Chapter 27: Clouds of Darkness

27CLOUDS OF DARKNESS

Horror covers all the sky,

Clouds of darkness blot the moon,

Prepare! for mortal thou must die,

Prepare to yield thy soul up soon.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ghasta or, the Avenging Demon!!!”

Belial had given them thirty-six hours; that was thirty-four hours ago. And now Cordelia walked through the cold, dark morning, part of a somber procession of Shadowhunters marching toward the gate that would take them away from London, perhaps forever.

Lucie was nearby, with Jesse, and Alastair accompanied Sona, who was resting in a Bath chair pushed by Risa. Cordelia could see others she knew in the crowd: Anna, her back arrow-straight; Ari, carrying Winston in a cage. Eugenia. Grace, alone and silent, limping slightly—she had refused healing runes for her injured feet. Thomas, who had Oscar on a leash. They were all together, yet Cordelia felt as though each of them made this walk alone, isolated from one another by their sorrow and their worry.

As they neared their destination, more Shadowhunters joined the procession. Mostly families, sticking close together. Cordelia felt a dull horror in her stomach. These were the Angel’s chosen warriors, the ones who stood against the dark. She had never imagined that they could be driven from their own city with only the belongings they could carry.

The procession moved in silence, and part of that silence, Cordelia knew, was shame. Once it had been confirmed that Belial was telling the truth—that a wall of magic encircled the borders of the city and could not be crossed, and London was under his complete control—the Enclave had folded like a pack of cards. London was only one city, the older Shadowhunters argued. To stay and fight without the hope of reinforcements, against an enemy whose powers were unknown, was foolish: better to go to Idris, to rally the Clave and try to find a solution.

No solution, Cordelia was sure, began with doing exactly what a Prince of Hell told you to.

Which was what she and her friends had said. Every one of them had protested, and been ignored. They were too young—they had romantic dreams of glory—they did not understand the danger, they were told. Even Charles had spoken up but was outnumbered. Every adult they would have had on their side—the Herondales, the Lightwoods, the Consul—was in Idris now, Cordelia thought bitterly. Belial had planned well.

As though knowing her thoughts, Lucie murmured, “I can’t believe they wouldn’t stay.”

“They wouldn’t even consider it.” Cordelia still felt a bite of anger within her. “But,” she added, “at least we have a plan.”

They were passing St. Clement’s church, then turning en masse down Arundel Street toward the Thames. After only a day and a half, Cordelia was still shocked by London’s transformation. It was morning, and yet the sky was black with roiling clouds, as it always was now. The only real illumination came from the horizon, where (as a few who had ridden to the outskirts of the city had reported) a dull white glow emanated from the wall of demonic wards that encircled the city.

All around them were the city’s mundanes, as always, but they too had been transformed. Mundanes in London always moved urgently when they were out on the street, like they all had important appointments to keep; now there was something eerie and manic about their hurrying. They performed their usual actions without thought, without change. By Temple Station there was a newspaper stand, stacked with papers already beginning to yellow at the edges. The headlines blared the news from two days past. As Cordelia watched, a man in a bowler hat picked one up and held out an empty hand to the vendor, who pretended to count out change. On the other side of the station entrance, a woman stood in front of the darkened, empty windows of a shuttered boutique. As Cordelia passed, she could hear the woman repeating over and over, “Oh my! How delightful! How delightful! Oh, my, my!”

A little way behind that woman, the white-robed figure of a Chimera-possessed Silent Brother glided through the shadows. Cordelia looked away quickly. How strange to feel terror at the sight of a Silent Brother, those who were meant to protect her, to heal her.

Oscar strained against his leash, growling softly.

Cordelia was glad when they reached the Embankment, the fog and the darkness blotting out everything beyond the river wall so that only the lap of water gave any indication that the Thames was there at all. Waterloo Bridge loomed faintly above them, and then they were passing through the entrance to the Embankment Gardens and along a path bordered by bare, wintry trees to an open area of neat lawn, where most of the Enclave had already gathered.

In the center of the lawn, looking bizarrely out of place, was a peculiar structure: an arched gate surrounded by Italianate pillars. Alastair had looked it up; it had been the water entrance to a grand mansion before London built out the Embankment, stranding the gate 150 yards from the river itself, in the middle of the park. There seemed no connection between the York Gate and Belial or anything demonic; Cordelia thought it was just Belial’s sense of humor, sending them through a set of doors that led from nowhere to nowhere.

Cordelia could see nothing through the archway, only shadow. A crowd surrounded the water gate: there was Rosamund, with a tremendous trunk of clothes that had been set on a wheeled stand by which she dragged it. Behind her was Thoby, who somehow was pulling an even larger trunk. Martin Wentworth, stone-faced, held a tortoise in a glass cage with surprising gentleness, and Esme Hardcastle was juggling a half-dozen folders stuffed with papers. As Cordelia watched, a gust of wind blew some of the papers out of place, and Esme danced around in a panic, retrieving them. Augustus Pounceby watched her silently—for his part, he had decided to bring armfuls of weapons, though Cordelia could not imagine why. He was going to Idris, where they had plenty of weapons already.

