Chapter 35: Winged with Lightning

35WINGED WITH LIGHTNING

But see the angry Victor hath recalled

His ministers of vengeance and pursuit

Back to the gates of Heaven: The sulfurous hail

Shot after us in storm, overblown hath laid

The fiery Surge, that from the precipice

Of Heaven received us falling, and the thunder,

Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage.

—John Milton, Paradise Lost

Cordelia ran.

She ran from the north transept of the abbey, circling around the tomb of Edward the Confessor, and burst into the nave, where the choir turned into long rows of pews, all facing the High Altar.

Where Belial sat, sprawled in the Coronation Chair. He was still, one hand under his chin, his gaze fixed on her.

Holding Cortana crosswise, as if it were a golden shield, she began to walk toward the High Altar. She kept her back straight, her face expressionless. Let Belial watch her approach. Let him puzzle at her calm; let him wonder what she had planned.

Let him be afraid. She hoped he was afraid.

She was not afraid. Not now. She was breathless. Stunned. She had known it was true, since they had found Matthew in Edom, and he had told them what happened. But she had not been able to imagine it. Not until this moment, as she strode through the center of Westminster Abbey as if she were going to her own coronation. Not until this moment, when she looked at the High Altar, and saw James.

James.Even with everything she knew, part of her wanted to rush up the steps and throw her arms around him. He would feel like James; his heart would beat like James’s did. His body would feel like James’s body against hers, his hair like James’s if she knotted her fingers into it; he would sound like James if he spoke.

Or would he? She didn’t know. He had asked Matthew to be his voice; was James’s voice, even the sound of it, gone forever? Would she never hear him say Daisy, my Daisy, ever again?

He smiled.

And it felt as if he had slapped her.

James’s face—the one she could conjure up so easily with her eyes closed, the soft mouth and high cheekbones and lovely golden eyes—was set in a sneer, his expression a mixture of hatred and fear, contempt and—amusement. The sort of amusement that made her think of a schoolboy torturing an insect.

Nor were his eyes golden now. Belial’s eyes, in James’s face, were dark silver, the color of tarnished shillings.

He raised his hand. “Stop,” he said in a voice that was nothing like James’s voice, and Cordelia—stopped. She had not meant to do so, but it was as if she’d hit a wall of glass, an invisible magical barrier. She could not take one more step. “That’s close enough.”

Cordelia tightened her grip on Cortana. She could feel the sword tremble in her hand; it knew they had a purpose here.

“I want to talk to James,” Cordelia said.

Belial smiled, a twisted expression nothing like James’s smile. “Well,” he said. “Don’t we all want things.” He snapped his fingers, and out of the shadows at the side of the altar lurched a horrific figure—an animated corpse, a frame of yellowed bones topped with a grinning skull. It wore an archbishop’s miter and a tarnished chasuble that had once been richly embroidered with gold; the vestment was now mostly rotted through, and through the holes Cordelia could see the archbishop’s ribs, hung with stringy bits of leathery flesh. In its hands it held a purple-and-golden crown, studded with gems of all colors. She was reminded, horribly and strangely, of the play on the stage of the Hell Ruelle, the crowd applauding the peculiar coronation.…

“I, for instance,” said Belial, “wish to be crowned king of London by Simon de Langham here.”

The dead archbishop wobbled.

Belial sighed. “Poor Simon; we do keep getting interrupted by your idiot friends. And now, of course, by you.” His silver gaze slid over her like water. “I can’t say it’s been the coronation of my dreams.”

“I don’t see why you want a coronation, anyway,” said Cordelia. “I thought things like royalty, and kings and queens, only mattered to mundanes.”

She had not meant it to be particularly insulting, but to her surprise, rage flashed across his face. “Please,” he said. “I am a Prince of Hell, do you think that title means nothing?”

Yes,Cordelia thought, but didn’t speak.

“I am not going to accept a demotion,” he snapped, settling back against the chair. “Besides, there is magic in ritual. This will cement my hold on London, and eventually on all of England. And after that, who knows?” He grinned brightly, his mood seemingly restored. “With this new body of mine, all is possible. There is no kingdom on Earth that would not fall before me, if I set my mind to it.” He let his head fall back, James’s cloudy dark hair falling charmingly over his forehead. Cordelia felt sick. “Oh, James is miserable.” He chuckled. “I can feel it. To behold you here causes him an agony that is, I assure you, delicious. It’s fascinating, the way you human beings hurt. Not physically, of course, that’s all boringly familiar, but the emotional torment. The anguish of feeling. It is unique among animals.”

