Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,189

the vines—

The blade vanished from her hand. She overbalanced, falling to her knees; the vines twisted tighter around her legs and she choked down a scream. The pain was agonizing, turning her vision red. She heard James shout something and looked up through blurred eyes to see Belial, smiling a terrible smile, Cortana gripped in his hand.

He laughed at her expression. “In this realm, all things obey me,” he said. “Even a blade of Wayland the Smith.” He snapped his fingers, the sound loud as a gunshot.

The Mandikhor demon reared back and sprang at James.

* * *

James rolled to the side as the Mandikhor demon sprang. He heard it hit the ground beside him, sending shock waves through the sand and dirt. He rolled onto his back as it rose up over him, stabbing upward with his sword. He heard a grunt, and burning ichor spattered his arm.

The demon reared back, giving him just enough room to spring to his feet. He could see Cordelia, struggling desperately against the vines. James somersaulted forward, rolling over and over until he shot to his feet and spun around: the Mandikhor was behind him, swinging a mace-like clubbed paw. James ducked as it whistled overhead, just missing him.

His head ached and throbbed. His skin felt hot and tight, his wrist a burning agony. He backed up, trying to center his vision on the Mandikhor. It was a shadow moving against a brighter light that hurt his eyes. Belial watched intently as the Mandikhor circled, growling.

Cordelia screamed a warning. The Mandikhor had leaped into the air—it was peculiarly swift, despite its sores and wounds—claws outstretched. One raked James’s arm; he spun sideways, blade whipping overhead, slashing across the demon’s torso. More ichor splashed him, mixing with his own blood now. He tasted metal in his mouth and rolled into a crouch that spun into a lunge: the Mandikhor threw up a clawed fist, catching at the blade of his sword. It howled, its skin sliced open, as it gripped the blade and shoved, hurling James backward.

He hit the ground with enough force to knock his breath out of him. His sword skidded from his hand. He reached for it just as one of the Mandikhor’s feet slammed down on the blade. He rolled to the side as a racking cough seized him; crawling to his knees, he spit up blood. He could hear Belial laughing.

He wiped the blood from his mouth. The demon had reared up over him to its full height: it looked down through slitted red eyes.

“Give up, James,” Belial said. “Concede defeat. Or I will order the Mandikhor to strike you down.”

James rose painfully to his knees. He saw Cordelia, her hands bloody from tearing at the vines. He wanted to apologize to her, to tell her he was sorry for dragging her into this hopeless mess.

She looked at him—it was as if she was trying to tell him something, trying to speak to him with her eyes. Her hands still gripped the vines. She hadn’t given up, despite the blood, despite the pain. She was Cordelia; she would never give up.

Fight on, he told himself, but he couldn’t rise: his body was shutting down. Shadows had begun to creep in at the edge of his vision. The Mandikhor hovered above him, waiting for a word, a gesture from Belial. Belial, who ruled over all this place, who bent this realm to his will.

James stretched out his right arm. The slash made by the Mandikhor’s claw was still bleeding freely: drops struck the ground, and the sand drank them up. He thought he could hear the sand whispering, a soft murmur of sound, but perhaps it was only the poison in his body.

Shadows, the sand whispered, and James thought of all the things Jem had ever taught him. Focus. Clarity. Breathing. You must build a fortress of control around yourself. You must come to know this power so that you may master it.

Belial had mastered this world. He had bent everything in it to his will—every tree, every rock, every grain of sand is under my command. Each part of this realm responded to that which made Belial himself.

Are you not my heir, my own flesh and blood?

James focused. He drew all his concentration down like light drawn through a magnifying glass. He bore down with his will, with his resolve, with the blood in his veins. He felt the ground shift and change beneath him; he reached out for the