Then Cordelia caught sight of Piers Wentworth and Catherine Townsend. Someone else was carrying their belongings; they instead accompanied a rolling bier on which lay the body of Christopher, sewn into his shroud. Only his head was visible, his eyes bound in white silk.

If any of the Enclave found it odd that Thomas, Anna, and their friends had declined to act as pallbearers, they did not say so. If they noticed at all, they would likely think it to be a silent declaration of protest against abandoning London.

In a way, it was.

Oscar barked. Thomas knelt to hush him, but he barked again, his body rigid, eyes fixed on the gate. The shadow beneath the archway had begun to move—it seemed to shimmer, the darkness streaked with lines of color. There were murmurs all around Cordelia as slowly a view took shape through the arch: a wintry meadow, mountains rising in the distance.

Any Shadowhunter would recognize those mountains. They were looking at the border of Idris.

This was their way out, their escape from Belial. Yet nobody moved. It was as if they had all just realized who they were trusting to bring them safely through this Portal to the other side. Even Martin Wentworth, the strongest proponent of leaving London, was hesitating.

“I’ll go,” Charles said, into the silence. “And I’ll signal from the other side if—if everything’s all right.”

“Charles,” Grace protested, but it was half-hearted; wasn’t passing through the gate what they were all here for? And Charles was already striding forward, his back straight. Cordelia realized Charles was carrying nothing—he had brought no belongings with him from London, as if there was nothing he cared about enough to mind its loss—as he approached the York Gate and ducked through the Portal.

He vanished for a moment, before reappearing on the other side, in the middle of the frosted landscape. He turned around, staring back where he’d come from. Though it was clear he could no longer see the Portal, or the Shadowhunters waiting on the other side, he raised one hand solemnly, as if to say, It’s safe. Come through.

Those waiting on the London side glanced around at one another. After a long moment, Martin Wentworth followed Charles, and he too turned to wave. He seemed to be mouthing, Idris, before he walked out of sight.

Now the crowd was moving. They began to arrange themselves in a loose queue, filing toward the gate, stepping through it one by one. Cordelia looked over at Anna as Piers and Catherine passed through, accompanying Christopher’s body on its wheeled bier; Anna was utterly motionless, a stone statue.

Eugenia went through, carrying Winston in his cage, which she had taken from Ari. “Farewell! Farewell!” Winston called, until his chirping voice was swallowed up by the Portal. Flora Bridgestock had gone to speak to Ari, who shook her head sternly; Flora went through the Portal alone, casting a despondent glance back at her daughter before she stepped across the threshold.

“Layla,” Risa said, laying a hand on Cordelia’s arm. “It’s time to go.”

Cordelia heard Alastair suck in his breath. She looked over at her mother in the Bath chair. Sona had her hands folded in her lap; she was looking at her children with dark, questioning eyes. She suspects, Cordelia thought, though she could not prove it, could not be sure. She could only hope her mother would understand.

Risa had begun to push her mother’s chair forward, clearly expecting Cordelia and Alastair to follow.

“Oscar!”Thomas shouted. Cordelia whirled to see that Oscar had broken free of his leash and was galloping delightedly in circles.

“Bloody dog,” Alastair cursed, and ran to help Thomas catch the wayward retriever.

As Thomas reached out for the dog, Oscar broke to the left and pranced away, yapping merrily. “Bad dog!” Thomas called, as Lucie ran toward him, reaching for Oscar’s collar. “This is not the time!”

“Risa—I have to help. Bring Maman through; I’ll see you on the other side in a moment,” Cordelia said. With one last look at her mother, she ran to join the others.

Anna, Jesse, Ari, and Thomas had spread out into a circle, trying to trap Oscar inside. Lucie was calling, “Here, Oscar, here,” clapping her hands together to catch his attention. Members of the Enclave continued to pass by, giving Cordelia and her friends a wide berth as Oscar frolicked, running up first to Ari, then darting just out of her grip, then doing the same to Grace and Jesse.

“Leave the dog, idiots!” yelled Augustus Pounceby, who was just passing through the Portal. He was nearly the last one going through, Cordelia saw; there were perhaps five Nephilim behind him.

Not long now.

Oscar flung himself down on the ground and rolled, his legs waving. It was Anna who got down on her knees, as the last of the Enclave—Ida Rosewain—passed through the Portal. She laid a hand on Oscar’s side. “Good dog,” she said. “What a very good dog you are, Oscar.”