“They say angels weep,” said Cordelia. “But I suppose you’ve forgotten.”

Belial narrowed his silver eyes.

“And speaking of physical pain,” she went on. “The wounds given you by Cortana. The wounds given to you by me. They still hurt, do they not?”

Above her, Cordelia heard a sudden susurration of wings. She looked up sharply to see an owl flap through the arched galleries high above them.

“The wounds you have,” she said, “will never close. They will burn forever.” She turned Cortana, so that the engraved side of the blade faced the altar. I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal. “Unless I heal them.”

“Heal them?” he echoed sharply, so sharply that the archbishop, apparently in confusion, stepped forward with the royal crown. Looking annoyed, Belial plucked the crown from the skeleton’s grasp and waved him away. “How can you—ah.” The shock faded from his expression. “Because it is a paladin’s blade. I too have heard the stories that claim such a power. But they are just stories.”

“Stories are not lies,” Cordelia said. She raised her left hand. Then she brought the edge of her sword against it, the blade cool against her skin. She pressed, and it bit in, slicing open her palm. Blood welled from the cut and fell in thick drops to the marble floor.

She held up her injured hand to show Belial, who did not react, only continued watching her. Then she lay the flat of the blade upon the palm and drew it slowly across her hand. When she lowered the sword, the wound was gone, her skin showing no mark or scar, not even a white line where the cut had been. She flexed her hand a few times and then held it up again for Belial to inspect.

“Stories,” Cordelia said, “are true.”

“Interesting,” Belial murmured, as though to himself, but his eyes stayed hooked to Cortana, even as Cordelia lowered the sword. He looked hungry, she thought. Hungry for the end of pain.

“This is the blade Cortana,” Cordelia reminded him, “forged by Wayland the Smith. There is no other like it, and it can heal as well as harm. But it can only do so in the hand of its rightful bearer. You cannot simply kill me and use the sword to heal yourself.”

Belial was silent for a long moment. Finally he said, “What is your proposal, then?”

“Depart from James’s body,” Cordelia said. She knew it was a ridiculous suggestion, but she had to keep him talking. James had said she needed to get close to him, and here she was, desperately searching Belial’s face, looking for any sign of James at all.

Belial gave her a sour look. “Your gambit is sillier than I thought. I have worked far too hard and planned far too long to give up this form. It has been my primary aim all this time. However,” he added, “I am not unwilling to negotiate. If you heal my wounds, I will spare your life.”

Perhaps James had imagined things would be different, Cordelia thought. That he would not be trapped as he was. Or perhaps all he had wanted was for her to get close enough to kill him.

The thought made her sick. But she knew it was a possibility.

“I don’t want my life spared,” she whispered. “I want James.”

“James is gone,” said Belial dismissively. “No use being a child, crying for the toy you can’t have. Think of all you have in your life, should you live.” He furrowed his brow, clearly searching for anything he might consider a reason for Cordelia to keep on living. “You have a brother,” Belial said thoughtfully. “And though I slew your father myself, your mother lives. And”—his eyes sparked—“what of your newborn brother? A baby who has yet to speak a word or take a step? A child who needs you.”

He grinned loathsomely. Cordelia felt as though she had missed a step on a staircase, as if she were grasping at empty air. “The baby—?” She shook her head. “No. You’re a liar. You—”

“Really, Cordelia,” said Belial. He rose to his feet, the crown glittering in his hand. The light from the rose windows sparked fire from its gems as he raised it above his head. “You have made an offer you must know I will only refuse. Then you tell me I am a liar, which would suggest you are not interested in a negotiation. So, Cordelia Carstairs. Why are you really here? Just to watch me…” Belial smiled up at the crown. “Ascend?”

Cordelia raised her eyes to his. “I am here,” she said, “because I believe in James.”

Belial went still.

James,she thought. If there is any piece of you there. If any part of you remains, trapped beneath Belial’s will. Know that I have faith in you. Know that I love you. And nothing Belial can do can change that.

