She spun, trying to anticipate which of the demons would attack first. She aimed Demonslayer first at one target, then another, the sword’s point wavering with desperation. She couldn’t face the fiends and Lorelei at the same time.
Seeing Elisabeth cornered, Nathaniel paled. He hesitated midincantation. This was the reaction Ashcroft had been waiting for.
Time seemed to slow as a seam of golden light appeared in the air in front of Ashcroft, and as he thrust himself into it, through it, vanishing from the place he had knelt to appear behind Nathaniel instead. The vines that had bound him unraveled to the ground like cut ropes.
Nathaniel turned. Elisabeth screamed. Ashcroft’s clawed hand swept through the air, each talon as long as a knife. The blow struck with enough force to knock Nathaniel a step backward.
At first Nathaniel appeared unharmed, and Elisabeth entertained the mad hope that the blow had somehow missed him. He wore an expression of surprise, almost puzzlement. Then he stumbled back another step. He looked down, where spots had appeared here and there on his shirt, small at first, but spreading, blooming like poppies, soaking through the fabric until his entire chest was slick and red. The whip in his hand fizzled out. He dropped to his knees.
Elisabeth’s vision blurred. She threw herself forward, striking blindly at the fiend that crouched between her and Ashcroft.
Iron bit into scales. The fiend howled as she yanked Demonslayer from its shoulder and struck again, and again, barely conscious of her body, the wild strength that filled her at the sight of Nathaniel stupefied and bleeding. With one last yelp, the fiend collapsed. Elisabeth leaped forward, using its toppling body as a springboard even before it struck the ground. For a moment, she seemed capable of flight. Demonslayer shone like liquid moonlight, wreathed in steam; Nathaniel’s coat billowed out behind her, and the wind whistled in her ears.
But she never finished the leap. A weight slammed against her in midair, bowling her back to the ground. Her world dissolved into a jumble of rank breath, obsidian scales, a splatter of hot saliva across her neck. Demonslayer spun from her hand, striking sparks on the marble as it skittered out of sight. Just as she began to make sense of the second fiend’s attack, a clawed foot pressed against her ribs, pinning her to the ground. Spots swam before her eyes as its weight crushed the air from her lungs.
At a ninety-degree angle, she watched Ashcroft draw his sword. Nathaniel was bent forward now, one hand braced on the ground, the other gripping his chest. Blood twisted in a stream down his wrist.
Hopelessness grayed her thoughts. She saw no way they could survive this. No, not they—for she would survive, stolen back to Ashcroft Manor as the Chancellor’s prize. She realized, in despair, that she would rather die at Nathaniel’s side.
“I must admit,” Ashcroft said, “it’s a shame to see you go. The final heir of the great House Thorn, cut down before his prime.” He considered Nathaniel as he ran his thumb down the sword’s edge, testing its sharpness. “Then again, you always were determined to be the last, weren’t you? You would do anything to prevent another Baltasar—another Alistair.”
Nathaniel’s shoulders hitched. His other hand struck the ground, catching his weight, leaving a gory imprint as his fingers shifted. Ashcroft watched him pityingly.
“So I suppose,” he said, raising his sword, “that in a way, I’m merely giving you what you’ve always wanted.”
Nathaniel looked up, his eyes clear and cold. On the marble, using his blood, he had drawn an Enochian sigil. And it was beginning to glow with emerald light.
Ashcroft’s expression went blank. So that’s what he looks like when he is truly taken by surprise, Elisabeth thought. The sigil blazed brighter and brighter, and he fell back with a shout of pain, throwing an arm over his eyes. She squeezed her own shut, feeling the magical shock wave ripple over her as a rush of tingling sparks.
The ground heaved. Marble cracked and crumbled. When she opened her watering eyes, it was to the sight of the rose vines, now as thick around as tree trunks, shedding fragments of the balustrade. The pavilion had been imprisoned in a tangle of thorns, unearthly in the moonlight, like something from an old tale. The colossal spines pierced stone and demons alike. As she watched, the vines continued growing, curving and twining, wrapping the bodies of the fiends as their gleaming points stretched toward the starry sky.
