James turned. “Christopher—”

It rose up behind Christopher, a massive shadow, the biggest Khora demon James had seen yet. Christopher started to turn, raising his seraph blade, but it was too late. The Khora had reached around Christopher, almost as if it meant to embrace him, pulling his body back toward it. His weapon went flying.

Matthew started to run toward Christopher, skidding across the wet ground. James couldn’t move—he was out of knives; he grabbed for the seraph blade in his belt, but there was no time. The demon’s great clawed hand raked across Christopher’s chest.

Christopher screamed, and the Khora demon shoved him away. He crumpled to the ground.

“No!” James broke into a run, zigzagging toward Christopher’s fallen body. Something lunged toward him; he heard Matthew shout, and a chalikar sliced an oncoming Khora in half. James jerked his seraph blade free, heading for the demon that had wounded Kit.

It turned to look at him. Its eyes were knowing, almost amused. It bared its teeth—and vanished, just as the Khora demons in the park had.

“Jamie, they’ve gone,” Matthew called. “They’ve all gone—”

The front gates burst open with a ringing clang of metal, and a carriage rolled into the front garden. The doors flew open, disgorging Charles Fairchild; James dimly realized that Alastair Carstairs was also there, looking around himself with a stunned expression. As James dropped to his knees by Christopher, he could hear Charles demanding to know what was going on.

Matthew shouted back, asking if Charles was blind, couldn’t he see Christopher was hurt and needed to go to the Silent City? Charles kept demanding what had happened to the demons, where had they gone, he’d seen one when they’d first crashed through the gates, but where were they now?

I will take him, Alastair was saying. I will take him to the Silent City. But the words seemed to echo from some far-off place, someplace where James was not kneeling in the wet and the fog next to a motionless Christopher, whose chest had been scored across by the ragged lines of demon claws. Someplace where Christopher was not still and silent no matter how much James begged him to open his eyes. Someplace where Christopher’s blood was not mixing with the rain on the cobblestones, surrounding him in a pool of crimson. Someplace better than this.

Cordelia had been hoping to speak to her brother again, but she rose so late in the day that by the time Risa had helped her dress and sent her downstairs, Alastair had already gone out.