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 been 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—”