The Last Hours: Chain of Thorns

Contents Dedication Epigraph Prologue 1: Twilight Days 2: Grey Sea 3: The Slow Dark Hours 4: Blessed Ghost 5: Realms Above 6: Through Blood 7: Bitter Fruit 8: Against Peace 9: If Gold Rust 10: Wanderer 11: Devil’s Paladin 12: The Seeing Ones 13: Angels Alone 14: Never Simple 15: Old Voices 16: Chimes at Midnight 17: Lamp of Night 18: One False Glass 19: Marks of Woe 20: Iron Heart 21: Under a Dragon Moon 22: Deep Malice 23: A Single Chant 24: Fire Falls Asunder 25: Vexed with Tempest 26: The Remorseful Day Intermission: Grief 27: Clouds of Darkness 28: Tides of London 29: Exile from Light 30: Antique Land 31: Bright Volumes 32: Whatever Gods May Be 33: A Fortress Foiled 34: Communion 35: Winged with Lightning Coda Epilogue Notes on the Text Aught but Death About the Author Also by Cassandra Clare For Emily and Jed.I’m glad you finally got married. We must learn to suffer what we cannot evade; our life, like the harmony of the world, is composed of contrary things—of diverse tones, sweet and harsh, sharp and flat, sprightly and solemn: the musician who should only affect some of these, what would he be able to do? He must know how to make use of them all, and to mix them; and so we should mingle the goods and evils which are consubstantial with our life; our being cannot subsist without this mixture, and the one part is no less necessary to it than the other. —Michel de Montaigne, Essays PROLOGUE Later James could only remember the sound of the wind. A metallic scream, like a knife drawn across a shard of glass, and far below that the sound of howling, desperate and hungry. He was walking upon a long and trackless road: it seemed no one had come before him, for there were no marks on the ground. The sky above was equally blank. James could not have said if it was night or day, winter or summer. Only the bare brown land stretching before him, and the pavement-colored sky above. That was when he heard it. The wind, kicking up, scattering dead leaves and loose gravel around his ankles. Growing in intensity, the sound of it nearly covered the oncoming tread of marching feet. James whirled and looked behind him. Dust devils spun in the air where the wind had caught them. Sand stung his eyes as he stared. Hurtling through the sandstorm blur were a dozen—no, a hundred, more than a hundred—dark figures. They were not human, he knew that much; though they did not quite fly, they seemed to be part of the rushing wind, shadows furling around them like wings. The wind howled in his ears as they shot past overhead, an interlocking clutch of shadowy creatures, bringing with them not just a physical chill but a sense of cold menace. Under and through the sound of their passage, like thread weaving through a loom, came a whispered voice. “They wake,” Belial said. “Do you hear that, grandson? They wake.” James jerked upright, gasping. He couldn’t breathe. He clawed his way up, out of the sand and shadows, to find himself in an unfamiliar room. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Not unfamiliar: he knew where he was now. The coaching inn room he shared with his father. Will was asleep in the other bed; Magnus was somewhere down the hall. He slid out of the bed, wincing as his bare feet made contact with the cold floor. He crossed the room silently to the window, gazing out at the moonlit, snowy fields that covered the ground as far as the eye could see. Dreams. They terrified him: Belial had come to him through dreams as long as he could remember. He had seen the bleak kingdoms of the demons in his dreams, had seen Belial kill in his dreams. He did not know, even now, when a dream was just that, a dream, and when it was some terrible truth. The black-and-white world outside reflected back only the desolation of winter. They were somewhere near the frozen River Tamar; they’d stopped last night when the snow had gotten too thick to ride through. It had not been a pretty, flurrying shower either, or even a chaotic, blowing squall. This snow had direction and purpose, beating down at a sharp angle against the bare slate-brown ground, like an unending volley of arrows. Despite having done nothing but sit in a carriage all day, James had felt exhausted. He’d barely managed to force down some hot soup before making his way upstairs to collapse into bed. Magnus and Will had remained in the saloon, in armchairs near the fire, talking in low voices. James guessed that they were discussing him. Let them. He didn’t care. It was the third night since they’d left London, on a mission to find James’s sister, Lucie, who had gone off with the warlock Malcolm Fade and the preserved corpse of Jesse Blackthorn, for a purpose dark and frightening enough that none of them wished to speak the word they all dreaded. Necromancy. The important thing, Magnus stressed, was to get to Lucie as soon as possible. Which was not as easy as it sounded. Magnus knew that Malcolm had a house in Cornwall, but not exactly where, and Malcolm had blocked any attempt at Tracking the fugitives. They’d had to fall back on a more old-fashioned approach: they stopped often at various Downworld watering holes along the route. Magnus would chat with the locals while James and Will were relegated to waiting in the carriage, keeping their Shadowhunter selves well hidden. “None of them will tell me anything if they think I’m traveling with Nephilim,” Magnus had said. “Your time will come when we arrive at Malcolm’s and must deal with him and Lucie.” This evening he’d told James and Will that he thought he might have found the house, that they