Jesse only raised his eyebrows. James had hung back for several moments before leaving the study, composing himself. He could still feel Cordelia in his arms, still smell the scent of her spice and jasmine perfume. He felt exhausted, wrung through with layers of emotion: fear, then anger, then desperation, then desire. And hope, dashed quickly. Hope wore out the soul, more than any other feeling.

He let the control Jem had taught him take over, before he left the study and strode down the hall to find Jesse looking bemused in the foyer. Effie had taken herself off to continue her hysterics elsewhere, which was probably all to the good. Jesse was wrapped in the new olive-green coat Anna had helped him choose, and in his hand, he clutched a sheaf of yellowing parchment sheets bound in fragile leather. James recognized them immediately: Tatiana’s notes from Chiswick House.

“Is this a bad time?” Jesse said.

Yes,James thought, but it wasn’t as if he was going to be able to get Cordelia back now. And Jesse looked intensely worried. James felt suddenly cold, and not only from the night air. “Is Lucie all right?”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “This isn’t about her.”

James smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to stay in the Institute at night?”

Jesse said, “Aren’t you?”

“I only came to fetch some cuff links,” James said.

“Well, I came to talk to you,” said Jesse, “where we could not be overheard. About my mother’s papers.”

“Oh!” said Effie, who had, it seemed, not vanished in hysterics after all, but rather come up behind James with little warning. And was staring past him, at Jesse. “Good evening, sir.”

Was Effie… blushing? Certainly James had never seen her look like that before. She was close to twittering. “I’m so sorry, sir, I only ran to fetch you a towel for the snow in your hair. I should have taken your coat and scarf first—of course—lose track of my own head next. Such a lovely coat, too, and so suitable for such a handsome young man.”

As Jesse handed over the coat and scarf, Effie clutched them to her like treasures. She gazed at Jesse, who looked back with mounting puzzlement.

“Effie,” James said. “Perhaps some tea?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’ll lay it on in the drawing room, and build up the fire there as well.” She bustled off, still clutching Jesse’s coat.

“She seems nice,” Jesse said as James led him down the hall to the drawing room. James thought to himself that Effie had never before demonstrated the slightest interest in any of his visitors. It seemed she liked the look of Jesse. After all, Effie must like the look of someone. Didn’t everybody?

In the drawing room, they settled into armchairs, Jesse still clutching the sheaf of old papers; they gave off a sooty, sour smell, like embers and rot.

“I’ve been going through them,” he said, without preamble. His expression was grim. “All of them. They took a little decrypting, but it wasn’t much of a code. The key was my father’s name—Rupert.”

“I’m guessing from your expression that you didn’t much like what you found,” said James.

“I always knew my mother was bitter,” Jesse said. “I assumed that she’d struck out at you purely because of her hatred of your parents. But it seems you’ve been central to Belial’s plans—to Belial and my mother’s plans—all along.”

“I know,” James said. He’d never been quite sure how much Jesse knew, but the notes seemed to be providing a quick and harsh education. “Belial’s goal has always been to possess me, to live in my body, since it can sustain him on Earth without burning away.”

“He nearly managed with mine, but it meant he had to give up half the day,” agreed Jesse. “I don’t know if my mother reached out to Belial first, or he to her, but either way, their interests are far more aligned than I had realized. But it’s more than that. Possessing you isn’t the end of his plan. It is a stepping-stone to wreaking much larger destruction. But what kind of destruction, what form it will take, I cannot say.”

James made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “In the past, I had this bond with Belial. Since the first time I fell into shadow. It was wretched, but at least I could see through his eyes, catch glimpses of his realm, his actions. Now I feel as though I’ve been blindfolded. I’m feeling around in the dark, searching for any sign of the next step in his plans.”

“I know,” Jesse said reluctantly. “That’s why I wanted to show these to you. In the notes, I discovered how my mother was able to communicate with Belial for all those years. She used the mirror we found.”

“She used the mirror? And you’re implying we could use it the same way?” James demanded, sitting forward, and then shook his head before Jesse could respond. “I don’t think communication with Belial would be a good idea. In the past, he was unaware of my presence. And”—he smiled wryly—“I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“I think you’re right. But there’s more to it. At some point, Belial told my mother to destroy the mirror. He didn’t want there to be evidence tying the two of them together that could be found by the Clave.”

“But she didn’t destroy it.”

“No.” Jesse’s face twisted with an intense disgust. “She kept it—she would look through it, and watch Belial without his knowledge. It brought her some kind of… enjoyment. I—can’t think about it too much.”

