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Chapter 32: Whatever Gods May Be

32WHATEVER GODS MAY BE

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

—William Ernest Henley, “Invictus”

It was near dark bythe time Lucie and Cordelia reached the outskirts of Idumea.

They had struggled to the top of a hill of shale and jagged rock, the sun a low red disc hovering at the horizon. Cordelia could not help but watch Lucie worriedly out of the corner of her eye. She had thought Lucie’s blood tie to Belial might help her here, but the opposite seemed true. Lucie was clearly suffering as if she were dragging a great weight behind her with every step. A whole dead world.

It didn’t help that they’d been mostly silent since they’d left Carbas’s court behind them. Cordelia wished she could go back and punch that awful blue demon in the face. He had put distance between her and Lucie at the worst possible time. Just when their friendship was recovering—

“Look,” Lucie said. She had paused at the top of the hill and was gazing down. “It’s Idumea.”

Cordelia hurried to join her. The shale fell away sharply below them. Beyond it, bathed in the glow of the bloody sun, was a plain studded with boulders. At the edge of the plain the city of Idumea spread out, a gargantuan dark ruin. She had expected to see the remains of streets and houses, but almost everything had collapsed into rubble. Here and there they could spot the fallen demon towers: tree trunks of adamas, reflecting the dull red sun. Ringing the city were the ruins of the walls that had formed its perimeter.

Like their own Alicante, the city was built around a hillside, the upper part of which was half-hidden by lowering black clouds. Still, Cordelia could make out the shape of a massive fortress at the top, circled by a stone wall, its towers silhouetted against the sky.

“Idumea,” she murmured. “James and Matthew are right there—”

They exchanged a quick look, full of the remembrance of Lilith’s warning: You cannot travel at night—you will have to seek shelter once the moons rise, or die in the dark.

“We could run,” Lucie murmured. “If we could make it to the city, perhaps we could travel in the shelter of the rubble—”

Cordelia shook her head immediately. “No.”

It hurt even to say it. She wanted as badly as Lucie did to reach the fortress now. But the sky was turning rapidly from red to black, and more importantly, Lucie looked drained. Even now, as she shook her head and whispered, “We can’t just wait,” her face was drawn tight with exhaustion, her eyelids drooping. It would be a difficult task at the best of times to dash across the sand and climb the broken walls of Idumea; for Lucie, right now, Cordelia feared, it would be suicidal.

“We can’t.” Cordelia forced the words past her dry and burning throat. “We’d have to make it to Idumea, through the city, then to the fortress—all in the pitch black, without witchlights, not knowing what’s out there—and if we die, there won’t be anyone to save them. You know that, just as well as I do.”

And I can’t risk you, Luce,Cordelia thought. Not like that.

After a long moment, Lucie nodded. “Fine. But we can’t just stand here, either. We need to find somewhere to take shelter.”

“I’ve an idea.” Cordelia started down the slope of the hill. They reached the plain just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, creating a vast chessboard of shadow and light. Up close, it was clear that the boulders were not natural formations, but pieces of the city itself, torn from the ground and scattered across the plain by some immense and terrible force. Chunks of walls, sheets of uneven cobblestone, even an old cistern turned on its side.

Cordelia led Lucie to a spot where two slabs of broken wall leaned together, forming a sort of triangular, open-sided cave. As they neared the shelter, something flashed by overhead with an echoing shriek.

It was the call of a monstrous bird of prey. “Quick,” Cordelia said, catching hold of Lucie’s hand; they scrambled through the narrow entrance of the makeshift cave, ducking into the protected hollow below the broken walls just as the shadow swooped past, close enough for the massive creature’s wings to stir the sand.

Lucie shuddered.

“We’d better unpack,” Cordelia said, “before it’s too dark to see.” Lucie watched with dull exhaustion as Cordelia opened her pack, wincing—she’d cut her hand on Cortana in the mad scramble to get into the cave, and a thin cut on her palm was bleeding. At least it was her left hand, she thought, as she hurriedly took out the small blanket she’d packed and unrolled it. She unstrapped Cortana and leaned it against a wall, then retrieved a flask of water and a slab of ship’s biscuit as Lucie fetched her own blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering.

