Chain of Iron

A Naga demon. Cordelia had seen illustrations of them in India. This one had a long snake’s body and a flat, arrow-shaped head, split by a wide mouth lined with yellow, spiky teeth. Its eyes were black saucers.

Cordelia heard James give a hoarse shout: she looked over to see the boys trapped behind a wall of Hauras demons. The Naga hissed, curled, and lunged toward Lucie, who leaped aside just in time, her hand axe going flying; she fumbled for a seraph blade—

A bolt of energy thrummed up Cordelia’s arm; she leaped forward as the whole world seemed to turn to molten gold. Everything had gone slow and still—only she was striking like lightning, like a rain of gold. Cortana described a fiery arc against the night; the Naga writhed as the blade stabbed into its side. Ichor flew but Cordelia felt no burn, no sting: she no longer even felt the cold of the air. She felt only a savage triumph as the Naga howled, dropping to the ground to slither behind her.

She spun as it rose above her, its flat head outspread like a cobra’s. It swayed back and forth, then plunged its head toward her, faster than sparks rising from a fire. But Cordelia was quicker still: she whirled as it opened its saw-toothed mouth, and plunged her blade upward, stabbing through the roof of its mouth. It reared back, spraying ichor: it turned to slide away through the snow, but Cordelia gave chase. She shot after the slithering demon, the ground blurring under her feet. She drew alongside it, lifted the ichor-soaked sword, and brought it down in a last clean sweep that cut through scale and bone, severing the Naga’s body in half.

A gush of steam rose from the body. The head and tail twitched before dissolving in a wet, stinking mess that soaked into the ground. Cordelia lowered the sword, gasping; she had crossed Nelson Square in what felt like only a few seconds, and she was quite a distance from the others. She could see them—shadows, pushing against the mass of Hauras demons. James broke away from the others, angling toward her just as a shrill scream split the air.

Cordelia stared. It was not a human noise, nor was a human making it. One of the larger Hauras demons stood a few feet away, goggling at her with its gray-white eyes.

“Paladin!” the Hauras demon wheezed. “Paladin! We dare not touch!”

Cordelia stared. How could the demon know she was a paladin of Wayland the Smith? Had he marked her in some invisible way?

A cry rose from the other Hauras demons. They began to scatter. Cordelia could hear her friends’ shouts of surprise; James vaulted a low hedge, heading straight for her.

“Paladin.” The Hauras demon held out its gnarled hands toward Cordelia. Its voice had taken on a whining quality. “Forgive. Tell your master. We did not know.”

With a quivering bow, the demon turned and ran, joining its fellows in slinking retreat. A few yards away, Matthew, Lucie, and Christopher were looking around in puzzlement as their attackers vanished. Cordelia barely had time to sheathe her blade before James was beside her. She started to open her mouth, to explain, but he was staring at her—at the terrible ichor burns up and down the front of her dress, on her sleeve. In a strangled voice, he said, “Cordelia—”

Her breath went out of her in a gasp as he caught her in a hard embrace. Despite the cold night, his shirt was damp with sweat. His arms around her were strong and solid; she could feel the swift hammering of his heart. He pressed his cheek against hers, chanting her name, Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.

“I’m all right,” she said quickly. “It got on my dress, is all, but I’m perfectly all right, James—”

He let her go, looking almost abashed. “I saw that Naga demon rear back to attack you,” he said, his voice low. “I thought—”

“What was that about?” said Christopher, who had just arrived with Lucie. “I saw that Hauras demon shout at Cordelia, and then they all raced off like the devil was after them.”

“I—I’ve no idea,” Cordelia said. “I suppose it was Cortana. The Hauras demon looked terrified of it.”

“Perhaps word has spread that Cortana dealt a wound to Belial,” Lucie said, her eyes sparkling like they did when she was working on The Beautiful Cordelia. “Your sword’s reputation precedes you!”

Only James said nothing as they made their way back across the square, seeming lost in thought. Matthew had returned to the carriages to soothe the horses’ nerves. As though he could feel Cordelia’s gaze on him, he turned and looked at her, his green eyes dark. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d seen more back at the barrow than he had let on, but no: surely he could not have seen Wayland, could not have heard the smith speak the word “paladin” as Cordelia knelt before him.

But it was all Cordelia could think about. Around the edges of her astonishment, a wild joy was beginning to fizz upward. You have the soul of a great warrior, Wayland the Smith had said. She was a paladin now, the champion of a legendary hero, and even demons were taking notice. Suddenly she hoped that these scamps were the gossipy sort. She hoped that word would travel through the ranks of demons all the way up to Belial himself, and that he would understand that Cordelia and her sword would stand between the Prince of Hell and all her friends, defending them to the death.

 

It had been decided that Christopher would ride home with Daisy and James, as the Consul’s house was only a few blocks from Curzon Street and Kit wished to use the lab there to study the pithos. Lucie would go with Matthew, which suited her excellently. James tended to ask questions. Matthew, however, did not.

Lucie settled herself in Matthew’s carriage as they rattled out of Nelson Square, Matthew complaining all the while that traffic in London was bad enough without demons leaping into perfectly decent people’s vehicles. Lucie knew he was merely venting his feelings and didn’t expect an answer, so she didn’t provide one, just looked at him affectionately. His blond hair was disheveled from the fight, his jacket torn. He was looking the part of a romantic hero, if a slightly dissipated one.

The carriage lurched as they turned a corner, and Lucie realized that while she’d been lost in thought, Matthew had dropped his face into his hands. That was troubling, and not within the usual range of his moods.

“Matthew, are you quite all right?” she asked.

“Right as rain,” Matthew said unconvincingly, his words muffled by his hands.

“What are you thinking about?” Lucie asked lightly, trying a different tack.

“What it is like,” Matthew said slowly, “to be entirely undeserving of the person you love most in the world.”

“What a very sort of novelish complaint,” Lucie said, after a moment. She had no idea what to make of this dramatic statement. Wasn’t James the person Matthew loved most? Why would he have suddenly decided he didn’t deserve James? “I don’t suppose you want to tell me about it.”

“Certainly not.”

“All right, then, I have to tell you something.”

Matthew looked up. His eyes were dry, if a little red-rimmed. “Oh, Raziel,” he said, “that never portends anything good.”

“I’m not going home,” Lucie informed him. “I’d planned to stop there and then leave again, but there’s no time now. I need to get to Limehouse, and you’re going to take me there.”

“Limehouse?” Matthew looked incredulous. He ran his fingers through his curls, making them stand out even more wildly than before. “Lucie, please tell me you aren’t going back to that sailcloth factory.”