And still, Belial was unmoving. It was not a natural sort of stillness, but looked as if he had been frozen in place by a warlock’s spell. Then slowly, jerkily, his arms began to move, lowering themselves to his sides. He let go his hold on the crown, which fell heavily to the floor. Even more slowly, he raised his head and looked directly at Cordelia.

His eyes, she realized with a jolt—a jolt she felt at the very center of her soul—were gold.

“James?” she whispered.

“Cordelia,” he said, and his voice, his voice was James’s, the same voice that called her Daisy. “Give me Cortana.”

It was the last thing she’d expected James to ask for—and the first thing Belial would have wanted. Belial was a master of lies. Surely he could change the timbre of his voice, sound like James in an effort to fool her… And if she chose wrong, she would doom her city and, ultimately, her world to ruin.

She hesitated. And heard Matthew’s voice in her head: He said you would know the right moment to act. And to believe in him. She hadn’t lied when she spoke before. She was here because she believed in James. She had to have faith, not only because James had told her to, but because she’d come this far on her own instincts and her belief in her friends. And there was no turning back.

She still could not move forward, could not walk to the High Altar. She drew her arm back and flung Cortana. She almost cried out as it hurtled away from her, spinning end over end, and James’s hand shot out and caught it out of the air by the hilt.

He looked at her. His eyes were still gold, and full of sorrow.

“Daisy,” he said.

And plunged the sword into his own heart.

---

All Shadowhunters believed that they would die in battle; indeed, they were raised from childhood to understand it as the preferred method of death. Ari Bridgestock was no different. She had always wondered what battle would be her last, but in the past few minutes, she had developed a strong feeling that it was going to be this one.

It was cold comfort that Anna was here with her. Anna was a great warrior, but Ari did not think that even a great warrior had a chance in this situation. There seemed an endless horde of Watchers, enough to overwhelm an army of Shadowhunters and still keep coming and coming.

They had decided without needing to discuss it aloud that there was neither time, nor room, for the subtle maneuvering necessary to destroy the possession runes. All they could do was beat back the tide, knocking down enough Watchers to give themselves some breathing space—only to see them rise to their feet again.

Anna was a long blur of movement, her ruby necklace gleaming against her chest like a drop of angelic blood. Her seraph blade moved so quickly in her hand that Ari’s eye could not catch it—it seemed a silvery shimmer painted against the air. The thought appeared in Ari’s mind: I could accept dying here, right now, as long as it meant that Anna would live.

Once she had had the thought, and knew in an instant that it was utterly true, everything became clearer. A new energy flowed into her; she redoubled her attack, using her khanda to harry a tall Watcher whose white robes were stained with blood. She plunged her blade into its chest.

And heard Anna scream her name. She twisted around, her blade still in the Watcher, and saw another of them rising up behind her, a once Iron Sister raising a barbed black staff to plunge it into Ari’s back. Ari yanked her khanda free, leaving the first Watcher to sink to the ground, but there was no time—the second Watcher was upon her, the staff coming down—

The Watcher crumpled, hitting the ground with the force of a felled tree. The staff clattered from its hand. Ari looked immediately to Anna. Surely Anna had come from behind to injure the Watcher, to keep it from hurting Ari. And Anna was there, her seraph blade in hand, but she was still too far from the fallen Watcher to have touched it. Her face was a mask of shock and even fear. Ari had never seen her look afraid before.

“What on earth?” Anna whispered, and Ari realized all the Watchers were falling. Folding like puppets with cut strings, collapsing onto the bloodstained grass. And then, before either Anna or Ari had even lowered their weapons, came a terrible ripping sound. From the fallen bodies of the Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers the Chimera demons emerged: some crawling out of open mouths or eyes, one tearing its way free from an open wound in a shower of blood.

Ari backed up, half in revulsion, half readying herself to battle the Chimeras, as they emerged, chittering and blood-slicked, their fangs flashing. They were smaller than she’d imagined, the size of piglets, and she raised her khanda high—only to be startled when they turned to flee like a pack of rats, slithering and hopping across the damp grass of the cloister, scrambling up the walls to vanish onto the roof.