It was dark, and it was going to get darker as the last light faded from the sky. They had brought nothing to make a fire, though, and one would certainly attract attention: here on this dark plain, it would be as bright and visible as a spark among ashes. Cordelia hurried to unscrew the metal flask, to pass some of the hard biscuit to Lucie, before the last of the light was gone—

“Look,” Lucie said, and Cordelia realized that even though total darkness had fallen outside their small shelter, she could still see Lucie’s face. Their space was enveloped in a dull golden glow—and as she turned, she saw that the source of the light was Cortana, its hilt burning dimly, like a half-doused torch.

“Why is it doing that?” Lucie whispered, breaking off a small piece of biscuit.

Cordelia shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone understands the blades of Wayland the Smith entirely, and what they can do.”

And yet—she felt a thrum across her left palm, where she’d cut herself with the blade. As if Cortana knew of her wound, and was calling out to it. To her.

Lucie chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Do you remember,” she said, “when we were children? I was looking at the cliff and I was remembering… you know. When you saved my life. Do you remember?”

Of course she remembered. Lucie, tumbling from the path along the ridge. Cordelia, flat on her stomach, gripping her friend’s hand as Lucie hung over the long fall below. “I was so terrified,” Cordelia said. “That a bee would sting me, or I’d lose my grip, or let go of you somehow.”

“I know. I was in awful danger, but the strange thing was, I felt so safe. Because you had hold of me.” Lucie looked steadily at Cordelia. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For not telling you about… well, where to start? For not telling you about Jesse. I was falling in love with him, and I knew I’d do anything at all to get him back, to make him alive again. I knew I might even do things you wouldn’t approve of. Like working with Grace. I should have been truthful. I told myself Grace was never any threat to our friendship. But lying about her—that was the threat. I was scared, but—but that’s no excuse. I should have told you.”

“What about the parabatai ceremony?” said Cordelia. “Not telling me about the ghosts you saw—I don’t understand it.”

“I was afraid that you’d think I was a monster,” Lucie said, in a small voice. “Finding out about Belial—I felt corrupted. I always thought of the parabatai ceremony as a perfect act of goodness. Something that would make our friendship not just special but—but holy, like what my father and Uncle Jem had. But then I felt as if perhaps I was tainted, as if I did not deserve a perfect act of goodness. I feared if you knew, you would turn away—”

“Lucie.”Cordelia dropped her dry biscuit somewhere in the sand. “I would never turn from you. And what a thing to imagine—do you think that because I am Lilith’s paladin, I am a monster?”

Lucie shook her head. “Of course not.”

“It is easy to confuse monstrousness and power,” said Cordelia. “Especially when one is a woman, as one is not supposed to possess either quality. But you, Lucie—you have a great power, but it is not monstrous, because you are not monstrous. You have used your ability for good. To help Jesse, to get us to Edom. When you saved me from the Thames. When you comfort the dead.”

“Oh, Daisy—”

“Let me finish. People fear power. That is why the Inquisitor is so afraid of your mother that he feels he must drive her from London. Belial counted on it, on the Enclave’s prejudices, their fears. But Luce, I will always defend you. I will always stand up for you, and if ghosts decide to attend our parabatai ceremony, I will invite them around for tea afterward.”

“Oh, dear,” Lucie said. “I feel as if I might cry, but it’s so awfully dry, I don’t think I can.” She rubbed at a smudge on her cheek. “I just wish I knew—why didn’t you tell me how you felt about James? Earlier, I mean.”

“You were right, Luce. When you said I was too proud. I was—I am. I thought I was protecting myself. I thought I didn’t want to be pitied. I didn’t understand, until I talked to James and realized that he had the same reasons, the same excuses, for hiding the truth about Grace and the bracelet, how much harm I was doing. James was killing himself with that secret, keeping it to himself. And I’d done the same thing. I’d been so fearful of pity I’d shut out sympathy and understanding. I’m so sorry, Lucie, so very sorry—”

“Don’t,” Lucie sniffled. “Oh, Daisy. I’ve done a dreadful thing.”

“Really?” Cordelia was bewildered. “What kind of dreadful thing? It can’t be that bad.”

“It is,” Lucie wailed, and reached for her rucksack. As she rummaged in it, she said tearfully, “I stopped writing The Beautiful Cordelia. I was too angry—”

“That’s all right—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Lucie pulled a small notebook out of her pack. “I started writing a new book. The Wicked Queen Cordelia.”

