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“My mother said—you were bound in the shadows—” Jesse said haltingly.
“I could not return as a ghost on this earth,” said Rupert gently. He was fading faster now. Lucie could see entirely through him, see the stones of the Institute, see Jesse’s stricken face. “Yet I dreamed of you, even in my endless sleep. And I feared for you. But you have proved strong. You have restored honor to the Blackthorn family name.” Lucie thought he smiled; it was difficult to tell. He was wisps of smoke now, only the shape of a boy, like a figure seen in a cloud. “I am proud of you.”
“Father—” Jesse started forward, just as Lucie cried out—she could feel Rupert torn away from her, out of her grip. She tried to hold on, but it was like holding water. As he slipped away, she saw once again the star-spangled darkness, the world away from this one, the place between.
And he was gone.
Jesse stood shivering, sword in hand, his face a mask of sadness. Now that she was no longer struggling to hold on to Rupert, Lucie was able to catch her breath; slowly she rose to her feet. Would Jesse be furious? she wondered bleakly. Would he hate her for not being able to hold on to his father’s spirit—or worse, for drawing him back to this world at all?
“Lucie,” Jesse said, his voice rough, and she saw that his eyes were glittering with tears. Forgetting her fear, she ran toward him, slipping on the icy stone, and threw her arms around him.
He put his head down on her shoulder. She held him with care, making sure their skin did not touch. Much as she ached to kiss him, to tell him with her touch that his father was not the only one proud of him, it was too dangerous. The world was coming back to her more clearly now, along with her strength. Over Jesse’s bent head, she could see the courtyard, see the unearthly red sky illuminating drops of blood in the dusting of snow that covered the ground. The thunder had stopped; the wind was dying down. It was quiet.
In fact, Lucie realized, the silence was eerie. Her friends were gathered at the foot of the steps, but they were not speaking. No one was discussing what had just happened, or what would have to happen next.
She felt suddenly very cold. Something was horribly wrong. She knew it; she would have known it before had she not been so focused on Rupert. She drew away from Jesse, touching his arm lightly. “Come with me,” she said, and together they descended the steps, hurrying when they reached the courtyard.
As they neared the small group gathered at the edge of the steps, she saw who was standing there in a small circle: James, Matthew, and Ari. They were motionless. Her heart lurching, Lucie drew closer, until she could see Anna, sitting on the ground, Christopher’s head in her lap.
His body was sprawled across the flagstones, and Lucie thought he could not possibly be comfortable. He was twisted at an odd angle, his shoulder hunched in. His spectacles lay on the ground beside him, the glass cracked. Blood stained the shoulder of his coat, but not much; his eyes were closed. Anna’s hand stroked his hair, over and over, as if her body was making the gesture without her mind even being aware of it.
“Kit,” Lucie said, and all of them looked over at her, their faces strangely expressionless, like masks. “Is he all right?” she said, her voice sounding too loud in the awful silence. “He was all right, wasn’t he? It was just a little wound—”
“Lucie,” Anna said, her voice cold and final. “He’s dead.”
Tatiana hissed. “Lilith. The bitch of Edom.”
The serpents in Lilith’s eyes hissed and snapped. “Paladin,” said Lilith. “Slay her.”
“Wait,” Cordelia gasped, feeling the clench of Lilith’s will, closing around her like a vise. She pushed back, barely aware of a spark of hot pain at her wrist as she did so. Her voice shook as she said, “Tatiana stands at Belial’s right hand. No one is closer to him or knows his plans better. Let me question her, at least.”
Lilith smiled. The green scales of her dress flashed under the red light of the sky, a strange chromatic mixture of poison and blood. “You may try.”
Cordelia turned to Tatiana. The bone-white strands of her hair snapped in the wind. She looked ancient, Cordelia thought, a sort of crone torn by time, like the witches in Macbeth. “Before you stands the Mother of Demons,” Cordelia said, “and I am her paladin. Tell me how I can find Belial. Tell me, or Lilith will destroy you. There will be nothing left of you to rule your New London.”
Tatiana sneered. “So you are not so righteous after all, Cordelia Carstairs,” she said. “It seems we both have our demon masters.” She threw her head back. “I will tell you nothing. I will never betray my lord Belial.”
“The Blackthorn woman is a thrall,” Lilith said dismissively. “She is not negotiating with a will separate from Belial’s. She will do what he says and die for him. She is useless to you—and to me. Kill her.”
It was as if a steel arm had seized Cordelia’s wrist, forcing her own hand, with the blade held in it, up and out, curving her grip around the knife’s hilt. Cordelia took a step forward toward the cowering Tatiana—
Heat flared at her wrist. The amulet Christopher had given her, she realized, the one that was meant to protect her from Lilith. She came to a stop as her will slipped free of Lilith’s, evading it; she whirled and flung the knife as hard as she could, toward the mouth of the cul-de-sac. It skidded into the darkness.
Pain shot through Cordelia. She gasped, almost doubling over. Lilith’s displeasure: twisting her, crushing her. There was a crack at her wrist that she first feared was broken bone, but no: it was her amulet, falling shattered to the ground.
Lilith snorted. “Truly, you thought to hold me back with trinkets? You are a foolish, stubborn girl.”
Tatiana cackled wildly. “The reluctant paladin,” she said. “What a choice you have made, Mother of Demons. The avatar of your will on the Earth is too weak even to follow your orders.” Tatiana turned her gaze on Cordelia with a sneer. “Weak, like your father,” she said.
“It is not weakness,” whispered Cordelia, rising to her feet. “It is mercy.”
“But mercy must be tempered with justice,” said Lilith. “I cannot understand you, Cordelia. Even now you stand in a city that rests in the palm of Belial’s hand, yet you resist me—the only one who could help you fight back against him.”
“I won’t be a murderer,” Cordelia gasped. “I won’t—”
“Please. You know better than anyone how much pain Tatiana Blackthorn has caused, how many lives she has ruined.” Lilith’s hands moved together in a strange dance, as if she were shaping something between them. Her fingers were long and white as icicles. “She has spent years tormenting the Herondale boy, the one you love.” The air between her hands had begun to shimmer and solidify. “Is it not your duty to avenge him?”
Cordelia thought of James. Of his steady gaze, always encouraging, always believing the best of her, always believing in her. And the thought of him stiffened her spine, her will. She raised her chin defiantly. “You think James is like Belial, because he is his grandson,” she said. “But he is nothing like him. He wants peace, not revenge.” She turned to Lilith. “I will not kill Tatiana, not when she is helpless—I have cast away my weapon—”