Silence fell. Ari stood over the bodies of the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters, who lay as still as effigies. She could hear no sound from inside the abbey, nothing that explained what had just happened—had Cordelia reached James? Had Belial been killed? Something had happened, something huge—

“Ari!”Anna caught Ari by the arm, swinging her around so they faced each other. Anna had dropped her seraph blade; it sputtered in the grass like a dying candle, but she didn’t seem to care. She touched Ari’s face—Anna’s hand was crusted with dried blood and dirt, but Ari leaned into the touch, into Anna. “I thought you were going to die,” Anna whispered. “That we were both going to die.” Her dark hair tumbled into her blazing blue eyes; Ari wanted nothing more in this moment than to kiss her. “And I realized—I would sacrifice myself in a moment. But not you. I could not bear to lose you.”

“And I could not bear to lose you,” Ari said. “So there will be no sacrificing yourself. For my sake.” She let her khanda fall from her hand as Anna pulled her close; her hand stroked Ari’s hair, which had come loose and fell about her face.

“You will not leave me,” Anna said fiercely. “I want you to stay, with me, at Percy Street. I do not want you to move to some flat somewhere, with sconces—”

Ari was shaking her head, smiling; she could not believe they were having this conversation now, but when had Anna ever waited to say what she thought needed to be said?

She raised her face to Anna’s; they were so close together she could feel the brush of Anna’s eyelashes. “No sconces,” Ari said. “No flats in Pimlico. Just us. Wherever you are is home to me.”

---

Cordelia screamed.

The blade went into James with a sickening noise, the awful shearing of bone and muscle. Cordelia felt it through her body as if she were the one stabbed; as James sank to his knees, she threw herself at the invisible wall separating her from the High Altar, threw herself against it as if it were glass that could shatter, but it held her back, pinning her in place.

James was on his knees, his bloody hands locked around the hilt of Cortana. His head hung down; Cordelia couldn’t see his face. His grip on the weapon tightened, his knuckles whitening. As Cordelia flung herself against the barrier that separated them, he wrenched savagely at the sword, and she could feel the blade shear against bone again as he pulled it free.

He gazed for a moment at the blade, slick with blood, before opening his hand to let it clatter to the floor. He raised his head and stared at Cordelia as the blood pulsed slowly from the wound in his chest.

His eyes were silver. As he spoke, blood bubbled to his lips; his voice was thick, but recognizable. Belial’s voice.

“What,” he said, his gaze flicking incredulously from the blade to his own bloody hands, “is this?”

“You’re dying,” said Cordelia. She found that she was no longer afraid of Belial. She was no longer afraid of anything. The worst that could happen had happened. Belial would die, and James with him.

“It’s impossible,” he said.

“It’s not impossible,” Cordelia said. “It’s three wounds from Cortana.”

There was a roaring sound in the distance, growing louder and louder. Cordelia could feel a trembling in the earth deep beneath her feet; off to the side, with a soft rattling sound, the dead archbishop collapsed into a dusty pile of rotted vestments and bones.

“A human soul could not overpower my will,” Belial hissed. Blood ran down his chin. “My will is immutable. I am an instrument of God.”

“No,” said Cordelia. “You were an instrument of God.”

Belial’s whole face shook, his mouth trembling, and in that moment, Cordelia seemed to see through the illusion of James, to the angel that Belial had once been, before he had chosen power and war and the Fall. His silver eyes were wide and confused and full of a fear so complete it was nearly innocence. “I cannot die,” he said, wiping the blood from his mouth. “I don’t know how to die.”

“Nor does anyone living,” said Cordelia. “I suppose you will learn like the rest.”

Belial slumped forward. And the roof of the abbey came off, or seemed to—it had been there, and now it was not, though there had been no sound of it ripping away, no breaking of stone. It was simply gone, and Cordelia stared up at a sky like a whirlpool—it had been black with opaque clouds, mazed with dark lightning, but the clouds were parting. She could see the gleam of blue, a clear cold sky, and then a shimmer—a ray of sunlight. It pierced the windows of the abbey and laid a shining golden bar across the stone floor.

Belial threw his head back. Above him, white clouds parted, illuminated by ice-bright winter sun, and with the light on his face he looked as if he were caught between agony and joy, a martyr’s look. As he got to his feet, he seemed to step out of James’s body, like a snake shedding its skin. James slid soundlessly to the floor of the altar, and Belial rose and stepped away, now unrecognizable. He was a burning dark light in the shape of a man, lifting his hands up, up toward the sky, toward the Heaven he had turned away from so very long ago.

“Father?” he said.