“And you brought it with you?” Cordelia was astonished. “To Edom?”

“Of course,” said Lucie. “You can’t just leave an unfinished manuscript behind. What if I had an idea?”

“Well,” said Cordelia. “I mean. Clearly.”

Lucie thrust the notebook toward her. “I can’t hide it from you,” she said, looking woebegone. “I wrote such terrible things.”

“Perhaps I oughtn’t read it then,” Cordelia said, with some trepidation, but the look on Lucie’s face made her flip the notebook open hastily. Oh, dear, she thought, and began to read.

The wicked Queen Cordelia tossed her long, easily managed scarlet hair. She wore a gown of gold and silver thread, and a massive diamond necklace that rested atop her large and treacherous bosoms. “Oh, foolish Princess Lucie,” she said. “Did you think that your brother, Cruel Prince James, would be able to help you? I have had him executed.”

“What?” Princess Lucie gasped, for even though he could be cruel, he was still her brother. “But after everything I have done for you?”

“It is true,” said the wicked queen, “that I have everything that I have ever wanted. I am adored by all the people in the land, and I have countless suitors”—she indicated the long line of handsome men that stretched through the throne room, some on their knees—“my magical sword has been judged the best and most beautiful sword by the International Council of Sword Experts, and last week I wrote a thousand-page novel for which I have already received a handsome advance from a publisher in London. Indeed, you have helped me achieve all these things. But I have no further use for you.”

“But you said we would always be friends!” protested Secret Princess Lucie. “That we would be princesses together!”

“I have decided that rather than being princesses together, it is preferable that I be a queen and you be a prisoner in my deepest dungeon, below the castle moat. You, Sir Jethro, take her away!”

“You will pay for this!” cried Secret Princess Lucie, but she knew in her heart that the wicked Queen Cordelia had won.

Cordelia made a muffled noise. Lucie, her eyes huge, clasped her hands together. “I am so dreadfully sorry,” she said. “It was utterly wrong of me to think any of those things, much less write them down—”

Cordelia clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. A giggle burst from her, and then another. Her shoulders shaking uncontrollably, she hiccuped, “Oh, Lucie—I have never—read anything so funny—”

“Really?”Lucie looked amazed.

“I do have to ask something,” Cordelia said, tapping the page with her finger. “Why are my, er, the Wicked Queen’s bosoms so enormous?”

“Well they are,” Lucie explained. “Not like me. I look like a little boy. I always wanted to have a figure like yours, Daisy.”

“And I,” said Cordelia, “always wanted to be dainty and delicate like you, Luce.” She started to giggle again. “The International Council of Sword Experts?”

“I’m sure they exist,” Lucie said, starting to smile. “And if they don’t, they ought to.” She held her hand out. “I suppose you might as well give it back now.”

Cordelia whipped the notebook away. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “I am simply dying to find out what happens to Princess Lucie in the dungeon. Should I read aloud? Will there be another mention of my bosoms?”

“Several,” Lucie admitted, and for the first time in many long centuries, under the harsh glow of three moons, the sound of simple human laughter drifted across the plains of Edom.


Thomas came back to himself slowly. He was lying on a crisp, white-sheeted bed, and the familiar scent of herbs and carbolic hung in the air. The infirmary of the Institute—he knew it well, and for a disconnected, dreamlike moment, he wondered: Is my leg broken?

But that had been years ago. He’d been a child, still small and even a bit sickly, and had fallen out of an apple tree. He and James had played cards every night in the Institute infirmary while he’d healed. It seemed like a distant dream now, of a more innocent time, when the horrors of the present would have been unimaginable, and the loss of James and Matthew more unimaginable still.

They’re not dead,he reminded himself, starting to turn over, the blankets rustling around his feet. Then he heard it. A deep, steady voice, rising and falling—Alastair Carstairs, reading aloud. He was sitting beside Thomas’s bed, his eyes fixed on a leather-bound volume in his hands. Thomas closed his eyes, the better to savor the sound of Alastair reading.

“I have often thought of you,” said Estella.

“Have you?”

“Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth. But, since my duty has not been incompatible with the admission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart.”

“You have always held your place in my heart,” I answered.

The book snapped shut. “This is dull,” Alastair said, sounding weary. “And I doubt you are appreciating it, Thomas, since you are asleep. But my sister has always insisted that there is nothing better for the ill than being read to.”