“Like the Wicked Queen in ‘Snow White.’?” James said. He put his elbows on his knees; his whole body felt tense. “Did she explain how it functioned? How she was able to spy upon Belial without him realizing it?”

Jesse nodded. “Yes. It’s detailed in her notes.”

“And it’s something we could do?”

“Maybe. It’s something we shouldn’t do—”

But James had already sprung up out of his seat and made for the nearest desk. He needed pen and paper, needed a few pennies for Neddy, needed to think of what to say. Jesse watched him quietly, with the air of someone who has delivered a piece of news he wished he did not know.

Having located a pen, James began to scribble three notes. “Jesse, will you come to the Devil Tavern tomorrow? To discuss all this with the Merry Thieves?”

“Are we really going to discuss it?” Jesse said. “Or are you just going to go ahead and use the mirror?”

James looked at Jesse over his shoulder. “And here you were worried about fitting into the London Enclave.” Despite himself, despite everything, he felt himself smile. “It’s like you’ve known us for years.”

He had arrived on a blast of cold air, and stood motionless in the chilly foyer while Pangborn explained what had been going on, and that Tatiana Blackthorn was imprisoned in the Sanctuary.

Letty knew that the Shadowhunters could hear the Silent Brothers speak in their minds, but that mundanes could not. She assumed Pangborn could hear Brother Lebahim in his odd, silent way; Pangborn shrugged and pointed the way to the Sanctuary, and the Silent Brother vanished without a sound down the hall.

Letty looked shyly at Mr. Pangborn. “What did he say? In your head, I mean?”

“Nothing,” the old man said. “Nothing at all.” He looked sternly at Letty. “Keep away from this,” he added. “It’s Shadowhunter business.”

Odd,Letty thought. Odd enough that an hour later, she crept down to the Sanctuary and put her ear to the thick oak door. Through it, she could hear muffled noises: it must be the old woman speaking, she thought, rambling on as she had the day before.

But the closer she listened, the stranger the noises were. They didn’t seem like the sounds a human voice would make. They were rough, guttural, and they seemed to pulse—as if every word was the beat of an exposed heart.

Shivering and nauseated, Letty retreated as fast as she could to the safety of her bedroom. Mr. Pangborn was right. Better to keep away from the whole business and let the Shadowhunters do whatever they thought best. Yes. Better to keep away.

“How is Matthew…?” Jesse asked delicately as they made their way into the tavern. A werewolf sat at the bar looking gloomy, all his hair standing on end thanks to the static electricity in the air. Pickles drifted half-asleep in his vat of gin.

“I haven’t seen him since the night before last—we’ve been trading off looking after him,” James said. Anna, Ariadne, and Lucie had taken shifts at Whitby Mansions too, which was doubtless how Jesse knew about Matthew’s condition. Only Cordelia had not; Matthew had requested, flatly, that she not see him in the state he was in.

“It’s brave of him to address his illness. Many would not,” Jesse said as they reached the scratched old door that guarded the inner sanctum of the Merry Thieves.

James had no opportunity to reply or agree, as the door was already half-ajar; he pushed it open to find Christopher and Thomas sitting on the worn sofa by the fireplace. Matthew sat in one of the threadbare armchairs, which had once been expensive brocade.

He looked up and met James’s eyes. Weary, James thought—Matthew looked weary, something deeper than tired. His clothes were clean and unwrinkled, but plain: gray and black, the tarnished bronze flask protruding from his breast pocket the only color in his outfit.

James remembered suddenly a summer night, the windows of this room flung open, the air soft as kitten’s paws, and Matthew laughing, colorful, reaching for the wine: Is that a bottle of cheap spirits I see before me?

It seemed a chasm had opened between that Matthew and Matthew now: James could not bear to think on it, but only turned as Jesse brought out the stack of his mother’s papers and laid them out on the round table in the center of the room. Christopher got up immediately to examine them, and Thomas followed a moment later, pulling out a chair and sitting down. James watched them, but went over to lean against Matthew’s chair. Jesse, for his part, went to the window and glanced out it, as though he wished to put physical distance between himself and the proof of his mother’s actions.

“Time to defeat evil, I see,” Matthew said. “Let us have at it.”

“Matthew,” said Thomas, looking up. “How are you feeling?”

“Well,” Matthew said, “each morning I feel as though I have been put into this flask here, and then shaken vigorously. And then each evening, the same. So overall, I would say things are up and down.”

“He’s better,” Christopher said, not looking up from the papers. “He may not want to admit it, but he’s better.”