A spear of light broke through the clouds. It shot downward like lightning, like a flaming arrow, and plunged into Belial. He seemed to catch alight, his shadow burning, and he howled aloud in agony, “Father, no!”

But his cry was unheeded. As Cordelia stared in dazed shock, Belial was lifted into the air—he was writhing, struggling, his deep cries like thunder rolling—and carried thrashing into the sky.

The barrier that had been holding Cordelia back from the altar vanished. She raced up the crimson-slicked steps and flung herself down beside James.

He lay on his back, in a spreading pool of his own blood, his face very white. Her hand flew to his throat, her fingers pressing hard. She gasped.

He had a pulse.

---

Jesse slid to the ground, still holding Lucie. It had all happened suddenly: one moment he had been kissing her, her hand warm and familiar on the back of his neck.

The next, she had stiffened as if shot—and gone limp, a dead weight in his arms. He kept hold of her now, her head against his shoulder, his back pressed to the interior wall of the archway. She was alive, at least. Her breathing was shallow, and her pulse beat rapidly in her throat. Dust streaked her pale face. She felt fragile in his arms, light-boned as a bird.

“Luce,” he whispered. With his free hand, he fumbled for his stele—one of the instruments Grace had adjusted so that fire-messages could be written with it—and scrawled a healing rune on Lucie’s arm.

Nothing happened. The rune did not fade, but neither did Lucie’s eyes open. Her blue eyes, that had haunted him as he walked the dark streets of London alone, a ghost who could not speak or be spoken to, who could not feel warmth or cold or pain. Lucie had brought feeling back into his existence: she had touched him and brought him to life. I would give it all up, he thought, staring desperately into her face, just to make you all right.

“Jesse.” It was Grace, slipping into the darkness of the archway. “I’m—oh! Is she all right?”

“I don’t know.” Jesse looked up at his sister; it was strange to see her in gear, her white-blond hair twisted in a tight knot behind her head. “I don’t…”

“Let me take her.” Grace knelt down and held out her arms for Lucie. “I’m out of explosives. I’ll watch Lucie; you’d better hold off any Watchers.” There was something officious, almost doctorlike, in Grace’s attitude; it reminded Jesse of Christopher, and he found himself gently easing Lucie over, so that she leaned against Grace, who took out her stele. “It’s all right,” she said, starting to draw another iratze on Lucie’s arm. “I’ll look after her.”

Leaving Lucie was the last thing Jesse wanted to do, but Grace was right—without her explosives, the Watchers would find them here soon enough. He scrambled upright and caught up the Blackthorn sword.

The thick stone walls of the archway had muffled some of the noise of battle. It exploded into Jesse’s ears the moment he stepped into the courtyard. The clang of weapons, the mixture of shouts and howls of pain and grief. Among the chaos of the fighting, he thought he glimpsed Will Herondale, and Tessa with him, battling Watchers, though he could not be sure—had they arrived in the last wave of Shadowhunters? Or was he seeing things? He could tell there were bodies on the ground: mostly Nephilim, a few Watchers. They were too hard to kill, he thought with a wave of despair.

He thought suddenly of Oscar. They had left Oscar at the Institute, safely locked in, though his howls of disappointment at being left behind had followed them to the gates. If they all died here, Jesse thought, who would take care of Oscar? Who would set him free?

Stop it,he told himself. He knew his thoughts were scattering with exhaustion and panic over Lucie. He had to focus on the battle in front of him, on the Watchers; one of them was turning toward him, an Iron Sister with a blank, unwavering stare—

Who went rigid, her eyes rolling back. As Jesse watched, sword in hand, she crumpled, her back arching even as the rest of her sprawled on the bloodstained ground. Her mouth gaped open, and a Chimera began to crawl out, pulling itself free with its feelers.

Someone shouted hoarsely. Jesse tore his gaze away from the fallen Watcher and realized—it was happening everywhere. One by one, the Watchers were toppling. One by one, the Chimera demons were emerging from their bodies, crawling and slithering and hissing, clearly furious to be so unceremoniously evicted from their hosts.

In the surge of the melee, Jesse could hear Shadowhunters shouting with joy—he saw the silver flash of seraph blades as the Nephilim attacked the Chimera demons; the stench of ichor was sour on the air. As the last Watcher fell, Jesse realized something else—a knot of the Chimera demons had gathered together and were headed straight for the gatehouse.