Oscar rose to his feet and nosed gently at her shoulder. The Embankment was nearly deserted now. Cordelia looked around at the group who remained: she and Alastair, Anna and Ari, Thomas, Lucie, Jesse, Grace.

The Portal still beckoned; Cordelia and the others could still see glimpses of the cold plains outside Idris, the milling crowd of Nephilim beginning to regroup on the other side. They could still choose to step through. But to do so would be to abandon not just London, but Matthew and James. And they were none of them going to do that.

Thomas stepped forward to clip Oscar’s leash back on. “Good boy,” he said, rubbing Oscar gently behind the ears. “You did exactly what you were meant to do.”

“Who would have thought Matthew Fairchild’s dog would be so well trained?” Alastair said. “I assumed Oscar lived a life of dissipated debauchery at the Hell Ruelle.”

“Matthew and James used to train Oscar together,” said Lucie. “They taught him all sorts of games and tricks, and—” Her eyes were bright. “Well. It worked. I hadn’t thought it would.”

Cordelia suspected none of them really had, not when they had come up with the idea in the desperate dead of night, with only hours to go before morning and departure. Yet they had all gone along with it, faithfully; in times like this, it seemed, faith was all one had.

“I feel so guilty,” Ari murmured. “My mother—what will she think when I don’t join her?”

“Eugenia will explain our plan to everyone,” Thomas said. “She promised she would.” He straightened up, staring toward the gate. “The Portal’s closing.”

They all watched, locked in place, as the view through the archway faded. Shadows crowded in, like black paint covering a canvas, erasing first the mountains, then the plains below them, and the distant images of the Shadowhunters who waited on the other side.

The Portal winked out of existence. The archway had gone back to being what it was: a gate that comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere. Their way out of London had vanished.

“Now what?” Grace whispered, staring at the darkness below the arch.

Cordelia took a deep breath. “Now we go back to the Institute.”

---

From the York Gate it was only a short walk back, but it had a very different, more dangerous feel than the trip there. Then they had been following Belial’s orders; now they were defying them and hoping they weren’t noticed.

Lucie felt like they were mice trapped in a basin, and somewhere above hovered a cat. She watched the mundanes move through the streets in their daze. It was not mercy, she knew, that had prevented Belial from killing everyone in the city, or expelling them as he had the Shadowhunters. It was that he wanted to rule over London—not an empty shell that had been London, not a ruin of London, but the city as he knew it, complete with bankers walking to work with newspapers under their arms, with women selling flowers outside churches, with tradesmen driving their carts to their next jobs.

When the eight of them had made their plan, after the terrible meeting yesterday, they’d agreed they would stay in the Institute. They were fairly sure that the Watchers, and any other of Belial’s demons who might be roaming the streets, would attack them on sight now, and it was easier to secure one house than many. Also, Lucie thought, it was too depressing for them to sleep in their empty houses, and Grace had nowhere else to go.

Even Oscar’s expression was grave as he trotted alongside Thomas. The silence weighed on Lucie. She had mostly spent the time since James and Matthew had been taken shut up in her room, often with Jesse’s company. He was—as she supposed ought not surprise her—excellent at providing silent and almost invisible support. He stayed with her quietly as she read her old stories and wondered what she had been thinking, how she could have been so carefree and playful. Sometimes Jesse held her on the bed, stroking his fingers gently through her hair; they were careful not to do much more than that. When alone, she stared at blank pages for hours, sometimes writing a line, then crossing it out in violent slashes of ink.

Christopher was dead. Lucie had reached out for him and felt nothing. She did not want to force it—she knew from experience that calling up spirits that were not already haunting the human world was a violent act, that they came reluctantly at best. Wherever they were, it was better than being a ghost.

James was gone, and Matthew with him. Were they still alive? Belial could only possess James while he lived, and surely if he’d succeeded in that, he would have already come back to taunt them about it. It was bizarre to see that the Merry Thieves, who had been the lifeblood of all her friends, who had been the central ring, strong as steel, to which everyone else could attach themselves securely, had been whittled down to only Thomas.

And now they were back at the Institute courtyard, which was empty and quiet, as it always was. There was no scar here, no sign of the dreadful things that had happened there such a short time ago. Lucie envisioned a plaque: HERE IS WHERE IT ALL BROKE APART. Matthew and James’s vanishing, Christopher’s death—they seemed both very close, a trauma still ongoing, and yet far away.

On the other hand, she thought, this courtyard had been torn up by Leviathan a couple of weeks ago, and there was no sign of that, either. Perhaps to be a Shadowhunter simply meant drawing runes over one’s scars, over and over.

Inside, all was just as silent and empty, an eerie change after the bustle that had filled the place for the last days. Their boots rang loudly against the stone floor and echoed off the walls. As they made their way up the central staircase, Jesse slid his gloved hand into hers.