I’m not ill, Thomas thought, but he kept his eyes closed.

“Perhaps I ought to tell you what’s happened today since you’ve been laid up here,” Alastair continued. “Anna and Ari found the entrance to the Silent City. I know because they sent Matthew’s blasted hound back with a note to let us know. And speaking of notes, Grace and Jesse managed to get Christopher’s project to work. They’re in the library now, sending dozens of the things to Alicante. We can only hope they arrive—it’s one thing sending them within London, and another trying to break through the barriers around the city.” He sighed. “Remember the one you sent me? The one that was mostly nonsense? I spent hours trying to piece it together, you know. I was desperate to know what you wanted to say to me.”

Thomas stayed as motionless as he could, keeping his breathing steady and regular. He knew he ought to open his eyes, tell Alastair he was awake, but he couldn’t make himself do it. The raw honesty in Alastair’s voice was something he had never heard before.

“You scared me today,” Alastair said. “At the train station. The first iratze I put on you—it faded.” His voice shook. “And I thought—what if I lost you? Really lost you? And I realized all the things I’ve been afraid of all this time—what your friends would think, what it would mean for me to stay in London—mean nothing next to what I feel for you.” Thomas felt something brush his forehead gently. Alastair, pushing back a lock of his hair. “I heard what my mother said to you,” Alastair added. “Before the Christmas party. And I heard what you said back—that you wish I would treat myself as I deserve to be treated. The thing is, that’s exactly what I was doing. I was denying myself the thing I wanted more than anything else in the world because I didn’t believe I deserved it.”

Thomas could stand it no longer. He opened his eyes and saw Alastair—tired, rumple-haired, shadow-eyed—staring down at him. “Deserved what?” Thomas whispered.

“Deserved you,” Alastair said, and shook his head. “Of course—of course you were pretending to be asleep—”

“Would you have said all those things if I was awake?” Thomas said roughly, and Alastair set down the book he’d been holding and said, “You don’t have to say anything back, Thomas. I know what I hope for. I hope against hope that you could possibly feel anything like what I feel for you. It is almost impossible to imagine anyone feeling that way about me, given who I am. But I hope. Not only because I wish to have what I desire. Although I do desire you,” he added in a quieter voice. “I desire you with an ardor that frightens me.”

Thomas said, “Come lie down next to me.”

Alastair hesitated. Then he bent down to unlace his boots. A moment later Thomas felt the bed sink, and the warm weight of Alastair’s body settle next to him. “Are you all right?” Alastair said quietly, looking into his face. “Does anything hurt?”

“Only that I’m not kissing you right now,” Thomas said. “Alastair, I love you—but you know that—”

Alastair kissed him. It was awkward to maneuver on the small bed, and their knees and elbows knocked together, but Thomas didn’t mind. He only wanted Alastair close to him, Alastair’s mouth hot and soft against his, lips parting so he could whisper, “I didn’t know it—I hoped, but I wasn’t sure—”

“Kheli asheghetam,”Thomas whispered, and heard Alastair suck in his breath. “I love you. Let me love you,” he said, and when Alastair kissed him again, a hard, hot, openmouthed kiss, Thomas lost himself in it, in the way Alastair touched him. In the way Alastair moved with careful surety, unbuttoning Thomas’s shirt with deft fingers. In the way, once Thomas’s shirt had been gotten rid of, Alastair stroked him with gentle fingers, his gaze sleepy and desiring and slow. He brushed touches along Thomas’s wrists, up his arms, across his shoulders, opening his palms against Thomas’s chest. Sliding his open palms down, until Thomas was going out of his mind, wanting more than gentle brushes of lips and fingers.

He buried his hands in Alastair’s hair. “Oh, please,” he said, incoherently, “now, now.”

Alastair laughed softly. He drew off his own shirt, and then he was lowering himself over Thomas, bare skin against bare skin, and Thomas’s whole being seemed to rise up in a tightening spiral, and Alastair was shaking as Thomas touched him back, shaking because it was now, just as Thomas had asked for, and now was a moment so immense, so profound in its pleasure and joy, that both of them forgot the shadows and peril, the grief and darkness that surrounded them. They would remember in time, and soon enough, but for the moment of now, there was only each other, and the brightness they wove between them on the narrow infirmary bed.