Matthew smiled up at James, who restrained the urge to ruffle his hair. It was a thin reflection of the Smile for which he was famous, but it was there. “Do you hear that?” said Matthew, nudging James with his elbow. “A scientist says I’m better.”

“You are,” James said quietly. “Are you coming to the Christmas party tonight?”

He had wondered, and not wanted to ask, and wanted to ask at the same time. A Christmas party meant mulled wine and spiced brandy; it meant people toasting each other’s health. It meant drink. It meant temptation.

A veil came down over Matthew’s expression. If the eyes were the windows of the soul, he had drawn the curtains tightly over his. He turned away from James, saying lightly, “I’ll be fine. I am not so under the command of the cursed bottle that I cannot stand to see a punch bowl without flinging myself into it.”

“Jesse, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so.” Christopher had sat down beside Thomas at the table and was peering at Tatiana’s papers through his spectacles. “But I’m afraid your mother is not a very good person.”

“Of that,” said Jesse, “I am keenly aware.” He looked over at James. “Did you bring them?”

James had worn his most voluminous coat; Oscar used to hide in the pockets when he was a puppy. He drew out the hand mirror they had taken from Chiswick, and then a pair of handcuffs he’d located that morning in the Sanctuary.

“Handcuffs,” Matthew observed as Thomas and Christopher exchanged a look of alarm. “This would seem to portend something very dangerous, or very scandalous. Or both?”

“The handcuffs are to protect me,” James said. “From—”

Christopher frowned. “It says here that Tatiana used the mirror to contact Belial. You’re not—”

“He is.” Matthew sat up straight, his green eyes flashing. “James, you’re going to try to contact Belial?”

James shook his head and shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto the sofa. “No. I’m going to try to spy on Belial.”

“What on earth makes you think that’s going to work?” Thomas asked.

Jesse sighed and crossed the room to lean against the mantel. James had already talked him around the night before, though Jesse had pointed out that he’d had enough of people meddling with Belial in his lifetime.

“My mother did use this mirror to speak with Belial,” Jesse said, and went on to explain that after Belial had instructed her to destroy it, she had kept it instead, using it as a sort of scrying glass to spy on the Prince of Hell.

Thomas looked baffled. “She liked watching him? Just… watching him?”

“My mother is a very strange woman,” said Jesse.

“Catoptromancy,” said Christopher brightly. “The use of mirrors in magic. Dates back to the ancient Greeks.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Mirrors were the way Tatiana used to contact Grace.”

“It’s strange that you know that,” Matthew said.

Christopher busied himself flicking through the papers. Matthew was not incorrect, James thought, but it did not seem the line of questioning they ought to go down just now.

Thomas frowned. “It still seems dangerous. Maybe Tatiana believed that Belial didn’t know she was watching, but we have only her word on that. And she isn’t reliable.”

“You’re not wrong, Tom,” James said. “This is a desperate measure. But these are desperate times.” He looked around the room at the Merry Thieves. At Jesse, who had brought him this information against his own better judgment, against even his own will not to be reminded of his mother’s actions. “I never realized the significance of my connection to Belial before. I was so focused on controlling it, keeping it at a distance. It was only when it was gone that I realized: if it were not for the knowledge I gained through that connection, each of our previous confrontations with him would have ended in ruin. If Belial has severed this bond we had, it must be because it is better for him for it to be cut. Which means that it would be better for us if we could at least see what he was doing.”

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “Have you tried turning into a shadow lately?”

“I have,” said James, “but it doesn’t work. I think whatever Belial has done to shut me out also prevents me from going into shadow. There has to be something he doesn’t want me to see—if I can get sight of it, it would be worth the effort.”

“Is he always this reckless?” Jesse said to Thomas.

“You get used to it,” said Thomas.

“I’ve always thought of it,” Christopher said loyally, “as admirably heroic.”

James nodded. If he was only going to get support from someone who regularly blew himself up, he would take it. “Thank you, Christopher.”

Thomas rested his big hands on the table. “So,” he said. “I assume you know how the mirror works?”

“Yes,” James said. “There are instructions among Tatiana’s notes.”

“I suppose—it does seem worth a try,” Thomas said.

“No!” said Matthew sharply. James turned, surprised. Matthew was upright, his arms crossed, his pale cheekbones stained with red blotches of anger. “Why are we even entertaining this mad idea? James, you can’t risk yourself like this. If Belial is leaving you alone, then let him leave you alone!”

