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They had to get Cordelia to Belial.
It was Matthew who had taken over as their navigator; he led them through a heavy oak door along the south side of the great cathedral, swung them along the lower part of the nave, and then came back up along the north wall. They stayed out of sight of the central part of the church, the High Altar blocked by the choir screen. Which was nerve-racking, Thomas thought, since they all knew that was where Belial was, doing only the Angel knew what.
Whatever Belial was doing, it was quiet. They stopped near the north transept, listening, Thomas leaning silently against the cold stone wall for a moment. There were few things that made him feel small, but he was struck by the sheer vast height of the cathedral; the great rows of impossibly high arches going up and up, like an optical illusion.
He wondered if it was that enormity that had brought Belial here. Or something about the solemnity of it, the ceremonial effigies of soldiers and poets, royalty and statesmen, that lined the walls. He realized he was facing the large statue of a Major General Sir John Malcolm, a balding gentleman leaning on a stone sword. According to the inscribed marble pillar on which he stood, his memory is cherished by grateful millions, his fame lives in the history of nations. This statue has been erected by the friends whom he acquired by his splendid talents, eminent public services and private virtues.
Well, thought Thomas, I’ve never heard of you.
Sir John Malcolm scowled.
Thomas jerked bolt upright. He glanced to the right, at Alastair, and then at Matthew and Cordelia. None of them seemed to have noticed anything amiss. Cordelia and Matthew seemed to be assessing Cordelia’s best route to the High Altar, and Alastair was looking away, frowning.
Thomas followed his gaze and realized that Alastair was staring at another monument, a huge bas-relief of multicolored marble, featuring Britannia, the emblem of Britain, holding a massive spear. An intense scarlet light had appeared within the stone spear, as if it were being heated from below.
“Alastair,” Thomas whispered—just as, with a horrendous tearing sound, Sir John Malcolm stepped down from his pillar and raised his marble sword; it, too, was burning with an intense scarlet light.
Thomas lunged out of the way just as the sword came down, slamming into the floor of the abbey and sending up a cloud of stone dust. He heard Alastair call his name, and scrambled to his feet.
In seconds, chaos had erupted in the north transept. Britannia was tearing herself free of her imprisoning stone carving, her blank gaze fixed on Cordelia. Several knights in full armor began to rise from their sleeping positions atop their tombs.
Matthew whirled, white-faced. “Run, Cordelia,” he said.
She hesitated—just as a Roman soldier bearing a gladius lurched around the corner. He made straight for her, and without a moment’s thought, Matthew stepped into its way. He raised his seraph blade, and the stone gladius slammed into it, sending him skidding back several feet. Cordelia started toward him, and so did Thomas, but it was as if the statues sensed blood—Britannia bore down on him, raising her spear—
Something lunged into Matthew, knocking him out of the way. The spear jammed into the wall just behind where he’d been standing, sending chips of stone flying as he and Alastair rolled across the abbey floor.
Alastair. Alastair had saved Matthew’s life. Thomas only had a moment to take that in before he spun to hiss at Cordelia, “Run—get to James—”
The knights who had torn free of their tombs were lurching toward them, their footsteps ringing through the cathedral. Thomas thought he heard distant laughter. Belial.
Cordelia stood very still for a moment. Her gaze swept over Thomas, over Matthew—rising now and lifting his sword once more—and finally over Alastair, who was back on his feet. It seemed as if she were trying to memorize all of them, as if she were praying she could hold this image in her head, and never forget it.
“Go,” Alastair rasped, his eyes fixed on his sister. He was bleeding from a cut at his temple. “Layla. Go.”
Cordelia ran.
Even though more Shadowhunters had arrived to join the battle in front of the abbey, Lucie could tell that the Nephilim were struggling against the Watchers.
She had not thought it would take so long to get to the gatehouse. She knew now how one could kill a Watcher, but she had no time to try. She had to reach Jesse. She used her small size as an advantage, slipping through the ranks of Nephilim, ducking low to scuttle across the courtyard. When she could, she slashed with her axe at the Watchers’ feet and legs, making them stumble; she upended one that was in the middle of battling with Eugenia, leaving Eugenia staring around in surprise.
Many of the Nephilim she passed were strangers, and she could not help but feel a pang at not seeing her parents. At the same time, wasn’t it better that they were somewhere else, out of danger? She knew they would hurry here as soon as they could. She hoped the battle would have ended by then. That she could help it end.
But to do that, she needed to reach Jesse.
At last, she burst out from the main clutch of the fighting, and found herself at the gatehouse. At first she saw neither Grace nor Jesse, just a swath of blackened pavement and a glimpse of the green Dean’s Yard through the main archway.
She felt a moment of fear—had something happened to Jesse, to Grace? Had they moved elsewhere in the battle, and now she would have to search for them, when there was so little time?
And then she heard Jesse’s voice. “Lucie, look out!” he called, and as she whirled, she realized he was behind her, and so was a Watcher, black staff in hand. She reached for her axe, but Jesse had his sword out and was harrying the Watcher back. Something tore past the Watcher and exploded behind it, sending up licks of flame that caught the hem of its robe.
Lucie glanced up to see Grace clinging to a cornice along the gatehouse wall. She was still holding her bag, and had something clutched in her other hand—another explosive, no doubt. Her gaze was fixed on Jesse, who had taken advantage of the Watcher’s distraction to slice away its hood; he spun, lashed out with the sword, and caught it across the back of the neck.
The Watcher fell forward like a tree uprooted in a storm, making no attempt to cushion its fall. As its body began to spasm, the Chimera demon wriggled free through an eye socket—Lucie shuddered—and rotated its head swiftly, seeking a hiding place.
Lucie brought her axe down, slicing it in half. It made a sound like bone crunching underfoot, and vanished.
“Lucie.” Jesse caught her with his free arm, swinging her hard against his body. She could feel the hammering beat of his heart. He was breathing hard; he smelled of sweat and blood and leather. Shadowhunter smells. She looked up at him—his face was cut and bruised, his green eyes stunned as he searched her face—