When Cordelia awoke the next morning, the dim sun of Edom was filtering into their hiding spot. She had fallen asleep with one hand on Cortana; she sat up slowly now, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, and looked at Lucie.

Lucie was curled up in her blanket, her eyes closed, her face pale. Cordelia had woken several times in the night to find Lucie tossing and turning restlessly, sometimes crying out in distress. Even in sleep, the weight of Edom bore down on her.

It will all be over today,Cordelia told herself. We will either succeed in finding James and Matthew, and I in slaying Belial, or we will be killed trying.

In her sleep, Lucie plucked at her locket. There were dark shadows under her eyes. Cordelia hesitated before steeling herself to reach out and gently shake Lucie by the shoulder. There was no point in delaying; it would only make everything worse.

They parceled out what was left of the food—a few swallows of water and some hardtack each—and Lucie seemed a little revived; by the time they ducked out of their shelter and began to cross the plain to Idumea, there was color in her face again.

It was another simmering day, and a hot wind blew dust into their eyes and mouths. As they drew closer to Idumea, it grew more recognizable as what it was: a ruined Alicante. The great fortress of what had once been the Gard loomed over a tumbled mix of rubble and standing structures. All the demon towers save one had fallen, and the single glassy spire caught and held the scarlet glow of the sun, like a red-hot needle piercing the sky.

Cordelia had wondered whether they would be bothered by demons as they tried to enter the city, especially after their encounter with Carbas. But the place was almost eerily deserted: only the wind troubled them as they scrambled over the rubble of the destroyed walls.

More rubble awaited on the other side, but in between the piles of smashed and broken stone were surprising patches that had been left almost intact. As they moved closer to the city’s center, Cordelia could make out what had once been Cistern Square, though a great hole had been torn through the paving stones there, as if something had burst up through the earth long ago. She and Lucie exchanged an uneasy look and gave the hole a wide berth.

They passed the remains of ancient canals, filled now with rotting black moss. Cordelia could see something shining in the near distance, a glint like metal or gold. A heap of rubble barred the way; she and Lucie clambered over it and found themselves in what had once been Angel Square.

She and Lucie looked around with an awful sort of fascination. Here was something so familiar, and yet not familiar at all: the great square at the heart of Alicante, with the Hall of Accords at one end, and the statue of the Angel Raziel in the center. Only there was no Hall of Accords here, only a massive pillared building made of a darkly glowing metal; this had been the glint Cordelia had seen earlier. Its sides had been engraved with words in a curling demonic script.

As for the statue of the Angel, it was gone. In its place was a statue of Belial, carved from marble. A sneer was stamped on his beautiful, inhuman face; he wore scaled armor, and wings of black onyx burst from his back.

“Look at him. Look how pleased he looks with himself,” Lucie said, glaring viciously at the statue. “Ugh, I wish I could—” She gasped and doubled over, her hands on her stomach. “Oh—it hurts.”

Terrified, Cordelia caught hold of Lucie’s arm. “Are you all right? Lucie—”

Lucie looked up, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated and very black. “Something horrible,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong. I feel them—the dead—”

“It’s because we’re in Idumea, isn’t it? You said it was a dead city—”

Lucie shook her head. “Those are old ghosts. These are new—so full of rage and hatred—like they just died, but nothing’s lived here in so long, so how—?” She flinched and staggered back against the base of the statue. “Daisy—look—”

Cordelia turned to see what seemed to be a whirling cloud of dust. She thought of stories of storms in the desert, great sheets of sand moving across the sky, but this was no natural phenomenon. As it drew closer, spinning across the square, Cordelia could see that it was indeed a moving, tightly packed cloud of dust and sand, but within that cloud were shapes—faces, really, with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Like paintings of seraphim, she thought in a daze, great wings covered in eyes, wheels of fire that spoke and moved.

Lucie was moaning softly, clearly in agony as she crouched against the statue. The spinning cloud was right in front of them. Out of the dust and sand, a face began to form, and then a torso and shoulders. A mournful face, with spilling black hair and sad, dark eyes.

Filomena di Angelo. As Cordelia stared in amazement, she spoke—a strange, half-formed figure circled in whirling sand. “Cordelia Carstairs,” she said, and her voice echoed like the wind that blew across the desert. “Have you at last come to save me?”

