And then the sky above them tore in half.
* * *
His pulse was faint, but it was there, a rapid tap against her fingertips. James was alive.
Cordelia felt as if she’d swallowed fire. Her whole body came to life; she half lunged over James, catching up Cortana. With her free hand, she took hold of the hem of James’s blood-wet shirt, and pulled it up: there, on the left side of his chest, was the slash of the wound he had dealt himself, raw and scarlet-edged.
She raised Cortana. Behind her, she heard footsteps—she glanced over her shoulder to see Matthew, Alastair, and Thomas approaching. She shook her head to say stay back, and they stopped a few yards away, their expressions horrified and uncertain as, with great care, Cordelia lowered her sword and laid its engraved blade along James’s torso, the flat of it covering his wound, the hilt toward his hands. Let him be the effigy atop the tomb of a knight, she thought; let him be that warrior. He had wrought his will, and it had been more powerful than a Prince of Hell’s.
There was a long moment of stillness as James lay unmoving, Cortana’s golden blade gleaming against his bare, blood-slicked skin. Cordelia cupped his cold cheek in her hand, feeling the brush of his lashes against her palm.
“I am a paladin,” she whispered. “This is my power. To wound, with justice. To heal, with love.” She remembered long ago, holding a feverish James as he nearly tumbled into the shadow realm. She had clung to him as if, by force of will alone, she could keep him tethered to the world. “James,” she said now, the same words she had said then, “you must hold on. You must. Don’t go anywhere. Stay with me.”
James gasped. The sound went through Cordelia like lightning; Cortana flashed as his chest heaved with breath. His fingers twitched at his sides and slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes.
They were pure gold.
“Daisy,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper. He blinked up at the sky. “Am I—alive?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Her mouth tasted like salt. She was laughing and weeping and touching his face: mouth, cheeks, lips, eyes. His skin was warm and flushed with color. “You’re alive.”
She bent to brush his mouth with hers. He winced, and Cordelia jerked back. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” he breathed, and glanced down. “It’s just that there’s a rather large sword on top of me…”
Cordelia caught hold of Cortana and moved it away; the wound below it had gone, though there was still a great deal of blood everywhere. She heard footsteps on the altar stairs. Turning, she saw it was Matthew, hurrying up the steps to fling himself down at James’s side.
“You’re all right,” he murmured. A long look passed between him and James, one that told Cordelia that whatever had happened while they had been trapped in Edom had forged a new connection between them. Matthew’s whole being seemed focused on James—which, Cordelia thought, was as it should be. “I felt it, you know,” he said, brushing a lock of hair out of James’s eyes. “My parabatai rune fading—” His voice caught. “And then I felt it return.” He looked at Cordelia. “What you did—”
“Layla!” Alastair’s voice rang out, sharp with warning.
Cordelia bolted to her feet. As she did, she felt a shadow sweep over her, and realized that the roof of the cathedral had reappeared just as swiftly as it had vanished. Above her rose its high arches, and before her, on the steps of the altar, stood Lilith.
* * *
Jesse had never seen or imagined anything like it—perhaps in old paintings of the visitations of the gods on Earth. The black clouds above seemed to collide with each other like the blades of swords, sending a reverberation through the sky louder than any thunder.
He staggered back as the ground heaved under him. A dozen jagged bolts of lightning, black as the staffs the Watchers had carried, arrowed down from the clouds: one struck the War Memorial, sending up a shower of sparks. Another struck the doors of the abbey, making them tremble. Jesse heard someone swearing loudly and was almost entirely sure it was Will.
And then another bolt, far closer, hurtled directly toward the gatehouse. Jesse staggered back as Bridget raised the Blackthorn sword, almost as if she could ward it off—
The lightning struck the sword full-on. The blade glowed for a split second, illuminated like a beacon, before it shattered apart. Bridget was hurled backward; she dropped the hilt of the broken sword and skidded across the ground as the clouds above began to peel backward.
Jesse started toward her, trying to keep his balance as the earth shook under him. Chimera demons were running wildly across the courtyard like maddened black beetles. Jesse thought he saw a dark shadow shoot upward from the abbey roof, hurtling toward the widening gap in the clouds above. He blinked, and it was gone—his eyes burned; light was streaming down, pure, golden sunlight, the kind he had nearly forgotten during all these long dark days.
He looked around. The courtyard was chaos. Chimera demons were bursting into flame as the sun touched them, running back and forth like flaming torches. Pale gold sparks were raining from the sky. One brushed Jesse’s cheek—it was cool, not burning. And Bridget was sitting up, brushing the dust away from her flowered dress. She looked furious.
“Jesse!”
He whirled around. Through the falling sparks, he saw Lucie, standing in the archway, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her was Grace, smiling at him in relief, and Jesse realized that he did not know which of them had called his name.
Perhaps it did not matter. They were two of the most important people in the world to him. The girl he loved, and his sister.
He ran toward them. Lucie was looking around in wonder, as sparks of gold dust brushed against her face. “She did it,” she said. “Daisy did it. Belial is dead. I can feel it.”
“Look,” Grace said, narrowing her eyes. “Isn’t that your mum and dad, Lucie?”
They all looked toward the abbey. So he hadn’t imagined it, Jesse thought: there were Will and Tessa, helping Eugenia and Gideon pry the cathedral doors open. A crowd was gathering: Jesse saw Gabriel Lightwood there, and Charlotte Fairchild. They’d probably been told James and all his friends were inside the abbey, and were desperate to get inside.
“James,” Lucie whispered, her eyes widening. A moment later, despite her exhaustion, she’d taken off running toward the cathedral, Jesse and Grace following in her wake.
* * *
Lilith.
She was tall and cool and pale as a marble pillar, her long black hair falling past her waist. She wore a dress made of the feathers of owls, that moved with her as she moved, in shades of cream and brown and dark orange.
“My paladin,” she said, her voice deep with exultation. “You have truly worked wonders here.”
Cordelia could hear footsteps, and past Lilith she could see Anna and Ari rushing into the nave, slowing as they reached the High Altar and staring at what must have been a truly bizarre tableau—Matthew kneeling with a bloody James, Thomas and Alastair at the foot of the steps staring up at Lilith and Cordelia.
This was it, Cordelia thought calmly. The end of it. She would rid herself of Lilith now, or die in the attempt.
“I am not your paladin,” she said.