She didn’t smell blood, or charred flesh, or anything else foul. Only the sweet, wistful scent of the roses. The pressure on her chest had lifted, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw the fiend that had attacked her being enveloped by vegetation. The light faded from its eyes as buds unfurled into leaves, hiding it from view.
Ashcroft staggered, disoriented and blinking. He bumped into the interlocking thorns that had grown around him like a cage. Elisabeth had eyes only for Nathaniel. As she watched, he swayed and passed out, collapsing in a pool of blood.
With a cry, she started forward. And in doing so, she stumbled straight into Lorelei’s waiting arms.
The demon folded her in a cold, hard embrace. A glamour’s numbing calm enveloped Elisabeth, forcing her thoughts to slow and her muscles to relax. She became an insect, caught in a spider’s web.
“Relax now, darling,” Lorelei murmured into her ear. “It’s almost over. Once my master frees himself, he’ll make short work of the Thorn boy. Do you hear his heartbeat fading? I do.” Claws skimmed down the side of her face, over her ear, stroking her hair. The hands turned her around. “Watch him die.”
That was a mistake. At the sight of Ashcroft smashing through the thorns to reach Nathaniel, Elisabeth felt everything at once: the sting of her cuts and bruises, the blood pumping through her veins, the night air filling her lungs, the breeze cooling her wet cheeks. Her surroundings grew sharp-edged and crystal clear as Lorelei’s influence faded to cobwebs.
And there was Silas. At some point during the battle, he had managed to drag himself up into a crouch. Though agony fogged his yellow eyes, he watched her calmly, with meaningful intent. Demonslayer lay beside him, almost touching his bound hands. He looked at the sword and then back at her. He was waiting for her signal.
Elisabeth couldn’t nod. Lorelei would see. Slowly, like a cat, she blinked.
Demonslayer slid across the marble. When it came within reach, Elisabeth stomped on the hilt, flipping the sword into the air. She ignored the bright slice of pain as she caught the naked blade in one hand and thrust it backward, deep into Lorelei’s body.
There was less resistance than she expected. Lorelei choked, coughed. Her claws tightened convulsively on Elisabeth’s arms. “You,” she gritted out. “How dare you—”
And then she was gone. The death of a highborn demon was not like that of a fiend. No body remained, just tendrils of steam that wisped around Elisabeth, entangling her in a final embrace, smelling faintly of brimstone.
Without thinking, she staggered to Silas. She thrust Demonslayer through a link in the chains and twisted, levering the sword with all her might. Metal groaned. The link warped and split open.
Too late. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ashcroft raise his sword above Nathaniel’s chest. She couldn’t get there in time. And Silas, weakened—
The chains clattered to the ground, coiled empty on the flagstones.
Ashcroft’s sword flashed in the moonlight, inscribing a downward arc.
And the point emerged red, protruding from Silas’s back, where the weapon had speared him through the heart. In the span of a breath he had appeared between Ashcroft and Nathaniel, using his own body as a shield.
The world went still. Silence descended like frost. Silas’s loose hair hung down, hiding his face. After a moment his pale hand rose to touch the length of iron that entered his chest, almost curiously, though in doing so, his claws sent up wisps of steam.
“I don’t understand.” Ashcroft spoke haltingly. “He didn’t command you to do that.”
Silas looked up at him. Their expressions could not have be
en more different. Silas was a carven saint, his marble countenance beautiful, impassive, untouched by emotion or pain. And Ashcroft was a mortal confronted, for the first time in his life, by something he couldn’t comprehend.
“Had you let him die,” Ashcroft said, “your bargain would have been fulfilled. The life he promised you—you would have received it. But now you’ve lost everything.”
“Yes,” whispered Silas. “I feel it. It is gone.”
Ashcroft’s eyes were wide. “Tell me why, demon! Tell me what you stood to gain—”
A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Silas’s mouth, shockingly red against his white skin. He closed his eyes, seemingly in relief. Then, he vanished.
The moment Ashcroft’s sword came free, Elisabeth was there to meet it. Iron clashed against iron as she forced the Chancellor back, sparing none of her strength. He managed a series of clumsy parries; then Demonslayer locked with his sword’s hilt and wrenched the weapon from his grasp, sending it flying out of reach.