Lucie,he thought. He knew this was her doing: she had gone into the darkness, had called on the souls of the wandering Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers whose earthly forms had been possessed. And, it was clear, they had heard her. They had pushed back, tearing the Chimera demons out of their bodies, hurling them free to be slain by swords and seraph blades.

As the slavering Chimeras drew closer, Jesse saw the fury in their burning green eyes and thought: They know. That Lucie was to blame, that she had done this to them—he raised his sword, knowing that even though the Chimeras were relatively easy to defeat, he could not hope to dispatch a dozen of them at once—

“Throw me the sword, Blackthorn!”

Jesse wrenched his gaze away from the Chimeras—and stared in amazement. Halfway up the War Memorial was Bridget, wearing a flowered dress and an apron, her red curls flying, her face blazing with fury.

“I knew it!” Jesse yelled, “I knew you were still in London! But how? How did you escape Belial’s enchantment?”

“No one tells me what to do!” Bridget shouted back. “The sword!”

So he threw the sword. It hurtled toward Bridget, who caught it out of the air and flung herself from the memorial, falling like a dropped anchor directly atop the Chimeras. As she began to hack at them viciously, Jesse snatched a seraph blade from his belt, whispered, “Hamiel,” and joined the battle alongside Bridget, slicing through a Chimera demon’s torso with a feeling of vicious relief.

And then the sky above them tore in half.

---

His pulse was faint, but it was there, a rapid tap against her fingertips. James was alive.

Cordelia felt as if she’d swallowed fire. Her whole body came to life; she half lunged over James, catching up Cortana. With her free hand, she took hold of the hem of James’s blood-wet shirt, and pulled it up: there, on the left side of his chest, was the slash of the wound he had dealt himself, raw and scarlet-edged.

She raised Cortana. Behind her, she heard footsteps—she glanced over her shoulder to see Matthew, Alastair, and Thomas approaching. She shook her head to say stay back, and they stopped a few yards away, their expressions horrified and uncertain as, with great care, Cordelia lowered her sword and laid its engraved blade along James’s torso, the flat of it covering his wound, the hilt toward his hands. Let him be the effigy atop the tomb of a knight, she thought; let him be that warrior. He had wrought his will, and it had been more powerful than a Prince of Hell’s.

There was a long moment of stillness as James lay unmoving, Cortana’s golden blade gleaming against his bare, blood-slicked skin. Cordelia cupped his cold cheek in her hand, feeling the brush of his lashes against her palm.

“I am a paladin,” she whispered. “This is my power. To wound, with justice. To heal, with love.” She remembered long ago, holding a feverish James as he nearly tumbled into the shadow realm. She had clung to him as if, by force of will alone, she could keep him tethered to the world. “James,” she said now, the same words she had said then, “you must hold on. You must. Don’t go anywhere. Stay with me.”

James gasped. The sound went through Cordelia like lightning; Cortana flashed as his chest heaved with breath. His fingers twitched at his sides and slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes.

They were pure gold.

“Daisy,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper. He blinked up at the sky. “Am I—alive?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Her mouth tasted like salt. She was laughing and weeping and touching his face: mouth, cheeks, lips, eyes. His skin was warm and flushed with color. “You’re alive.”

She bent to brush his mouth with hers. He winced, and Cordelia jerked back. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” he breathed, and glanced down. “It’s just that there’s a rather large sword on top of me…”

Cordelia caught hold of Cortana and moved it away; the wound below it had gone, though there was still a great deal of blood everywhere. She heard footsteps on the altar stairs. Turning, she saw it was Matthew, hurrying up the steps to fling himself down at James’s side.

“You’re all right,” he murmured. A long look passed between him and James, one that told Cordelia that whatever had happened while they had been trapped in Edom had forged a new connection between them. Matthew’s whole being seemed focused on James—which, Cordelia thought, was as it should be. “I felt it, you know,” he said, brushing a lock of hair out of James’s eyes. “My parabatai rune fading—” His voice caught. “And then I felt it return.” He looked at Cordelia. “What you did—”

“Layla!” Alastair’s voice rang out, sharp with warning.

Cordelia bolted to her feet. As she did, she felt a shadow sweep over her, and realized that the roof of the cathedral had reappeared just as swiftly as it had vanished. Above her rose its high arches, and before her, on the steps of the altar, stood Lilith.

