol as he darted down the steps, trying to get a clear shot at the Watchers—

But Christopher got there first. He dashed in front of Cordelia, facing the Watchers, his seraph blade blazing in his hand. For a moment, it illuminated them both like fireworks lighting a dark night: he and Cordelia stood haloed in angelic light. Never had Christopher looked more like a warrior—

Something metal flashed as it left Tatiana’s hand and flew through the air. Christopher jerked, cried out, and tumbled backward, landing awkwardly on the steps.

“Christopher!”Cordelia shrieked, and started to go after him, just as James stepped in front of her, pistol in hand. Two loud shots rang out, and then two more; the attacking Watchers were flung back like rag dolls, their bodies pitching headlong down the steps.

Anna darted through the fog, zigzagging up the steps to fall at Christopher’s side. “I’m all right,” Lucie heard him say, as Anna bent over him. “It’s just my shoulder.”

And indeed, something sharp and silver was embedded just above his clavicle. A throwing knife. But battle did not stop because a warrior was wounded; something white fluttered at the edge of Lucie’s vision, and she was turning to hack and slash at a lunging Watcher, its red-black blood spattering her. As it fell, she saw Jesse’s blade through the fog and gun smoke, as he buried it in a demon’s shoulder. Ari, Matthew, James, Cordelia, all were fighting too, now not just to protect the Institute but to keep the Watchers away from Anna as she crouched over her brother; she had already pulled the dagger from his shoulder and was drawing healing runes on his arm as he protested; Lucie couldn’t hear him, but she knew what he was saying: that he was fine, ready to fight again. That there was no time for him to be injured.

The Watcher at Lucie’s feet had begun to stir again. She buried her axe in its spine, pulled it free, and ran up several steps; at least she could avoid being right there when it rose again. Exhausted, she looked down. She felt like she had swallowed a lump of ice. She had been in battles before, they all had, but never one where she couldn’t see a way to win, or even a way out. If Charles didn’t return soon with the First Patrol—and perhaps, even if he did—she could see no way forward in which they all survived. Perhaps if they ran to the Sanctuary, locked themselves in… But one of these creatures had gotten into the Sanctuary in Cornwall. Perhaps all they’d be doing was trapping themselves in a corner.…

Something cold touched Lucie’s arm. She spun, raising her axe—then lowered it again in surprise. Grace stood in front of her. Still barefoot, with Jesse’s jacket once more wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was thinner than Lucie remembered it, her huge gray eyes blazing. “Lucie, I want—”

Lucie was too exhausted to be polite. “Go back inside, Grace. You’ll just get in the way.”

“You have to listen,” Grace said, with a ghost of her former forcefulness. “You can stop this.”

Lucie glanced around and realized that for the moment, they were alone, or at least out of earshot of the others. The fight was concentrated lower down the steps, where a sort of half circle of Shadowhunters had formed around Christopher and Anna. “What?” she demanded. “Grace, if this is a trick—”

Grace shook her head violently. “They’re killing you,” she said. “I could see it from the window. My mother won’t stop them until you’re all dead. She might spare Jesse, but—” She bit her lip, hard. “She might not. And there is only one person she will listen to—”

“Belial?”

“Not him. Someone you can reach. Someone only you can reach.” Grace leaned up then and whispered in Lucie’s ear, as if she were telling a secret. And as Lucie listened, her body growing cold, she realized—with a terrible sense of dismay—that Grace was right.

Without a word, she drew away from Grace and began to walk down the steps. She was conscious of Grace behind her, watching; she was conscious of the flickering light of seraph blades, dancing through the fog; she was conscious of Anna helping Christopher to his feet; she was conscious of Cordelia’s blazing hair as she savagely kicked a Watcher’s legs out from under it; she was conscious of James and Matthew, fighting side by side.

And yet even as she was conscious of all that, she was reaching inside herself. Into the silence and the dark, through the thin veil that was all that ever separated her from that shadowy place between life and death.

In one world she was surrounded by battle, by Tatiana’s laughter, by the gleam of demonic fire as the Watchers wielded their staffs. In the other, darkness rose up around her as if she were looking up from the bottom of a well. When it closed overhead, she was floating, surrounded by shadow on all sides, a darkness illuminated by flickering points of light.

Lucie did not believe this was what death looked like for those who died. This was a translated world, interpreted by her mind in the only way that made sense to her. She could as easily have visualized a great ocean, the hidden recesses of a green forest, a vast and featureless plain. For whatever reason, this was what Lucie saw. A depthless field of stars.

