Chain of Iron

James cried out. There was a flash of movement as something darted between Cordelia and Belial, arms outstretched wide to protect him.

Not something. Someone.

Lucie.

Cortana was already moving, ripping a path through the air that would cut Lucie apart. With a last, desperate convulsion, Cordelia wrenched her body sideways, against Lilith’s will. Her sword thrust went wide as she staggered, collapsing to her knees before pushing herself immediately upright again. She turned back toward Lucie, pain shooting through her like daggers. Lucie’s eyes were huge, pleading with Cordelia: Daisy, don’t do it. Daisy, no.

But Cortana seemed to burn in Cordelia’s hands, the blade whispering, demanding, telling her what to do.

It would be easy to make the pain stop. Just raise the sword and cut Lucie down.

It took everything she had to hold herself still. The pressure was brutal, pushing from the inside outward, clenching her hand around Cortana’s hilt.

“Lucie!” James called, starting toward his sister. “Lucie, get out of the way!”

Lucie shook her head wildly. She looked impossibly small and fragile, her arms flung wide, shielding Belial. “I know why you want to hurt him,” she said. “But you can’t—I summoned Emmanuel Gast, he told me everything—Jesse is innocent—”

“There is no Jesse,” James said, coming closer. “That’s his body. What animates it is Belial. Jesse Blackthorn is dead, Lucie.”

“No,” Lucie said, “he isn’t dead, not the way you think. He can be saved, he can be brought back—”

Belial chuckled. “I must say, this is very entertaining.”

Lucie looked at Cordelia, wide-eyed and beseeching. “Daisy, listen to me—”

“No.” Lilith’s voice was low, throaty; it echoed in Cordelia’s mind. “Listen to me, paladin. Rise and strike down Belial. If Lucie Herondale stands in your way, kill her, too.”

Cordelia took a lurching step forward. Blood dripped down her chin. Her lip felt torn open, but the pain was a distant buzz. Far more intense was the pain of resisting Lilith’s will. It felt as if her veins were burning. “Lucie,” she gasped. “You have to get out of the way—”

“I won’t,” Lucie said defiantly. “Daisy, I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Energy was gathering in Cordelia’s hands, wrapping them around the hilt of Cortana. Her arms ached with the effort of holding herself back; she knew if she let her control slip for even a moment, she would run Lucie through. “Lucie, please, for the love of the Angel, get out of the way—”

Belial snarled something in a language Cordelia had never heard; his free hand went to his belt, pulling the Colt pistol free. He aimed it at Lilith, his upper lip curled back, and pulled the trigger.

The hammer came down with a dry click.

Lilith laughed. “A gun?” she said. “Beliya’al, have you become foolish, demented in your old age? You, who brought nations into darkness? Shall I finally be able to tell the infernal realms you have gone mad, lost even the image of the Creator?”

“Grandfather!” James shouted. He flung a hand in the air. Belial, who had been glaring at Lilith, looked at him in astonishment. James stood straight as an arrow, his golden eyes blazing, his hand outstretched. He threw back his head and cried out, “I have come to bring fire on the earth!”

“Kill them!” Lilith shouted, her black hair whipping about her face, her serpent eyes darting. “Paladin, now! Kill them both!”

Cordelia felt her arm savagely jerked back, as if by invisible wires. She raised Cortana. Tears mixing with the blood on her face, she said, “Lucie, Lucie, please—”

Belial took a step back—and flung the Colt revolver to James.

It seemed to take an age to reach him, an age during which Cordelia struggled, the muscles in her body screaming as she fought not to move Cortana, not to slice the blade across Lucie’s throat, where her gold locket glimmered. An age during which the gun flashed through the air, nickel and silver, turning end over end before it smacked into James’s palm.

James pivoted. The gun seemed an extension of his own body as he sighted along his arm, aimed at Lilith—and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was loud as a cannon in the still air. The bullet punched into Lilith with a force that lifted her from her feet. With a howl, she burst apart, scattering into a dozen black owls; they took to the air, circling and screeching.

The vise grip on Cordelia loosened; she crumpled to her knees, clutching Cortana. She gasped, breath sawing in and out of her lungs, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. Lucie. I almost killed Lucie.

The owls rose overhead, their awful screeches echoing in Cordelia’s mind, becoming words that hung, silently, behind her eyelids.

Do not forget, paladin. You are mine to command.

The screeching faded. The air smelled of cordite and blood, and someone was laughing. Cordelia raised her head slowly and saw that it was Belial. He was chortling as if immensely amused, the Blackthorn sword dancing in his hand. “James, James,” he said. “Do you see what we can accomplish if we work together? You have banished the Mother of Demons!”

“She’s not dead,” James said flatly.

“No, but gone and weakened,” said Belial cheerfully. “Are you ready to fight again, Carstairs? For I think you will find it quite a different experience to battle me without the power of Lilith to protect you.”

Shaking his head, James pointed the gun at Belial. “Let her alone,” he said, sounding exhausted. “Go from this place. I will not try to follow.”

Belial snorted. “You know you cannot harm me with that. I am not Lilith; I have no weakness where the Three Angels are concerned. Besides,” he added with a twisted grin, “your sister does not want me hurt.”

“My sister doesn’t understand what you are.” James gestured with the muzzle of the gun. “Lucie. Move out of the way.”

“No.” Lucie set her jaw stubbornly. “James. Jesse is still there, part of this body. He’s inside. James, he saved your life. In Highgate Cemetery. You were dying, and he gave me this locket”—she touched her throat—“because it had his last breath inside it. He gave it to me to save you.”

In Highgate Cemetery. Cordelia remembered that night. The darkness, the pain she had been in, the terror that James would die. The shimmer of gold in Lucie’s hand. She had asked Lucie many times what had happened in the graveyard that night, what had cured James, but Lucie had always shaken her head and said she didn’t know. That it had just been luck.

So many secrets between them. So many lies.

“His last breath.” James was still pointing the gun at Belial, his aim unwavering, but he spoke the words as if they had some puzzling, unknown meaning for him. “I saw him—”

“Enough. You dull, disobedient children,” said Belial. “Shoot me if you like, James; it will make no difference. Nor can the paladin protect you now.” He lifted the Blackthorn sword, moving easily, lightly, with no sign of weariness. “I shall cut down your wife and your sister as easily as scything grass.”

“No,” James said raggedly.

“You know what choice you have to make.” Belial took a step toward James, shoving Lucie out of the way; she stumbled aside. “You know what you must give up. Your family, the Institute, all depends on you.”