---

Jesse had never seen or imagined anything like it—perhaps in old paintings of the visitations of the gods on Earth. The black clouds above seemed to collide with each other like the blades of swords, sending a reverberation through the sky louder than any thunder.

He staggered back as the ground heaved under him. A dozen jagged bolts of lightning, black as the staffs the Watchers had carried, arrowed down from the clouds: one struck the War Memorial, sending up a shower of sparks. Another struck the doors of the abbey, making them tremble. Jesse heard someone swearing loudly and was almost entirely sure it was Will.

And then another bolt, far closer, hurtled directly toward the gatehouse. Jesse staggered back as Bridget raised the Blackthorn sword, almost as if she could ward it off—

The lightning struck the sword full-on. The blade glowed for a split second, illuminated like a beacon, before it shattered apart. Bridget was hurled backward; she dropped the hilt of the broken sword and skidded across the ground as the clouds above began to peel backward.

Jesse started toward her, trying to keep his balance as the earth shook under him. Chimera demons were running wildly across the courtyard like maddened black beetles. Jesse thought he saw a dark shadow shoot upward from the abbey roof, hurtling toward the widening gap in the clouds above. He blinked, and it was gone—his eyes burned; light was streaming down, pure, golden sunlight, the kind he had nearly forgotten during all these long dark days.

He looked around. The courtyard was chaos. Chimera demons were bursting into flame as the sun touched them, running back and forth like flaming torches. Pale gold sparks were raining from the sky. One brushed Jesse’s cheek—it was cool, not burning. And Bridget was sitting up, brushing the dust away from her flowered dress. She looked furious.

“Jesse!”

He whirled around. Through the falling sparks, he saw Lucie, standing in the archway, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her was Grace, smiling at him in relief, and Jesse realized that he did not know which of them had called his name.

Perhaps it did not matter. They were two of the most important people in the world to him. The girl he loved, and his sister.

He ran toward them. Lucie was looking around in wonder, as sparks of gold dust brushed against her face. “She did it,” she said. “Daisy did it. Belial is dead. I can feel it.”

“Look,” Grace said, narrowing her eyes. “Isn’t that your mum and dad, Lucie?”

They all looked toward the abbey. So he hadn’t imagined it, Jesse thought: there were Will and Tessa, helping Eugenia and Gideon pry the cathedral doors open. A crowd was gathering: Jesse saw Gabriel Lightwood there, and Charlotte Fairchild. They’d probably been told James and all his friends were inside the abbey, and were desperate to get inside.

“James,”Lucie whispered, her eyes widening. A moment later, despite her exhaustion, she’d taken off running toward the cathedral, Jesse and Grace following in her wake.

---

Lilith.

She was tall and cool and pale as a marble pillar, her long black hair falling past her waist. She wore a dress made of the feathers of owls, that moved with her as she moved, in shades of cream and brown and dark orange.

“My paladin,” she said, her voice deep with exultation. “You have truly worked wonders here.”

Cordelia could hear footsteps, and past Lilith she could see Anna and Ari rushing into the nave, slowing as they reached the High Altar and staring at what must have been a truly bizarre tableau—Matthew kneeling with a bloody James, Thomas and Alastair at the foot of the steps staring up at Lilith and Cordelia.

This was it, Cordelia thought calmly. The end of it. She would rid herself of Lilith now, or die in the attempt.

“I am not your paladin,” she said.

Lilith waved a lace-white hand dismissively. “Of course you are. And you have performed beyond my expectations. Belial is slain, and Edom liberated from his control. It is mine again. Of course,” she added, “your work is not quite done yet. You see, surely with the death of Belial, Asmodeus will come to lay his claim to Edom next. But little does he know I am in possession of a slayer of Princes of Hell! You will face him as my finest warrior, and find victory again, I am sure.”

Cordelia glanced back over her shoulder. At Cortana, lying shining on the floor. At Matthew holding James’s shoulders, and at James, who was sitting up, his breath harsh, his eyes fixed on Lilith with cold hatred.

“You can keep them if you like,” Lilith said, gesturing at Matthew and James, “either one of them or both, as long as they do not distract you from necessary tasks. I am feeling generous.”

