was a useful idiot,” said Belial. “He somehow thought that after he raised the demon, I would let him live, though the trail would have led to him eventually and he’s hardly the sort who could withstand torture or interrogation.” He yawned. “It’s really too bad—Gast was quite talented at dimensional magic. He managed to raise the Mandikhor in such a way that it exists partly in your world, and partly here, where it thrives.”
“That’s why it can withstand sunlight in our world,” James said.
“Precisely. Worlds are layered upon one another: the Mandikhor and its children are shielded in your realm by this one. And here it serves me completely. When I order it to cease attacking Nephilim, the attacks will stop. The deaths will stop. But if you refuse me, they will continue. And you, my boy, will die.”
“Stop the demon first,” James rasped. “Bring him forth and destroy him, and you can—you can possess me. I’ll let you.”
“No,” purred Belial. “That is not how these things work, James Herondale. This is my realm, and there will be no tricks. First you become my host. Then—”
James shook his head. “No. The demon first. And you cannot just rescind your orders to the creature. You must destroy it.”
Belial’s icy gaze hardened. His eyes are so much like my mother’s, James thought. It was strange to see those eyes filled with so much evil. So much hate.
“It is not your place to give me orders,” said Belial. “Come here, boy.”
James didn’t move. Belial’s eyes narrowed, then flicked over him, taking in his face, his gear, his bleeding wrist.
“You refuse me,” he said slowly, almost as if he could not quite believe it. James would have said he seemed aghast, if Princes of Hell could be aghast.
“As I said before,” said James. “I came here of my own free will.”
“I see,” Belial said. “You are not as tractable as I had been led to believe. But you will realize the wisdom of my plans soon enough. I would prefer an adult male body,” he added, almost as an aside. “In fact, I would prefer you were a bit older, but needs must as the devil drives. As they say.” He grinned. “Recall that you are not the only one I could approach.”
He waved a black-nailed hand, and multicolored light streaked across the dark air. It resolved into the shape of Lucie—Lucie in gear, her hair up in a determinedly tight chignon. She looked exactly herself, down to the ink stains on her hands. James’s stomach clenched.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” he said. “Besides—Lucie would never agree.”
Belial laughed. “Don’t be so sure. Consider it, James. Despite the strength in your blood, the body you occupy is frail. Look what you are dying of now. Four small nail marks in your arm. So very little to end so much. You reside in a flimsy shell that can age, and die, and feel terrible pain. But if you joined with me, you would become immortal. Would you not want that for your sister? For yourself?”
“No,” said James. “It would not be worth it.”
“Ah, the foolish confidence of Nephilim.” Belial’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is time for me to remind you, boy, just how fragile you truly are.”
* * *
There was a silence. Jesse stood, not breathing hard—not breathing at all—the sword in his hand. He looked from Grace to where Lucie crouched, still on the ground. He inclined his head toward Lucie, then, in the smallest of nods.
She turned to Grace.
“Yes,” Lucie said. “I can see Jesse.”
Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. “But how?” she whispered. “James is a Herondale too but can’t see him—James could never see him—”
“Lucie is unusual,” said Jesse. “She seems to be able to see more than ordinary ghosts.”
He propped the sword against the side of the shed and went over to his sister. “Grace,” he said, gently putting his arms around her. Grace laid her head against his shoulder. “That demon. Was that Grandfather’s work, still lingering about?”
Grace drew back slightly. “No,” she said, “It was—” She shook her head. “It isn’t safe. We can’t speak in front of her, not about anything. She’s the daughter of Will Herondale, Jesse; she’s practically the Consul’s niece—”
Lucie rose silently, brushing grass from her clothes. She felt very awkward. She thought of the demon, its hissing whisper: the oaths your mother swore to those far more powerful than she. The demon had been Tatiana’s doing, she knew, and she suspected from the