The incendiaries landed around them now, clanking loudly against pavement and cobblestone, flashing light and licking flames at the buildings. Zachariah tried to get away, but his strength was fading. He could not run—he could only stagger drunkenly. This was no normal wound. There was poison flooding his body. The faerie was coming at him, and he would not get away.

No. Not without seeing Tessa one more time.

He looked down and saw one of the incendiaries that had fallen from the sky. This one had not detonated.

Brother Zachariah used the last of his strength to spin around, swinging out with the canister. Small bombs were still falling. Several more dropped nearby. The canister flew through the air and struck the faerie in the chest. It cracked apart, and the faerie shrieked as the iron inside was released. Zachariah fell to his knees as the iron flame burned.

The hospital was rumbling.

At St. Bart’s, the upper floors of the hospital were considered too unsafe to use. The activity was all on the lower level and in the basement, where doctors and nurses ran to attend the injured and sick. The fire wardens were being brought in, their skin covered in soot, gasping for air. There were injuries from the attacks—the burns, the crushings, the people cut through with exploding glass or struck by debris. Plus all the normal business of London went on—people still had babies and became ill and had normal accidents. But the war multiplied incidents. People fell or crashed in the dark. There were heart attacks as bombs came down. There were so many people who needed help.

From the moment they arrived, Catarina and Tessa ran from one end of the hospital to the other, tending to the injured as they came in, fetching supplies, carrying bloodied bowls of water, wrapping and removing bandages. Being a Shadowhunter, Tessa could easily cope with some of the grislier aspects of the job, like the fact that no matter how hard you tried to keep your apron clean, you would be covered in blood and grime within minutes. No amount of washing got it out. No sooner would you scrub it off your arms than another patient would come in and your skin would be covered again. Through it all, the nurses strove to maintain an air of calm competence. You moved quickly but not hastily. You spoke loudly when you needed assistance, but you never screamed.

Tessa was stationed by the door, directing the orderlies as they brought in a dozen new patients. They were bringing in groups of fire wardens now, some walking wounded, others on stretchers.

“Over there,” Tessa said as the orderlies carried in burn victims. “To Sister Loss.”

“I’ve got one asking for you, Sister,” said the orderly, setting down a stretcher with a figure on it wrapped tight in a gray blanket.