Into that field she reached, steadying her breathing, calling out into the silence. Rupert Blackthorn?

She felt something move, like the tug of a fish on a line.

Rupert Blackthorn. Father of Jesse. Husband of Tatiana.She held tight to the tenuous connection she felt. Drew it closer, outward. Come. Your family needs you.

Nothing. And then, suddenly, the connection exploded into motion, like rope sliding through her hands, fast enough to burn her skin. She held on tight, despite the burning pain. Held on as she opened her eyes wide, willing herself back into the world of wintry London, the world of the battle that roared all around her. A world where she had only been gone a few seconds—gone in her mind, not her body—a world where she could smell blood and cordite on the air, where she could see the white shadow of a Watcher making its way across the steps toward her.

A world where, just in front of her, on the steps of the Institute, Rupert Blackthorn’s ghost was beginning to take shape.

Here was no hidden shade, the kind that went unseen. This was the spirit of Rupert Blackthorn, half-translucent but entirely recognizable. As Lucie watched, he began to solidify—she could see his face now, so much like Jesse’s, and his old-fashioned clothes, and his pale, half-clenched hands. Even little details—a pair of unlaced boots—had become as clear as if he had been drawn onto the air with shimmering ink.

The Watcher that had been approaching her stopped in what seemed like real confusion, its head tilting, as if to say, What is this? The other Watchers were still fighting; Lucie could hear the crash of weapons, the sound of boots on ice, though she did not dare to look away from Rupert’s ghost.

The ghost raised his head. His lips parted and he spoke, his voice ringing out even over the storm. “Tatiana?”

Tatiana turned, looked up—and cried out. She had been staring at the unmoving Watcher in puzzlement, no doubt wondering what had given it pause. Now her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

“Rupert!” she gasped. She took a step forward, as if to rush toward the ghost, but her legs did not hold her. She sank to her knees, her hands clasped together; it looked horribly as if she were praying. “Oh, Rupert! You are here! Belial has fulfilled his vow to me!” She made a sweeping gesture, drawing his attention to the Watchers, the fight, the armed Shadowhunters. “Oh, behold, my love,” she said. “For this is our revenge.”

“Revenge?” Rupert was looking at his wife in what was plainly horror. Because she was so much older, Lucie wondered, or because of the lines of bitterness, rage, and hatred scored into her face?

Lucie could not help but look toward Jesse, who was standing utterly still, the Blackthorn sword lowered at his side. His expression as he regarded the ghost of his father—Lucie could not bear it. She tore her gaze away. She could not see Grace, but the others were still fighting—all save Anna and Christopher, who had retreated to a darker corner of the steps. Even as she watched, a Watcher approached Jesse, no doubt having noticed his stillness; it raised its blazing staff and swung at him. He barely parried, and Lucie’s heart thumped with terror.

She wanted to go to Jesse—wanted to race toward him, fight at his side. It was her fault his reaction time was slow; he was likely in a state of shock. But she could not move. She was all that was holding Rupert Blackthorn here on this earth. She could feel the starry void trying to pull him back, trying to fling him out of this world and into the other. It was taking every bit of her will to hang on.

“Rupert?” Tatiana’s voice rose to a whine. “Are you not pleased? Did Belial not tell you of our great victory? We will destroy the Nephilim; we will rule London, together—”

“Belial?” Rupert demanded. He had become less translucent; he was still without color, a strange monochrome figure, but Lucie could not see through him, and the expression on his face was easy to read. Anger, mixed with disgust. “I have not returned at the request of a Prince of Hell. I was drawn from my resting place by the cry of a Shadowhunter in battle. One who needed my help.”

Tatiana’s eyes flicked to Lucie. There was rage in them, and a hatred so intense it was nearly impossible to comprehend. “That’s impossible,” she snarled. “You cannot be raised, not by some stupid little brat—”

“Put an end to this, Tati,” Rupert snapped. “Send these—creatures—away.”

“But they are fighting for us.” Tatiana staggered to her feet. “They are on our side. Belial has promised us a great future. He has sworn he will raise you, Rupert, that you will once more be by my side—”

“Tell them to stop before they kill our son!” Rupert roared.

Tatiana hesitated—then flung out her hand. “Stop,” she called, as though the word was being dragged out of her. “Servants of Belial. Stop. Enough.”

All together, just as they had begun fighting, the Watchers stopped. They stood like frozen soldiers; they could have been made out of tin, but Lucie could see that the eerie green light moved behind their eyelids still.