There was a startled silence. Of them all, James was likely the most surprised. He would have expected a protest from Matthew a few months ago, even a few weeks ago, but the sheer fury and denial in Matthew’s voice shocked him now.

“Math,” James said. “Belial will come for me—perhaps not today, but soon. Wouldn’t it be better to see him coming, and have some inkling of his plans?”

“When he comes for you, we’ll protect you,” Matthew said. “We’re not going to let him have you.”

“It’s not only me. Lots of people stand to suffer if he succeeds.”

“Lots of people suffer all the time,” Matthew said. “But they aren’t you.”

“I know,” James said. “But I am the only one who can do this. The only one who has a chance of making it work. I don’t wish it were that way, Math. It just is.”

Matthew took a deep, ragged breath. “Explain it, then. How you use the mirror.”

“I put my back to the wall,” said James quietly. “We handcuff me to something fairly intractable—I’d suggest the fireplace grate; it probably hasn’t moved in centuries. I gaze into the mirror and picture Belial’s sigil in my head. I don’t know if the handcuffs will be necessary, but I don’t want to be drawn into the shadow realms. They’re a precaution.”

“Fine,” said Matthew. “Fine—on one condition.”

“All right—what is it?”

“I will be holding on to you,” Matthew said, “for the entire duration.”

He stood straight, not leaning against the chair, color blazing in his face. He reminded James of the Matthew he had tied himself to at their parabatai ceremony so long ago: a Matthew who seemed to fear nothing: not shadow, not fire.

“Yes,” James said. “That, we can do.”

In the end, James ended up sitting on the floor by the fireplace, his legs crossed awkwardly. Matthew sat next to him, his hand looped through James’s belt. Jesse held the mirror while Thomas fixed the handcuffs so one cuff went around James’s wrist, and the other through the fireplace grate.

Jesse took one last look at the mirror before he leaned forward to pass it over to James. Their hands touched; Jesse looked into James’s eyes, his own very dark. He was showing immense strength, James thought, in being willing to take part in a ritual that involved the demon who had once possessed him.

Jesse sat back with Thomas and Christopher, who were on the floor facing James and Matthew. Christopher gave a slight nod, as if to say, Begin.

James gazed down at the mirror. It was heavy, heavier than metal and glass should have been. It seemed to weigh down his hand as if his arm were being forced down by an iron grip.

It was not without beauty, though. The dark metal that surrounded the glass had its own somber glow; it gathered in light and held it, and the inscriptions carved into it shone like glass.

The glass reflected his own face, darkly, a shadowy version of himself with a harsh curve to his mouth. As he gazed at the reflection of his face, he thought of Jem, of what Jem had taught him about controlling his thoughts. He pictured Belial’s sigil, the sign of his power; he concentrated on it, giving it all his attention, letting the image fill the glass.

The mirror began to hum and buzz in his hand. The glass seemed to turn to mercury, a liquid, silvery substance. Shadow poured from it, expanding and rising, until James could still feel Matthew’s hand gripping his belt but could no longer see Matthew at all. He could see only shadows, ever growing, until he gazed on a world of shadow, illuminated by the light of alien stars.

And in the shadows was Belial. He sat upon a throne James had seen before; a throne of ivory and gold, massive in size, so even Belial was dwarfed by it. Though it had clearly been created for an angel, Belial had bastardized it with his sigil: the symbol, spiky and vicious-looking, was scratched all over the ivory and marble, and down the gold steps that led up to the seat.

James drew in a sharp breath and felt Matthew’s hand tighten at his side. What was Matthew seeing? he wondered. What did this look like, to the others? James was still in the Devil Tavern, still chained, yet in Belial’s realm at the same time.

Belial was not the only demon in the shadows. Surrounding him—crawling about at his feet, pawing at the foot of his throne—were a swarm of piglet-sized demons: wormlike, humped and creeping, their skin gray and almost featureless save for a pair of glowing green eyes.

Chimera demons.

Belial rose and came down the steps of his throne. It seemed he could not tell James was watching—he winced as he walked, his hand pressed over his left side, where the wounds Cortana had dealt him still bled. Raising a hand stained with his own blackish blood, Belial sketched an archway on the air.