“Did you notice Bridget leave?” he said in a low voice. “I swear I didn’t see her in the crowd.”

Lucie was startled. “No—I didn’t—but she must have, mustn’t she? Probably we were all too busy with Oscar to notice.”

“I suppose,” Jesse said, though with doubt in his voice.

They had reached the library. Lucie looked around at the results of the planning they’d done secretly in the last day and a half, working in short, feverish bursts whenever they could grab a moment. The table was piled with maps of London, the Silent City, the environs of the Adamant Citadel. There was also an empty chalkboard on wheels off to the side; Thomas had dug it out of some supply closet or other.

“At least we can write our plans down now,” Jesse said—they’d been avoiding doing so for fear of detection. “Assuming we all remember what they are.”

“Ari, would you write?” Anna said. “You have the best penmanship of all of us, I’m sure.”

“Not in chalk,” Ari protested, but she looked pleased anyway. She took up the chalk and gestured toward them expectantly.

Thomas looked around and, finding no one else wanted to start, cleared his throat. “First priority,” he said, “is securing the Institute. Board up the windows of any room we’re going to use, and no lights in any room we’re not using. We chain up the front doors. From now on we enter and exit only by the Sanctuary. With some luck we can keep Belial from knowing that any Shadowhunters stayed behind at all.”

“He’ll figure it out eventually,” Alastair said. “If we weren’t spotted by Watchers on our way back from the water gate already.”

Ari pointed her chalk at him. “That’s very dark thinking, Alastair, and we won’t have it. The longer we can keep our presence hidden, the better.”

“Agreed,” said Anna. “Next. Ari and I are going to try to find a way in and out of London. There must be some magical gate Belial would have missed. A leftover warlock Portal, a path to Faerie. Something.”

“What about trying to get back the way Tatiana and the Watchers got here?” suggested Thomas. “The Path of the Dead.”

In the past frantic days in the library, they had learned what the Path of the Dead was—a passageway that led from the Silent City to the Iron Tombs. It seemed that after Tatiana had been imprisoned, she had opened a gate within the City of Bones to allow Belial’s army to march from the Iron Tombs, along the Path, and into the heart of the Silent Brothers’ stronghold. It was a painful thought.

“I wish we could do that, Tom,” said Anna, “but remember what Charles said—not only is the entrance to the Silent City sealed, but we couldn’t possibly fight off the demons that would attack if we tried to open it. Especially now, when there is no real daylight, there is no time we would be safe in trying.”

“If we had the aid of a warlock, we might be able to try,” Lucie said. “Magnus and Hypatia are in Paris, but Malcolm is the High Warlock of London; he must at least know what has happened. And not just warlocks,” she added. “We must attempt to make contact with any Downworlders still in London, and see if they can be of help. Belial said they were all under his control, but he lies about everything.”

“Fire-messages,” said Grace’s small voice from the other end of the table, surprising Lucie. “The invention that Christopher was working on. He thought he was very close. If we can get them working, we can perhaps send messages to Idris. Since Belial doesn’t know they exist.”

Everyone nodded. Cordelia folded her arms. “The Watchers. It’s dangerous, but we must learn more about them. What they can do. Whether they have any weaknesses we can exploit.” She turned to Lucie. “Luce, have you ever encountered the ghost of a Silent Brother or Iron Sister? I know their bodies do not decay, but what of their souls?”

Lucie shook her head. “I have never seen such a ghost. Wherever the souls of the Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers are voyaging, it is someplace further than I have ever been.”

“Figuring out anything about the Watchers is going to be difficult,” Alastair said, “given that we are also trying to remain undetected. If we fight a Watcher and run away, it will report us to Belial. If we fight a Watcher and kill it, it will be missed. I’m not saying we shouldn’t try,” he added, holding up his hands before Cordelia could respond. “Maybe we could drop heavy things on them from above.”

“You’re on dropping things on Watchers from above,” Anna agreed. “Meanwhile, the worst and most important problem remains.”

“Saving James and Matthew,” said Lucie.

“We’ll have to find James and Matthew first,” Jesse pointed out.

“James will hold out for as long as he can,” Cordelia said firmly. “But we don’t know how long that will be, or if Belial will find some means after all of possessing him without his consent.”

“And Belial didn’t expect to take Matthew at all,” Thomas pointed out. “He has no reason to keep him alive. So we have even less time than that.”

“He has one reason to keep him alive,” Lucie said. “James will never cooperate if Belial hurts Matthew.”

Thomas sighed. “We’ll have to cling to that, for now. Since we don’t even know where to start to rescue them. Edom is another world. We have no way of reaching it. Perhaps with the help of a warlock—it depends on whether Belial was lying about them being in his thrall.”