The Nephilim, still holding their weapons, were staring from Lucie to Rupert in amazement. Anna had her back against a stair railing, Christopher propped against her shoulder. Both were pale. Grace was kneeling at the top of the steps, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself. Lucie thought that she was looking at Christopher, but she couldn’t be sure. And Jesse—Jesse was staring at his father, his knuckles white where he gripped his sword’s hilt. Lucie could not read the look on his face; too much of her attention was still on Rupert. Some strange magic was present, drawing on him, trying to pull him away from here, away from her.

“My darling,” Tatiana crooned, her voice echoing in the sudden stillness, now that the fighting had stopped. “How is this possible? You have been bound, bound for so long, bound in the shadows where even the other dead cannot see you. Belial promised that as long as he kept you there, he could bring you back.”

Jesse was shaking his head, in horror and disbelief. “No,” he whispered. “No, that can’t be.”

Bound in the shadows,Lucie thought. What had happened to Rupert? What binding was there on him, that was not present with other ghosts? Was it that binding that now tried to pull him away from the courtyard?

But Rupert did not seem to be wondering what she meant. He was shaking his head slowly. His dark hair was in his eyes—it was the kind of fine, straight hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, just like Jesse’s. It made Lucie’s heart ache. Rupert had been so close to Jesse’s age when he had died. “Do you remember when we met?” Rupert said, his gaze fixed on his wife. “At the Christmas ball? You were so delighted that I only wanted to dance with you. That I snubbed all the others.”

“Yes,” Tatiana whispered. She wore an expression that Lucie had never seen on her before. Open, loving. Vulnerable.

“I thought your delight was because you were lonely and hurt,” Rupert went on. “But I was wrong. I did not understand that in your heart, you were bitter and vindictive. Enough to set a pack of monsters on Shadowhunter children—”

“But these are the children of those who let you die, Rupert—”

“Your father murdered me!” the ghost cried, and Lucie thought the ground shook with the force of it. “The Herondales, the Lightwoods—they did not cause my death. They avenged it. They arrived too late to save me. There was nothing they could have done!”

“You cannot believe that,” Tatiana moaned. “All these years I have worked for your vengeance, as well as mine—” She started up the steps, her arms outstretched, as if she meant to gather Rupert into her arms. She had taken only a few strides when she staggered back, as though she had collided with an invisible wall. She raised her hands, scrabbling against a barrier Lucie could not see.

“Oh, let me in,” Tatiana wailed. “Rupert. Let me touch you. Let me hold you—”

Rupert’s face twisted in disgust. “No.”

“But you love me,” she insisted, her voice rising. “You loved me always. You are bound to me forever. When I am gone, we will be together at last. You must understand—”

“Whomever it was that I loved,” Rupert said, “that woman is gone now. It seems she has been gone for years. Tatiana Blackthorn, I renounce you. I renounce any feeling that I ever had for one who bore your name.” He gazed at her impassively. “You are nothing to me.”

At that, Tatiana screamed. It was an unearthly sound, like the howl of the wind. Lucie had heard noises like it before: it was the sound of a ghost who had only just realized it was dead. A scream of loss, of despair. Of defeat.

As she screamed, on and on, the Watchers, one by one, lowered their staffs. They began to march down the steps, passing Tatiana as if she were a lifeless pillar of salt. Their white robes gleaming, they filed out of the courtyard, passing under the Institute gates one by one until the last of them was gone.

It worked,Lucie thought wonderingly, it actually worked. And then she realized that her legs had given out from under her, and she was sitting on the steps. Her heartbeat was strong in her ears, and fast, too fast. She knew she should let Rupert go. The effort of keeping him here was wrecking her.

And yet, if there was any chance at all that Jesse could speak to his father, even once—

Lightning blazed across the sky. Rupert turned toward Jesse, looking up at him. He began to reach out his hand, as if to beckon Jesse, to urge him to come closer.

Tatiana, seeing this, gave one more terrible scream and bolted out of the courtyard, disappearing through the iron gates.

To Lucie’s utter astonishment, a figure flew down the steps and through the courtyard, and flashed through the gates after Tatiana. A figure in a ragged dress, with long white hair.

Oh no,Lucie thought, struggling to get to her feet. Grace, no—you cannot hope to fight her.

But Cordelia had already had the same thought, it seemed. Without a word, she turned and tore after Grace and Tatiana, hurtling through the gates in pursuit.