This is a demon,Cordelia thought. Some sort of nightmare creature that preys on guilt. Only—that did not explain Lucie’s response to it. Still…

“You are a monster,” Cordelia said. “Sent by Belial to trick me.”

The dust whirled, and a new face appeared within it. An old woman, sharp-eyed, familiar. “It is no trick,” said the semblance of Lilian Highsmith. “We are the souls of those Belial murdered in London. He has trapped us here for his own amusement.”

The sand shifted. Basil Pounceby’s grim face stared out at them. Lucie was breathing in rasping gasps; Cordelia fought back her fear, her desire to flee to protect Lucie. This creature would only follow. “We have been ordered to harry anyone who comes into Idumea and drive them away,” growled the ghost of Pounceby. “Belial finds it an amusing joke to bend Shadowhunters to his will and force us to eternally witness the destruction of that which was once Alicante.”

“Belial,” said Cordelia. “Where in Idumea is he now?”

Another shift. It was Filomena again, her expression desperate. “In the dark Gard,” she said. “That which was Lilith’s palace but is now his. He flies there and back on a great dark bird. We think he has taken prisoners.”

Prisoners.Cordelia’s heart leaped. “You must let us through, Filomena,” she said. “I failed to protect you before. Let me try now. Let us go to the Gard, for when we get there, I will kill Belial, and you will be free. His hold on you will be ended.”

“How do you think you can slay Belial?” Basil Pounceby’s voice, thick with scorn. “You are just a girl.”

In one smooth motion, Cordelia drew her sword. Cortana glowed in her hand, a staunchly defiant gold, untouched by the bloody sun. “I am the bearer of Cortana. I have already wounded Belial twice. A third wound will end him.”

Filomena’s eyes widened. And then she was gone, the sand reshaping and re-forming itself, into the most familiar countenance of all. Pale hair and eyes, gray stubble, a deeply lined face. Her father.

“Cordelia,” said the ghost of Elias Carstairs. “You heard my words in Paris, when I spoke to you, did you not?”

Any doubts Cordelia had entertained that these were really the spirits of the London dead vanished. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, Baba—”

“Daisy,” Lucie said, her voice thready. “I can’t—we don’t have much time—”

“I heard you in Paris,” Cordelia said, staring at her father’s face. “You tried to warn me.”

“I reached out,” Elias whispered hoarsely. “I heard your call in the darkness. But we are weak in death.… There is so little I could do.…”

“Father,” Cordelia said. “You were a great Shadowhunter once. The legendary Elias Carstairs. You led warriors into battle, into victory. Be a leader now. Defy Belial. Give me this chance to make it to the Gard. Everything depends on it. Father, please—”

She broke off as the cloud began to spin faster, and then faster still. Faces appeared and disappeared within the storm of it, eyes bulging, teeth gritted; Cordelia could no longer tell which face was which, but each wore the same look of grim determination. And then, with a great shrieking cry, the cloud burst apart into fragments, sand showering the cobblestones of Angel Square.

Cordelia’s ears rang in the silence. She turned to look at Lucie, who was straightening up cautiously. She said gently, “They’re gone, Daisy.”

“Are you all right?” Cordelia lowered her sword. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes. But they’ll come back, I think. They’re subject to the will of Belial; they can only fight it for so long.” Lucie inhaled, a long and steadying breath. “We’d better get to the Gard while they do.”

Cordelia nodded, feeling solemn. She had thought she would feel more pain after seeing her father. Instead, strangely, she felt a sort of cold calm descend on her. She was the wielder of Cortana, and she was not here to mourn. She was here to avenge. She was an angel falling upon the plains of Edom, in the name of Raziel and all the Nephilim who had fought and died here long ago. She would free her father’s spirit from this place. She would rescue Matthew and James; she would liberate London from Belial. This world could not be saved, but the fate of her own had not yet been decided.

Together, she and Lucie started in the direction of the dark fortress atop what had once been Gard Hill.


When the red sun rose over the courtyard the next morning, James had not slept. His eyes felt as if they were full of sand, and his mouth was bone-dry. Matthew sat next to him, his legs drawn up, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the horizon.

At some point, James had stopped the drawing of iratzes. Matthew had stopped shaking and fallen asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, his head heavy against James’s shoulder. Some hours later, when he had woken up, he had turned to look at James thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what you did,” he said. “At least, I don’t know how it was possible. But—I feel better. Physically, at least.”