It was as if he had sliced a piece out of the night. Dim light shone through the arch, and the Chimera demons leaped and frolicked excitedly. James could hear no sound, only a sort of roaring in his ears like the crash of waves, but he saw Belial’s lips move, saw Belial ordering the demons through the open arch, and then Belial turned, a frowning sneer on his face, and looked toward James—

Darkness swallowed him. He was falling, though he could still feel Matthew’s grip. He was caught in a whirlwind of unfamiliar stars, the air ripped from his throat, tearing away his voice. He was no longer in silence. He could hear screaming—the terrible screaming of someone, something, that was being invaded, taken over—

James gasped for breath. He would lose his mind soon, he knew, if he did not break free of the shadows: he forced himself to concentrate, to think of Jem’s lessons, Jem’s voice, calm and steady, training him to regain control of himself. You must find the place within that nothing outside can reach. The place beyond senses, beyond even thought. You don’t need to learn how to get there; you are already there, always. You only need to learn to remember you are there. You are within yourself. You are James Herondale, fully and only.

And with a wrench that seemed to tear at every muscle in his body, James hit the ground. The floor, in fact, of the Devil Tavern. He gasped, taking gulps of familiar, musty air as though he’d been rescued from drowning. He tried to move, to sit up, but he was wrung out: his shirt was plastered to him with sweat, and his hands—

“Are you bleeding?” Christopher demanded. They were all around him, he realized: Thomas and Jesse, Christopher and Matthew, surrounding him, their faces stunned and disbelieving.

“The mirror,” Jesse said. James glanced down to see that the glass had fragmented into a thousand pieces, and his hands were snowflaked with tiny cuts like spiky red lines.

“Just scratches,” he said breathlessly. Through sheer exhaustion he was aware of Matthew at his side, of Matthew taking his arm, of the touch of Matthew’s stele. “I saw…”

“It’s all right, James,” Jesse said, working to undo the cuff around James’s left wrist. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

But the pain was fading, energy surging back into James’s veins as Matthew drew rune after rune on his skin. He let his head fall back against the wall and said, “I saw Belial. He was—surrounded by demons. Chimera demons. He was giving them orders, sending them through some kind of Portal. I couldn’t tell where.”

He closed his eyes, as Christopher said, in a puzzled tone, “But Chimera demons are symbiotic. They need to possess someone in order to come into their full power.”

“They’re easy to defeat on their own,” said Thomas. “Why create an army of them?”

James thought of the screaming he had heard in the void: the agony of it, the terrible sense of invasion. “I think he is sending them to possess someone,” he said. “It felt like a great many someones.” He looked up at his friends. “But who could they be?”

Her room was a small one, up under the eaves of the Institute, and when the wind blew, she could hear it whistle through the broken roof tiles. Her small fireplace was often choked with soot, and smoke puffed into the room like dragon’s breath.

But none of that was the reason she was awake. Every time she shut her eyes, she heard the voices she had discerned through the Sanctuary door. The soft, sibilant, pulsing words she didn’t understand. Ssha ngil ahrzat. Bhemot abliq ahlel. Belial niquaram.

She rolled over, pressing her hands over her eyes. Her head throbbed.

Belial niquaram.

The floor under her feet was cold. She found herself walking to the door, turning the handle. It creaked open, and the cold air from the corridor hit her.

She didn’t feel it. She went down the stairs, which curved in a circle. Down and down, into the dark and unlit nave of the old church. Down the steps to the crypt.

Belial niquaram. Letty niquaram. Kaal ssha ktar.

Come, Letty. I call you, Letty. The door is open.

And indeed, the door of the Sanctuary was unlocked. Letty swung it wide and stepped inside.

A strange tableau met her eyes. The Silent Brother stood below the light of a tallow lamp, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle. His mouth was as open as it could be, straining against the threads that held it sewed shut, and from it emanated more of those words, those grating, terrible words that stuck and pulled her closer, as if she were imprisoned in tar.

Ssha ngil ahrzat. Bhemot abliq ahlel. Belial niquaram. Eidolon.

At his feet lay the body of Albert Pangborn. He had died in his nightclothes, the front of his shirt torn open, showing red flesh and white bone, like a gaping mouth. Blood pooled beneath him.

And still Letty could not run.

On the metal bed sat the old woman, Tatiana Blackthorn. Her eyes, gone dark as ink, fixed on Letty, and she began to grin. Letty watched as Tatiana’s mouth opened—and opened, distending well beyond any human jaw.

From the old woman now came a low, creaking sound. It sounded like she was laughing, deep in her chest.

I must run,said some small, buried part of Letty. I must get out of this place.

But she couldn’t move. Not even when the old woman’s skin split, her body shifting and changing so rapidly it was as if she were melting and re-forming into something else. Something pale and tall, skinny-limbed, bald and hairless, with skin like a puckered burn. Something that hunched its back, and hopped and crawled. Something slimy and pale white that came at Letty so fast that she had no time even to cry out.