Panic flashed across his face. With a jolt, Elisabeth realized that both of his eyes were blue. Not only had his demonic mark vanished, his right sleeve hung in tatters over a normal arm. In Lorelei’s absence, he was no longer a sorcerer, just an ordinary man.
Slowly, he lifted his empty hands in surrender.
“Are you going to kill me, Miss Scrivener?” he asked, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “If you do, it will change you forever. It will set you down a path from which you cannot turn back. Believe me—I know.”
Demonslayer drooped. In Elisabeth’s moment of hesitation, Ashcroft’s boots scuffed against stone. Moving faster than she could have predicted, he dodged between the vines and vaulted over the edge of the pavilion.
She dashed forward and caught herself against the crumbled balustrade, heart pounding, tensed to give chase. She could overtake him easily: he appeared to have twisted his ankle leaping down, for he stumbled as he fled through the tangle of roses. She could pursue him, and catch him, and end his plot for good.
Or she could run in the opposite direction, and find the help she needed to save Nathaniel’s life.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE REMAINDER OF the night passed in a blur. First there was the disorienting brightness of the palace, followed by the startled faces of the guests Elisabeth encountered in the halls. After that she recalled shouting, a flurry of action. A physician was summoned. Someone inquired after the wound on Elisabeth’s hand, but she claimed that the blood was Nathaniel’s, which got everyone outside in a hurry. The next thing she knew, she stood in the rose garden as two men carried Nathaniel’s limp body into a carriage.
His condition was serious. She could tell that much by the physician’s urgency, the cries that rang out for help. She tried to go to him, but hands held her back. They needed to know what had happened. The Chancellor, she said, and no one believed her. Not until a man called from the top of the pavilion and held up Ashcroft’s sword, the gryphon on its pommel unmistakable in the moonlight.
Pandemonium. Lord Kicklighter’s booming voice cut through the din. A guest helped her toward the carriage—and how strange everyone’s finery looked, marked here and there with smears of Nathaniel’s blood. Her own gown had been ruined beyond repair. Silas would not be pleased about that; they had spent an entire day together shopping, and he had patiently sat through several fittings, during which Elisabeth had had to stand very still, so that the seamstress did not stick her with pins. She could clearly picture his look of disapproval.
Then she remembered that Silas had been run through with a sword, and was gone.
She rode inside the carriage with Nathaniel and the physician. The wheels jostled over uneven ground, and once, Nathaniel groaned. Sweat beaded his forehead, but his hand felt freezing cold. She didn’t remember taking hold of it. The physician was busy applying pressure to Nathaniel’s chest. He glanced once at her injured palm, then at her face, and said nothing.
They pulled up outside Nathaniel’s house, where a crowd had gathered. Half of the ballroom appeared to have followed them to Hemlock Park, now mixed with reporters and sorcerers wearing their nightclothes. Lights blazed in the homes all the way down the street, their windows flung open, people leaning out. Elisabeth barely noticed the commotion, because none of it was a fraction as strange as what was happening to Nathaniel’s house.
All of the gargoyles had come to life. They prowled along the roofline and coiled themselves, snarling, around the corbels. The thorn bushes that grew in the unkempt gardens surrounding the house had stretched to tall, impenetrable hedges, rattling menacingly at anyone who drew near the iron fence. Dark clouds boiled overhead.
“The wards have activated,” the physician told her. “The house recognizes that its heir is in danger, and will do anything to protect him from further harm. The difficulty is, there’s no one else of his bloodline who can safely let us through. Miss Scrivener, does Nathaniel trust you?”
She watched the men lift Nathaniel from the carriage. In order to reach his wounds, the physician had removed his shirt. His skin, where it wasn’t covered in blood, was as white as paper. His head lolled, and one of his arms dangled loose. His black hair fell like a spill of ink around his ashen face—black, without a hint of silver. The wrongness of it left her dazed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Yes. I think so.”
“It’s unconventional, but we haven’t much time. Try approaching the house. If anything threatens you, retreat quickly. I’d rather not end up with two patients tonight.”