“So,” Anna said, sitting up. Lucie felt grateful—even as deep in grief as Anna was, she wasn’t going to let them fall into despair now. “Ari and I will be looking for magical ways in and out of London. Grace, you should look into the fire-messages, you know the most about Christopher’s work on them so far.”

“I’ll help Grace,” Jesse said.

Anna nodded. “Alastair, you and Thomas are on Watchers and how to fight them. Cordelia—”

“Lucie and I will look into the Downworlders,” Cordelia said. She caught Lucie’s eye and held her gaze intently. “And we’ll figure out how to rescue Matthew and James.”

“That’s all the tasks and all of us,” Ari said. “Funny how quickly things can be accomplished when the rest of the Enclave isn’t here to slow us down.”

“When everything has gone to Hell,” Alastair said, “it focuses the mind rather effectively.”

They all began to speak. Lucie looked over at Cordelia, who remained silent, also watching the rest of them. For the first time in a long time, Lucie felt a bit of hope. Cordelia and I are going to be working together, she thought. And we are going to be parabatai. Even through the chill of the empty city and the daunting tasks ahead, that thought kindled a warmth within her, the first warmth she’d felt since all this business began.

---

Cordelia and Lucie stuck close to one another as they made their way down Berwick Street. Cordelia could not help but remember the first time she had ever been here, in Soho, with Matthew and Anna. How she had stared around eagerly, taking it all in: the neighborhood bursting with life, naphtha beacons lighting the faces of customers haggling at stalls over everything from china plates to bolts of shining fabric. Laughter spilling from the lighted windows of the Blue Posts pub. Matthew smiling at her in the moonlight, reciting poetry.

How lively and lovely it had been. Now it was eerie. Though it was midday, it was dark, the gas streetlamps unlit: the night before she had seen lamplighters wandering the streets, going through the motions of their jobs, but there had been no lit flames at the ends of their poles. Figures slumped in doorways, many dressed only in rags: shivering Jemmys, they were called in ordinary times, but now they were not shivering. They seemed not to notice the cold, though their fingers and bare feet were blue. Cordelia wished she could throw blankets over all of them, and knew she couldn’t: interfering with the mundanes drew the attention of Watchers, and—as Anna had reminded her and Lucie sternly—the best way to help them was to end Belial’s control of London as soon as possible.

Still. Her heart hurt.

Nearing Tyler’s Court, they came upon an artist with his easel set up on the pavement. He wore a ratty old overcoat, but his paints and palette were fresh. Lucie stopped to look at his easel and winced—the image there was hellish. He’d painted London in ruins, the city on fire, and in the sky above, leathery-winged demons flapping, some with bleeding humans in their talons.

Cordelia was glad to get off the street. They ducked down the narrow aisle of Tyler’s Court, and her heart sank as she saw that the door to the Hell Ruelle hung wide open, like the gaping mouth of a corpse.

“Better draw a weapon,” she whispered, and Lucie slipped a seraph blade from her weapons belt, nodding. Cordelia was armed—she knew it was simply too dangerous not to be—but she had not raised a weapon since she had killed Tatiana. She hoped she would not have to; the last thing she needed now was to summon Lilith forth.

She had half expected, after seeing the open door, to find the Ruelle deserted. To her surprise, once inside, she heard voices coming from the inner part of the salon. She and Lucie moved slowly along the corridor toward the main room of the Ruelle, and paused in shock when they entered.

The room was full of Downworlders, and at first glance the Hell Ruelle seemed to be going on as usual. Cordelia looked around in astonishment—there were entertainers on the stage, and an audience seated at tables before it, seeming to watch the performers avidly. Faeries passed among them, carrying trays on which glasses of red wine rested like flutes of rubies.

And yet. Where normally the walls were covered with art and adornments, all of that was gone. Cordelia did not think she’d ever seen the Ruelle so bare of color and decoration.

She and Lucie began walking carefully toward the stage, which brought them among the crowded tables. Cordelia thought of Alice, disappearing down the rabbit-hole. Curiouser and curiouser. The Downworlders were not watching the performance: they were staring fixedly ahead of themselves, each lost in a separate vision. There was an acrid smell of spoiled wine in the air. Nobody took any notice of Cordelia and Lucie. They might as well have been invisible.

On the stage a strange sort of performance was unfolding. A troupe of actors had assembled there, in mismatched, moth-eaten costumes. They had placed a chair at the center on which sat a vampire. He was dressed as a mundane’s idea of the devil: all red clothing, horns, a forked tail curled around his feet. Before him stood a tall faerie wearing a bishop’s miter and holding a circle of rope, caked with dirt, that had been woven to resemble a crown. The faerie did not look at the vampire but only stared into space, but as they watched, he lowered the crown onto the vampire’s head. After a moment, he took it back off, and then made to crown the vampire a second time. There was a fixed smile on his face, and he was murmuring, almost too quietly to be heard; as they drew closer, Cordelia was able to make out the words. “Sirs, I here present unto you your undoubted king. Wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”

The vampire giggled. “What an honor,” he said. “What an honor. What an honor.”