“I don’t think you heard me,” Cordelia said. “I am no longer your paladin, Lilith. Our deal is concluded, and I have fulfilled my end of our bargain.”

The Mother of Demons chuckled lightly. “Well, not quite. In the end, you did not kill Belial, did you? It was James Herondale who struck the killing blow.” Her lips curled into a grim smile. “What is it you Nephilim say? Something about how the Law is the Law, even if we might not wish it so?”

“Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law,” said Cordelia, looking down at Lilith. “Indeed, the letter of the Law, or of any vow or contract, is important. Which is why I was so careful when I asked you to make a vow to me. Do you remember what I asked you to promise?” She looked steadily at Lilith. “?‘Swear that if Belial dies by my blade, you will free me from my paladin’s oath. Swear on Lucifer’s name.’?”

A dark red light had begun to burn in Lilith’s eyes.

Cordelia said, “I never vowed to strike the killing blow myself. Only that it would be struck by Cortana. Which it was.”

Lilith bared her teeth. “Listen to me, girl—”

Cordelia laughed, a sharp bright laugh like a knife’s edge. “You cannot order me to do anything,” she said. “Not even listen to you. Your hold on me is broken; you are not my liege, and I am not your knight. You know I am telling the truth and that your vow binds you: you cannot harm me, nor anyone I love.” She smiled at the look of rage on Lilith’s face. “I would not remain here much longer, demon, if I were you. Belial’s hold on this world is broken, and this once more shall become consecrated ground.”

Lilith hissed. It was not a human sound, but rather the hiss of a snake. Black serpents burst from her eyes and lashed back and forth like whips as she started up the steps toward Cordelia. “How dare you disobey me,” she snarled. “Perhaps I cannot harm you, but I shall return with you to Edom, immure you there, imprison you where you cannot escape; if you are not mine you shall belong to no one—”

“Sanvi.” A familiar voice rang out like a bell. Lilith halted where she was, her face twisting. “Sansanvi. Semangelaf.”

Cordelia looked behind her. James was on his feet, Matthew by his side. In James’s right hand was his pistol, gleaming silver, the inscription along its side standing out starkly: LUKE 12:49. I have come to bring a fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.

James was swaying slightly, his clothes drenched in drying blood, but he was upright, his eyes blazing with fury.

“You recall this weapon,” he said to Lilith. “You recall the pain it causes you.” He grinned ferociously. “Take another step toward Cordelia, and I will riddle you with bullets. You may not die, but you will wish you had.”

Lilith hissed again, her dark hair lifting, twisting, each strand a slim, venomous serpent. “Belial is dead,” she said. “With him will go your power over shadow, your sister’s power over the dead. I doubt you can even fire that gun—”

James cocked the hammer of the gun with a decided click. “Try me,” he said.

Lilith hesitated. One moment, then another. James did not waver, his arm steady, the barrel of the gun pointed directly at the Mother of Demons.

And something shifted. Cordelia felt it as a change in the air, like the turning of a season. The stones on which Lilith stood began to glow a dark, molten red. Flames licked up suddenly, catching at the hem of Lilith’s dress, filling the air with the scent of burnt feathers.

Now Lilith screamed, a terrible wail that rose to become an unearthly shriek. Shadows swirled up around her body; great bronze wings beat the air. As she rose into the air, in the form of an owl, James pulled the trigger of the gun.

Nothing happened. There was a dry, metallic sound, and that was all. James lowered the pistol, his eyes on the owl, whose wings beat frantically as it sailed up and up, vanishing into the air.

Lilith had been right. James could no longer use the gun.

He exhaled and let it fall to the floor with a heavy thump; when he looked up at Cordelia, he was smiling. “Good riddance,” he said.

And Cordelia wanted nothing more than to go and throw her arms around him, to whisper to him that they were safe; that it was all finally, finally over. But as he smiled, great rays of illumination speared through the cathedral, turning the air to a shimmering cloud as dust motes sparkled in the sunlight—sunlight that poured through the doors of the cathedral, which had been thrown wide open.

And through the doors came Lucie, calling out Cordelia’s name, and then Jesse and Grace, and Will and Tessa, racing toward James. And a little way behind them, Eugenia, Flora, Gideon and Gabriel, Sophie and Charles, and even Charlotte, who gave a cry when she saw Matthew.

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

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

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

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

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