“It is a sigil,” said James. “Just not Belial’s. It’s Leviathan’s sigil.” He tapped the Monarchia, where Leviathan’s sigil was scrawled across a full page, spiky and vicious-looking. “Thus the trident. He is a sea demon, after all.”
Matthew and Cordelia exchanged a puzzled look. This was it, James thought; they were going to declare him mad and toss him in the attic.
“Magnus said the Princes had alliances,” said Cordelia slowly. “Azazel and Asmodeus. Belial and—”
“Leviathan,” said Matthew, who had gone a little white around the mouth. “James, you said the sigils can function as gates. If this murder happens—it will open up a gate for Leviathan to enter our world?”
“Do you think it’s already happened?” Cordelia asked.
James glanced at the window. “No. In my vision it was just after dawn, and dawn is breaking now. Mount Street Gardens isn’t far, but we have no time to waste. We must run—”
“Not like that, you’re not,” said Matthew sternly. “You need shoes, weapons, and a gear jacket at least. And Cordelia needs boots.”
“And then?” said Cordelia.
“Then we run.”
As Thomas barreled through the Institute and into the entryway, he heard someone calling his name. Everything was chaos, a seething mass of Shadowhunters surging to and fro, catching up weapons, throwing on gear, and charging out the open front doors into the courtyard beyond, from which the sounds of fighting were already audible.
“Thomas! Here!” It was Christopher, pushing toward him through the crowd; he was holding a gear jacket and a number of seraph blades. “Where’s Uncle Will?”
“Went to find Tessa.” Thomas took the jacket and threw it on, jamming some of the blades into his belt. “What’s happening?”
“Some kind of attack. Your parents are out there already, joined the fighting. Mine, too—well, Father has. Mother’s upstairs with Alexander. But the Institute’s not safe. Do you want some seraph blades?”
Thomas was about to protest that he’d already taken several when he realized Christopher wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to Alastair, who seemed to have remained at Thomas’s side. Thomas determined to analyze this development at a later date.
Alastair nodded his thanks and took the weapons. He headed to the front doors while Thomas was still fastening his jacket. Christopher followed—he was saying something about the adamas object Thomas had found, and about Matthew having run to get James. His voice trailed off as he joined Thomas and Alastair at the front door.
The courtyard was in ruins. A massive black cloud hid the Institute and its surroundings in shadow: bright beams of witchlight lanced back and forth across the courtyard, illuminating scenes of battle—there was Gideon, sword in hand, climbing atop a pile of rubble. Anna, in gear, back-to-back with Ariadne, her whip tracing a thin gold line across the air.
“But what are they fighting?” said Alastair—for once voicing what everyone was thinking. “It’s too bloody dark to see, and—” He wrinkled his nose. “It smells of fish.”
“We need light!” It was Will, having returned to the entryway; he had Aunt Tessa with him, and they were both in gear. He was snapping out orders—everyone who could not join the battle was to fetch a witchlight rune-stone and head to an open window to direct the light down onto those fighting outside.
Thomas exchanged a quick glance with the others. He had no intention of being kept back so he could stand at a window with a witchlight. If the Institute was being attacked, he wanted to be out there, defending it.
It was Alastair who moved first. He started down the steps, Christopher and Thomas on his heels. Thomas coughed as the air thickened around them, suffused with the rank, damp smell of salt, fish, and rotting seaweed. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Thomas’s boots came down in freezing water. He could hear Christopher exclaiming about scientific impossibilities.
“Well, it might be impossible,” said Alastair, rather reasonably, “but it’s happening.”
“Whatever it is,” Thomas said. The courtyard began to brighten—dozens of windows around the Institute were being flung open. Thomas recognized some of the faces there, hands holding out glowing rune-stones—there was Aunt Cecily, and Mrs. Bridgestock, Piers Wentworth, and several of the Pouncebys.
In the increasing light, Thomas could see that the entire courtyard was afroth with ocean, gunmetal-gray, sloshing chaotically back and forth as though caught in a windstorm. Shadowhunters had clambered atop heaps of piled flagstones and other rubble, hacking and slashing at the things emerging from the water. They were long, like sea serpents—a muddy shade somewhere between brown, gray, and green, but shining slickly as though metallic. One whipped through the air toward Anna; she flicked her whip, slicing it in half. The stump thrashed, spraying gray-green, watery ichor. Thomas heard Eugenia shout—he hadn’t realized she was in the courtyard—and he spun, catching sight of the remains of the tentacle wrapping itself around Augustus Pounceby’s waist.
Augustus screamed, dropping his seraph blade, and clutched desperately at the fleshy green appendage tightening around his body. It was clearly choking the breath out of him; his face had gone red and he was gasping for air. Thomas started forward, but Eugenia was already there, her longsword flashing. She brought it down at an angle, slicing through Augustus’s gear jacket and then through the tentacle itself. It fell away in two spasming chunks and Augustus sank to his knees, clutching his midsection.
“Eugenia,” he wheezed. “Please—I don’t deserve—”
Eugenia shot him a disgusted look. “No, you don’t,” she said. “Now pick up your weapon and make yourself useful, for once.”
She strode off, returning to the thick of the battle, pausing only to wink at Thomas as she hurried by.
“That was unexpectedly satisfying,” said Christopher.
Thomas agreed, but there was no time to enjoy the moment. “Midael,” he intoned, and his seraph blade blazed to life in his hand. He sloshed farther into the courtyard, through the ankle-deep water, Christopher and Alastair nearby. Something surged up out of the sea-foam—another tentacle, this one thrashing and alive. It was as big around as a grown human and impossibly long, and as it reared back out of the waves, Thomas could see that its underside was covered with hundreds of hard, spiked black barbs.
It slammed down. Something caught hold of Thomas, yanking him savagely out of the way.
Alastair.
They half collapsed onto each other as the end of the tentacle smashed into the front of the Institute; when it dragged itself back into the water, a chunk of the wall came with it. Brick dust puffed into the air as Gabriel Lightwood leaped down from a teetering stack of flagstones, sword raised.
The tentacle whipped back and curled around Gabriel, wrapping his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The sword flew out of Gabriel’s hand, its blade smeared with ichor, the cross guard with blood.
Gabriel struggled, but the thing held him fast. Christopher shouted hoarsely and ran toward his father as shilling-size drops of scarlet blood pattered down around him. Thomas scrambled to his feet and dashed after Christopher, hurling himself at the massive tentacle. He plunged his seraph blade into the rubbery green-black flesh, over and over, dimly aware that beside him, Alastair Carstairs was doing the same.