The other actors on the stage stood to the side and applauded politely without stopping. From here Cordelia could see their hands, which were red and raw: how long had they been applauding this bizarre coronation? And what was it supposed to mean?

Around the tables, a few Downworlders were upright, but most were slumped over at their seats. Lucie stepped in a puddle of dark liquid and quickly hopped away, but it was too thin to be blood—wine, Cordelia realized, as a faerie waiter wandered by with a bottle, stopping here and there to pour more wine into already-full glasses. The alcohol sloshed and spilled over the tablecloths and onto the ground.

“Look,” Lucie murmured. “Kellington.”

Cordelia had hoped to encounter Malcolm, or even one of the Downworlders who were friendly with Anna, like Hyacinth the faerie. But she supposed Kellington would do. The musician was sitting by himself at a table near the stage, barefoot, his shirt splashed with wine stains. He didn’t look up as they approached. His hair was matted on one side: blood or wine, Cordelia couldn’t tell.

“Kellington?” Cordelia said gingerly.

The werewolf looked up at her slowly, his gold-tinged eyes dull.

“We’re looking for Malcolm,” Lucie said. “Is Malcolm Fade here?”

In a monotone, Kellington said, “Malcolm is in prison.”

Cordelia and Lucie exchanged alarmed looks. “In prison?” Cordelia said.

“He was caught by the Nephilim when he was only a boy. He will never escape them.”

“Kellington—” Lucie started to say, but he droned on, ignoring her.

“When I was a boy, before I was bitten, my parents would take me to the park,” he said. “Later they died of scarlet fever. I lived because I was a wolf. I buried them in a green place. It was like a park, but there was no river. I used to make paper boats and float them on the river. I could show you how.”

“No,” Lucie stammered, “that’s all right.” She drew Cordelia away, her face troubled. “This is bad,” she said quietly. “They’re no better off than the mundanes.”

“Worse, maybe,” Cordelia agreed, glancing around nervously. Kellington had picked up a small knife from his table. Slowly, he cut the back of his hand, watching in fascination as the wound swiftly healed. “Maybe we should go.”

Lucie bit her lip. “There’s a chance—maybe—that Malcolm is in his office.”

Even if he was, Cordelia doubted Malcolm would be in any fit state to help them. But she couldn’t say no to the look of hope on Lucie’s face. As they left the main room, they passed a table of vampires; here the spilled liquid was blood, dried to brown, and she had to catch herself to keep from retching. The vampires lifted goblets of blood long hardened to their lips over and over, swallowing air.

Malcolm’s office seemed undisturbed, though it had the same atmosphere as the rest of the Hell Ruelle: dark, unlit, and damp. Cordelia lit her witchlight and raised it, illuminating the room; it seemed safe enough to use it here. She doubted the Watchers had any interest in the Ruelle.

“No Malcolm,” Cordelia said. “Should we go?”

But Lucie was at Malcolm’s desk, holding her own witchlight over it, flipping quickly through the papers stacked there. As she read them, her expression changed, from curiosity to concern, and then to anger.

“What is it?” said Cordelia.

“Necromancy,” said Lucie, letting the pile of papers she was holding fall to the surface of the desk with a smack. “Proper necromancy. Malcolm promised me he wasn’t going to try to raise Annabel from the dead. He swore to me!” She turned to face Cordelia, her back against the desk. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it doesn’t matter right now. I just…”

“I think we both know that when you lose someone you love,” Cordelia said carefully, “the temptation to do anything to get them back is overwhelming.”

“I know,” Lucie whispered. “That’s what frightens me. Malcolm knows better, but it doesn’t matter what he knows. It’s what he feels.” She took a deep breath. “Daisy, I need to tell you something. I…”

Oh no,Cordelia thought with alarm. Was Lucie about to confess to something awful? Had Malcolm been teaching her dark magic?

“I have a problem,” Lucie said.

Cordelia spoke with great care. “A… necromancy problem?”

“No! Honestly. I haven’t done any necromancy. It’s more of a—well, a kissing problem.”

“And you want to talk about it now?” Cordelia inquired.

“I do, because—well, I suppose it’s sort of a necromantic kissing problem.”

“Kissing Jesse isn’t necromancy,” Cordelia said, frowning. “He’s alive now. Unless you’re kissing someone else.”