He looked at his forearm. It was a latticework of pale white lines, the ghosts of vanished runes.

“That shouldn’t have worked,” he said. “But then, that’s true of so many things we’ve done.”

He was right, James thought. It shouldn’t have worked. He’d put every bit of his concentration into drawing the healing runes, trying to imbue them with his own strength, his own will, hoping that if he could get each one to remain just a little while, the combined force of a hundred of them would get Matthew through the night.

As Matthew stood up now and went to get water, he was steady on his feet. There was color in his face, he wasn’t shivering, and his hands didn’t shake as he came back with the cup. This was not a cure, James knew. Matthew, if he survived Edom, would still crave alcohol; there was much work still to be done. But to have kept him alive so he could do that work—

A shadow passed overhead. Matthew reached James, held out a hand to help him up. As James brushed dust off his clothes, he said, “Do you mean that? About things we’ve done that shouldn’t have worked?”

Matthew eyed him oddly. “Of course.”

“So you’ll go along with my plan,” James said. “The one you hate.”

Matthew glanced at James hard, and then up at the sky—where a dark, winged shape was growing closer. A pure white cloak flew on the wind like a flag.

“Belial,” Matthew said flatly.

He set the cup down, and he and James moved to stand shoulder to shoulder. It was a gesture, James knew. Belial could separate them both with a snap of his fingers. Fling them to opposite sides of the courtyard. But gestures mattered. They were important.

Belial sprang off the back of Stymphalia even before the bird-demon touched down in the pebbled black dirt. As dust flew, he marched across the courtyard to James and Matthew. He looked annoyed, James thought, which was something: he had expected gloating. This seemed a bit more complex.

“Your companions,” Belial snapped. “Cordelia Carstairs, your sister, the others—you know I offered them safe passage out of London. Did they refuse it? Are they still in the city?”

James felt his heart swell. I knew, he thought. I had faith.

He spread his hands wide. “I couldn’t possibly answer that,” he said. “We’ve been here.”

Belial’s lip curled. “I suppose. But I imagine you have a guess.”

“Why?” James said. “Are you afraid of them? A bunch of Nephilim children?” He grinned, feeling his dry lips crack. “Or just of Cordelia?”

Belial sneered. “She will not touch me with her foul blade,” he said. “For I will be possessing you—and for her to harm me, she would have to end your life. Which she will not do. Women,” he added, “are notoriously sentimental.”

“Wonderful,” Matthew muttered. “Advice about human women from a Prince of Hell.”

“You will be quiet,” Belial said. “The time for playing and posturing has come to an end. You have been an amusing adversary, grandson, but there was never a chance for you. If you do not agree to let me possess you, I will torture your parabatai to death in front of your eyes. After that, I will bring you with me to London. I will kill every man, woman, and child we encounter until your fragile human spirit breaks and you beg me to put an end to it.”

James raised his head slowly. He met his grandfather’s gaze. The urge to look away was immediate, intense. Behind those eyes something slithered—something primordially evil, cold, reptilian, and venomous.

He kept his gaze steady. “First, you promise not to hurt Matthew,” James said. At the edge of his vision, he saw Matthew close his eyes. “And I will let you have what you want—with a few more conditions.”

Belial seemed to purr. “Which are?”

“You will not hurt my friends, my family, or Cordelia.”

“Having her run around freely with Cortana is inconvenient,” Belial said. “If she attacks, I will defend myself. Surely you can see there is no agreement otherwise.”

“All right,” James said. He could barely breathe, but he knew better than to show it. “But as you said—she won’t.”

“Hmm,” Belial said. There was a hunger in his expression now. A look that twisted James’s insides with nausea. “We seem to have reached an agreement.”

“Not yet.” James shook his head. “I require something more formal. You’re a Prince of Hell. You must vow on Lucifer’s name.”

Belial chuckled. “Ah, the Lightbringer. You had better hope, Nephilim, that you never have cause to meet him.” He flung out his arm, his white robe swirling around him like smoke. “I, Prince Belial, Lord of Edom, of the First Nine, do swear on the name of Lucifer, He that is everything, that I will not cause harm to befall any of those dear to my blood grandson James Herondale. May I be struck into the Pit if such comes to pass.”

He looked at James; his eyes were wide and black and flickering, dark and empty as the end of all hope. “Now, come here, boy,” he said. “It is time.”

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