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“That’s Balios,” James said. “And others. Charles must be back with the patrol.”
Matthew nodded. “We’d better go see what they’ve found,” he said, sounding weary unto death. “By the Angel, how is this night not ended yet?”
They made their way out of the Sanctuary, all of them save Anna—who had only shaken her head mutely when James had asked if she wished to come outside—and Ari, who would not leave Anna’s side, and Grace, who was in no fit state to go anywhere.
Charles had ridden out alone, but he had returned with about ten members of the First Patrol, all in gear, all on horseback. They crowded the courtyard, steam rising from the horses’ flanks, and as the patrol dismounted one by one, Cordelia could not help but stare.
They looked as if they, too, had been in a battle. They were tattered and bloodstained, their gear ripped and torn. A white bandage circled Rosamund’s head, soaked through with blood on one side. A large patch along the side of Charles’s jacket was blackened with burn marks. Several of the others bore healing runes; Augustus, one of his eyes swelling blue and black, wore a dazed expression, nothing like his usual cocky demeanor.
Charles threw his reins over his horse’s neck and stalked over toward James, Cordelia, and the others. There was a grim expression on his scratched face; he looked like a Shadowhunter, for once, rather than a mundane businessman.
“Grace was telling the truth,” he said, without preamble. “We went straight to Highgate, but the entrance to the Silent City was surrounded by demons. A swarm of them. We could barely fight our way through—finally Piers broke through the line, but…” He shook his head. “It didn’t matter. The doors to the City were sealed shut. We couldn’t find any way through, and demons just kept coming.…”
Piers Wentworth joined them. He had his stele out, his gloves off. He was drawing a healing rune onto the back of his left hand. Cordelia couldn’t blame him—he had a nasty cut along the side of his neck, and one of his fingers appeared broken. “That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” he said, looking over at James. “Have any of you been out in the city?”
“Only a little ways,” said Cordelia. “It was hard to see anything in the fog.”
Piers barked a hollow laugh. “It’s much worse than just fog. Something has gone horribly wrong in London.”
James glanced back at the others. Matthew, Thomas, Lucie. Alastair. Jesse. They all looked pale and stunned; Cordelia could tell that James was worrying that they could take very little more.
He also hadn’t mentioned Christopher. Not yet. Or the Watcher attack. Clearly he wanted Charles and the patrol to speak first. “What do you mean, Piers?” he said.
But it was Rosamund who answered. “It was like riding through Hell as soon as we left Highgate,” she said, and winced. She put a hand to her head, and Piers reached over with his stele to mark her with an iratze. “We couldn’t fight the demons in the cemetery—some of us thought there were too many of them, anyway.” She eyed Augustus coldly. “The minute we left, a thick fog came up. We could barely see through it. Lightning was striking everywhere—we had to dodge it, it was hitting the ground all around us—”
“It split a lamp in Bloomsbury in half,” put in Esme Hardcastle, “like the blasted tree in Jane Eyre.”
“Not the time for literary references, Esme,” snapped Rosamund. “It nearly set Charles on fire. Whatever it was, it wasn’t ordinary lightning. And the storm—it stank of demonic magic.”
“None of the mundanes we passed reacted to any of it,” said Charles. “Not the storm, not the fires. They were wandering around in a daze.”
“We saw a woman crushed by a runaway milk cart and no one stopped to help,” Esme said in a wobbly voice. “I ran to her but—it was too late.”
“Alastair and I saw the same kind of thing,” said Thomas, “when we were out in the carriage. Davies suddenly just—stopped driving. He didn’t respond when we called to him. We saw other mundanes too—children, old people—just staring into space. It was as if their bodies were here, but their minds were somewhere else.”
Charles frowned. “What on earth were you doing, going for a carriage ride?”
Alastair crossed his arms over his chest. “It was just after we talked to you in the office,” he said, a sharp note in his voice. “We didn’t know anything had gone wrong.”
“So before Grace arrived,” said Charles. “We thought Tatiana…” He looked around, as if truly seeing the courtyard—the spatters of blood, the discarded weapons—for the first time. And as if he were seeing them—Cordelia, James, and the others—for the first time. How miserable they must look, Cordelia thought; miserable and bloody and dazed. “What happened here?”
Rosamund looked uneasy. “Maybe we should go inside the Institute,” she said. “We can send a few riders to summon the rest of the Enclave. It clearly isn’t safe out here—”
“It isn’t safe inside, either,” James said. “Tatiana Blackthorn escaped from the Silent City. She tried to take the Institute. She killed Christopher. She had warriors with her, Belial’s warriors. Possessed Silent Brothers—”
Charles looked stunned. “Christopher is dead? Little Kit?” and for that moment he sounded not like the temporary head of the Institute, or Bridgestock’s pawn. He sounded a bit like Alastair did sometimes, as if he still thought of his little sibling as a child. As if Matthew’s friends too were children in his mind, Christopher only a little boy, looking up at him with bright and trusting eyes.
“Yes,” Matthew said, not ungently. “He’s dead, Charles. As is Tatiana. But it is all very far from over.” He glanced at Rosamund. “We can summon the Enclave,” he said. “But these creatures of Belial’s—they’re nearly impossible to defeat.”
“Nonsense,” said Augustus. “Any demon can be defeated—”
“Shut up, Augustus.” James had gone rigid; he was staring at the Institute gates. He put a hand to the pistol in his belt. “They’re here. Have a look.”
And indeed, pouring through the gates were more Watchers in the form of Silent Brothers; they were joined by Iron Sisters this time, with Death runes the color of flame edging their white robes. They were in two files, walking at a steady stride.
“They’re not alone,” Jesse said. He had drawn his sword and was staring with narrowed eyes. “Are those—mundanes with them?”
They were walking between one group of Watchers and another, prodded along by the points of sharpened staffs without seeming to notice. A ragtag group of five mundanes, seemingly chosen at random, from a man in a striped business suit to a little girl whose pigtails were tied with bright ribbons. They could have been gathered up from any London street.