The hubbub quieted as Elisabeth stepped forward. Faces watched anxiously from the crowd. She recognized one of them as one of the girls who had gossiped about her in Ashcroft’s conservatory, who looked stricken now, clutching a friend’s hand.
During the carriage ride, Elisabeth hadn’t let go of Demonslayer. It shone at her side as she crossed the threshold of the open gate, toward the thorn bushes, their crooked boughs looming above her. Instantly, their rattling ceased. A whisper ran through the hedge. Then the branches retreated, creating a path to the front door. One gargoyle sank down, and then another, lowering their heads like retainers welcoming the return of their queen.
Silence prevailed. She walked up the path and ascended the steps. When she reached for the doorknob, the bolt clicked on its own, and the door swung open without a touch.
Stunned, she stood aside to let the physician pass. He hurried up the path, giving instructions to the men carrying Nathaniel, his fingers on Nathaniel’s pulse. A bespectacled young woman hurried alongside them, laden with bags and cases. Behind them, the branches closed back in, weaving together like threads on a loom, blocking out the crowd. The last thing Elisabeth saw before the thorns knit shut was a reporter gazing back at her. Wonder transformed his features, and his pencil had fallen to the ground, forgotten.
She followed the procession upstairs, unable to take her eyes from Nathaniel’s unconscious face. There wasn’t room for her in his bedroom, so she stood outside, flattening herself against the wall every time the physician’s assistant passed with an ewer of water or an armful of blood-soaked linens.
No one said anything, but it was clear that Elisabeth was getting in the way. Numbly, she drifted back downstairs. She took off Nathaniel’s coat and hung it on the coatrack. She noticed a few droplets of blood on the foyer’s floor and used her gown to wipe them up, since its ivory silk was already ruined. Afterward she sat on the bottom step, her head buzzing with white noise. Dimly, from upstairs, she heard the scuffle of feet accompanied by a tense exchange of voices. The grandfather clock ticked in time with the beating of her heart.
As of this moment, Ashcroft was ruined. Everything would come out in the morning papers. The entire world would know him for who he truly was. But this didn’t feel like a victory. Not with Silas lost, and Nathaniel bleeding upstairs. Not with Ashcroft still at large.
No—the fight wasn’t over yet. It would be foolish to imagine otherwise. She sat for a mo
ment longer, considering this, and then she rose and walked with purpose into Nathaniel’s study, where she seized the magnifying device from his desk, flung it to the ground, and smashed it beneath her heel. She proceeded to the next room, where she found another mirror and tore it from the wall. She didn’t stop there. A path of destruction marked her progress around the house. Glass cracked, shattered, exploded across carpets, bounced in glinting fragments down the furniture. No mirror was safe. She took Demonslayer’s hilt to the one in the parlor, where she had spent so many hours studying grimoires, and watched her reflection splinter, then go tumbling to the floor. When she was finished downstairs, she made her way upward, leaving a trail of shards along the hallways.
It seemed as though she should feel something, but she did not. Her injured hand didn’t hurt, even as blood ran freely down Demonslayer’s pommel. The mirrors in their cumbersome frames yielded to her without effort. It was as though she were made of light and air, barely tethered to the physical world, at once unstoppable and in danger of coming apart, burning up, floating away.
At last, she reached her bedroom. She picked up the scrying mirror. She tried to explain what had happened to Katrien, who asked her a number of questions she couldn’t answer, because at some point, words had stopped making sense. When they were finished talking, Elisabeth wrapped the mirror in a pillowcase and dropped it down the laundry chute. Ashcroft wouldn’t be able to spy on her from there. Then she set about making the rest of the room safe, in the only way she knew how.
An incalculable amount of time later, she came back to herself, Demonslayer clenched in her good hand, surrounded by broken wood and glass. She thought, Silas isn’t going to like this. Then she thought, I will help him clean it up.
The grief, when it came, struck her like a punch to the gut. She doubled over and sank to the floor, her breath coming in strangled gasps. She was not made of air or light. She was weakly, devastatingly human, and she did feel pain, more than she could bear. Silas was gone. She didn’t know what Nathaniel was going to do, or how she was going to tell him, or whether she could endure the look on his face when she did. She didn’t know if Nathaniel would wake again at all.
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