“I’m not,” said Lucie, “but every time I kiss Jesse or touch him, for more than a moment”—she blushed deeply enough for it to be obvious even under witchlight—“anytime my skin touches his, really, I feel as though I am falling into shadow. And… I see things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Belial’s sigil. But changed; it doesn’t match up with what’s in the books. And I saw towers, gates, like in Alicante, but as if Idris had been possessed by demons.” Her voice shook. “I heard an incantation, some kind of demon language saying—”

“Don’t speak it aloud,” Cordelia said quickly. “Belial might be trying to trick you into doing just that. Oh, Lucie. Did you talk to Malcolm, tell him what was happening?”

Lucie nodded. “He said that in using my power to raise Jesse, I might have forged a channel between myself and Belial.” She frowned. “I imagine I’m seeing things he’s thinking about, or doing. I wish he would stay out of my mind. As it is, I fear even to touch Jesse’s hand.”

At least you can see him. At least he is in the same world with you.But that was unfair, Cordelia knew; for such a long time, it had not been true. “I cannot say I know Jesse well yet, but it is apparent that he truly loves you. And that he is patient. He has had to be, considering the life he’s had. I am sure he will wait for you—there is nothing he cares about more.”

“I hope so,” Lucie said. “It’s all going to be over soon—one way or another. Isn’t it?” She shuddered. “Shall we go? It feels terrible to be out on the street right now, but it’s better than the creeping feeling this place gives me.”

They left Malcolm’s office and made their way back into the main room of the Ruelle. As they headed for the exit, something caught Cordelia’s eye: a patch of wall that had been painted with the image of a forest, small owls peeking from between the trees. She recognized it as a piece of the mural of Lilith that had covered the wall during Hypatia’s celebration of the Festival of Lamia, now incompletely painted over.

The image of the mural remained with her, and by the time they were back out on Tyler’s Court, it had given her an idea. A very, very bad idea. It was exactly the sort of idea that seized the imagination and, against one’s own will, took hold, growing stronger by the moment. It was a dangerous idea, perhaps a mad idea. And there was no James around to tell her not to do it.

---

There had been a long, long time of darkness before James awoke. How long, he could not have said. He had been in London, in the courtyard of the Institute, looking at Cordelia through a mist of shadow. Then he had seen Matthew rush toward him and heard Belial’s roar in his ears—and then it was the roar of the wind, a tempest that tumbled him head over heels, and darkness had come down like an executioner’s hood.

The first thing he had noticed upon awaking was that he was lying flat on his back, staring up at a sky that was a sickly yellow-orange, roiling with dark gray clouds. He scrambled to his feet, head and heart pounding. He was in a courtyard with a flagged stone floor, surrounded on all sides by high, windowless walls. Above him on one side rose a fortress of gray stone that looked very much like the Gard in Alicante, though this version of it had high black towers that vanished into the low-hanging clouds.

The courtyard looked as if it had once been a sort of garden, a pleasant, enclosed outdoor space meant for the enjoyment of the occupants of the fortress. There were stone walkways, which had probably once bordered a riot of flowers and trees; now, all there was between them was packed dirt, gray and stony; not so much as a single weed poked up from the unfriendly ground.

James whirled around. Cracked, ancient marble benches, the stumps of withered trees, a stone bowl placed precariously atop a broken bit of statuary—and there, a flash of green and gold. Matthew.

He took off running across the courtyard. Matthew sat propped against one of the stone walls, in the shadow of the dark Gard. His eyes were closed. He peeled them open slowly as James sank down on his knees beside him, and offered an exhausted-looking smile. “So,” he said. “This is Edom. I’m not sure I see what all the fuss”—he coughed and spat black dust onto the ground—“is about.”

“Math,” James said. “Hang on—let me look at you.” He pushed Matthew’s hair back from his face, and Matthew winced. There was a jagged cut across his forehead; though the blood had dried, it looked painful.

James fumbled for his stele and took Matthew’s arm, pushing his sleeve up. Matthew watched with a sort of distant interest as James drew a careful iratze against his friend’s forearm. They both stared as the iratze seemed to tremble, and then faded, as if it were being absorbed by Matthew’s skin.

“Let me guess,” Matthew said. “Runes don’t work here.”

James swore and tried again, concentrating fiercely; the iratze seemed to hesitate for a moment this time, before abruptly fading like the other one.

“It feels a bit better,” Matthew offered.

“You needn’t humor me,” James said darkly. He had been kneeling; now he sank down beside Matthew, feeling drained of energy. Overhead, a dark red sun was drifting in and out of the black masses of cloud above the fortress. “You shouldn’t have come, Math.”

Matthew coughed again. “Whither thou goest,” he said.

James picked up a jagged black pebble and threw it at a wall, where it made an unsatisfying plink. “Not if you’re following me into death.”

“I think you’ll find it’s especially when I’m following you into death. ‘And naught but death part thee and me.’ No exceptions for demon dimensions.”

But there’s nothing you can do to help,James thought, and But Belial will kill you if it amuses him, and I will have to watch. He said neither of those things. It would be cruel to say them. And there was a part of him, though he was ashamed of it, that was very glad Matthew was here.

“You need water,” James said instead. “We both do. It’s dry as a bone here.”

“And we’ll need food soon enough,” Matthew agreed. “I assume Belial knows that and will try to starve us out. Well, starve you out. You’re the one he wants to break. I am an annoyance.” He sifted his hand through a pile of dark pebbles. “Where do you think he is?”

“Belial? Anyone’s guess,” James said. “In the fortress, perhaps. Riding some sort of demonic hell-beast around Edom, chortling to himself. Admiring the wastelands. He’ll turn up when he wants to.”

“Do you think there are any nice demon dimensions? You know, green lands, fruitful hills, beaches and things?”

“I think,” James said, “that demons feel the same way about barren hellscapes as we do about pleasant countryside retreats.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “I know there’s no point to it. But I’ll feel ridiculous if I don’t even try to search for a way out of here.”

“I won’t judge,” said Matthew. “I admire a pointless heroic quest.”

James laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder before rising to his feet. He paced the perimeter of the yard, finding nothing he didn’t expect. The walls were smooth and unclimbable. There was no doorway into the fortress, no gaps in the walls that would suggest a secret panel, no unusually flat piece of ground that might indicate a trapdoor.

He tried not to feel hopeless. There were crumbs of comfort. Belial had sworn he wouldn’t hurt the others, the ones they had left back in London. He had even agreed not to target Cordelia. James could not help but recall how happy he had been, only a short time ago, waking up in his bedroom at Curzon Street and realizing Cordelia was there next to him. How he had thought it was the first morning of many, how he had let himself believe this would be the rest of his life. It was so cruel, how little time they had had before he was taken away.

“I don’t suppose you have any control over this realm, the way you did the other,” Matthew said as James circled back in his direction.

“I don’t,” James said. “I can tell. In Belphegor’s realm, there was something always calling to me, like something just out of earshot that I could hear if I really listened. But this place is dead.” He paused. He had reached the broken statuary he’d seen before, and he realized the bowl balanced atop it wasn’t empty. It was full of clear liquid.

Water. In fact, next to the bowl, a metal cup rested, placed there by some helpful invisible hand.

James narrowed his eyes. The water could, of course, be poisoned. But was it likely? Belial would be happy to poison Matthew, but poisoning James—well, Belial wanted him alive.

And every cell in James’s body was crying out for water. If Belial had decided to poison him, so be it; he’d just kill him another way if this didn’t succeed. James took hold of the metal cup and dunked it into the bowl. The water was pleasantly cold against his fingers.

“James—” Matthew said warningly, but James was already drinking. The water tasted cold and clear, surprisingly delicious.

James lowered the cup. “How long do you think we need to wait to see if I dissolve or turn into a pile of ashes?”

“Belial wouldn’t poison you,” Matthew said, echoing James’s own thoughts. “He doesn’t want you dead, and if he did, I imagine he’d want to take the opportunity to kill you in a more spectacular fashion.”

“Thank you. Very reassuring.” James filled the cup again and carried it over to Matthew. “Drink.”

Matthew did, obediently, though without the enthusiasm James had expected. He’d drunk only half the water when he pushed the cup away, his hand trembling.

He didn’t look at James. But he didn’t have to; James realized in that moment that Matthew was shivering all over—shivering violently, despite the heat in the air and the long coat he wore. His blond curls were damp with sweat.

“Math,” James said quietly. “Do you have your flask with you? The one Kit gave you. With the sedative.”

Matthew flinched; James didn’t blame him. It hurt to say Christopher’s name.

“I have it,” Matthew said quietly. “There’s only a bit left in it.”

“Let me see,” James said, and Matthew handed it over without protest. James unscrewed the top of the flask and peered in, his stomach sinking: there were probably two swallows of the liquid remaining.

Trying to keep his own hands steady, James poured a thimbleful of liquid into the cap of the flask and handed it to Matthew. After a moment Matthew tossed it down his throat, before slumping back against the wall.

When he gave the cap back to James, his hand was steadier, James thought. Or perhaps he just wanted it to be true. He closed up the flask and tucked it back into Matthew’s pocket. He let his hand rest there for a moment, feeling the warmth of Matthew’s skin through his shirt, the steady beat of his heart.

“They’ll come for us, you know,” he said, and felt Matthew’s heart jump under his hand. “Our friends. They know where we are. Cordelia, Lucie, Thomas, Anna—”

“We haven’t just popped round the corner shops,” Matthew said wearily, though without any rancor. “We’re in another world, James.”

“I have faith,” James said.

Matthew looked at him, his green eyes steady. “Good,” he said, and put his hand over James’s, where it rested on his heart. “It’s good to have faith.”