What energy she had left was concentrated on Rupert. If she loosed her grip on his spirit, he would be torn back to the darkness she had pulled him from. And Jesse—Jesse was already approaching Rupert’s ghost, drawn by his father’s beckoning hand.

She was dimly aware of James and the others milling around at the bottom of the steps. She thought she heard Anna’s voice, sharply raised, but everything outside the small circle of her and Jesse and Jesse’s father seemed as if it were occurring on a shadowy stage. She gripped the edge of the cold stone step tightly as Jesse came to a stop a few feet from Rupert.

His father’s ghost regarded him with a calm sadness. “Jesse,” he said.

“But how?” Jesse whispered. He had a cut on his cheek, still bleeding; he was shivering with the cold, though Lucie doubted he’d noticed. He had never looked more human and alive than he did standing beside a ghost, a ghost who was nearly the mirror image of Jesse as he used to be. “If you’re a spirit—how was I a ghost for so many years and I never saw you?”

Rupert raised a hand as if he could touch his son’s face. “Your mother made sure of that,” he said. “But Jesse—we have little time.”

He was right, Lucie knew. He was slipping away from her, already growing more indistinct around the edges. His fingers were turning pale, translucent, the edges like smoke.

“I was asleep,” Rupert said, “and have been awakened, but only for this moment. I died before you were ever born, my child. Yet after death, I have seen you.”

“My mother said—you were bound in the shadows—” Jesse said haltingly.

“I could not return as a ghost on this earth,” said Rupert gently. He was fading faster now. Lucie could see entirely through him, see the stones of the Institute, see Jesse’s stricken face. “Yet I dreamed of you, even in my endless sleep. And I feared for you. But you have proved strong. You have restored honor to the Blackthorn family name.” Lucie thought he smiled; it was difficult to tell. He was wisps of smoke now, only the shape of a boy, like a figure seen in a cloud. “I am proud of you.”

“Father—” Jesse started forward, just as Lucie cried out—she could feel Rupert torn away from her, out of her grip. She tried to hold on, but it was like holding water. As he slipped away, she saw once again the star-spangled darkness, the world away from this one, the place between.

And he was gone.

Jesse stood shivering, sword in hand, his face a mask of sadness. Now that she was no longer struggling to hold on to Rupert, Lucie was able to catch her breath; slowly she rose to her feet. Would Jesse be furious? she wondered bleakly. Would he hate her for not being able to hold on to his father’s spirit—or worse, for drawing him back to this world at all?

“Lucie,” Jesse said, his voice rough, and she saw that his eyes were glittering with tears. Forgetting her fear, she ran toward him, slipping on the icy stone, and threw her arms around him.

He put his head down on her shoulder. She held him with care, making sure their skin did not touch. Much as she ached to kiss him, to tell him with her touch that his father was not the only one proud of him, it was too dangerous. The world was coming back to her more clearly now, along with her strength. Over Jesse’s bent head, she could see the courtyard, see the unearthly red sky illuminating drops of blood in the dusting of snow that covered the ground. The thunder had stopped; the wind was dying down. It was quiet.

In fact, Lucie realized, the silence was eerie. Her friends were gathered at the foot of the steps, but they were not speaking. No one was discussing what had just happened, or what would have to happen next.

She felt suddenly very cold. Something was horribly wrong. She knew it; she would have known it before had she not been so focused on Rupert. She drew away from Jesse, touching his arm lightly. “Come with me,” she said, and together they descended the steps, hurrying when they reached the courtyard.

As they neared the small group gathered at the edge of the steps, she saw who was standing there in a small circle: James, Matthew, and Ari. They were motionless. Her heart lurching, Lucie drew closer, until she could see Anna, sitting on the ground, Christopher’s head in her lap.

His body was sprawled across the flagstones, and Lucie thought he could not possibly be comfortable. He was twisted at an odd angle, his shoulder hunched in. His spectacles lay on the ground beside him, the glass cracked. Blood stained the shoulder of his coat, but not much; his eyes were closed. Anna’s hand stroked his hair, over and over, as if her body was making the gesture without her mind even being aware of it.

“Kit,” Lucie said, and all of them looked over at her, their faces strangely expressionless, like masks. “Is he all right?” she said, her voice sounding too loud in the awful silence. “He was all right, wasn’t he? It was just a little wound—”

“Lucie,” Anna said, her voice cold and final. “He’s dead.”

The serpents in Lilith’s eyes hissed and snapped. “Paladin,” said Lilith. “Slay her.”

“Wait,” Cordelia gasped, feeling the clench of Lilith’s will, closing around her like a vise. She pushed back, barely aware of a spark of hot pain at her wrist as she did so. Her voice shook as she said, “Tatiana stands at Belial’s right hand. No one is closer to him or knows his plans better. Let me question her, at least.”

Lilith smiled. The green scales of her dress flashed under the red light of the sky, a strange chromatic mixture of poison and blood. “You may try.”

Cordelia turned to Tatiana. The bone-white strands of her hair snapped in the wind. She looked ancient, Cordelia thought, a sort of crone torn by time, like the witches in Macbeth. “Before you stands the Mother of Demons,” Cordelia said, “and I am her paladin. Tell me how I can find Belial. Tell me, or Lilith will destroy you. There will be nothing left of you to rule your New London.”

Tatiana sneered. “So you are not so righteous after all, Cordelia Carstairs,” she said. “It seems we both have our demon masters.” She threw her head back. “I will tell you nothing. I will never betray my lord Belial.”

“The Blackthorn woman is a thrall,” Lilith said dismissively. “She is not negotiating with a will separate from Belial’s. She will do what he says and die for him. She is useless to you—and to me. Kill her.”

It was as if a steel arm had seized Cordelia’s wrist, forcing her own hand, with the blade held in it, up and out, curving her grip around the knife’s hilt. Cordelia took a step forward toward the cowering Tatiana—

Heat flared at her wrist. The amulet Christopher had given her, she realized, the one that was meant to protect her from Lilith. She came to a stop as her will slipped free of Lilith’s, evading it; she whirled and flung the knife as hard as she could, toward the mouth of the cul-de-sac. It skidded into the darkness.

Pain shot through Cordelia. She gasped, almost doubling over. Lilith’s displeasure: twisting her, crushing her. There was a crack at her wrist that she first feared was broken bone, but no: it was her amulet, falling shattered to the ground.

Lilith snorted. “Truly, you thought to hold me back with trinkets? You are a foolish, stubborn girl.”

Tatiana cackled wildly. “The reluctant paladin,” she said. “What a choice you have made, Mother of Demons. The avatar of your will on the Earth is too weak even to follow your orders.” Tatiana turned her gaze on Cordelia with a sneer. “Weak, like your father,” she said.

“It is not weakness,” whispered Cordelia, rising to her feet. “It is mercy.”

“But mercy must be tempered with justice,” said Lilith. “I cannot understand you, Cordelia. Even now you stand in a city that rests in the palm of Belial’s hand, yet you resist me—the only one who could help you fight back against him.”

“I won’t be a murderer,” Cordelia gasped. “I won’t—”

“Please. You know better than anyone how much pain Tatiana Blackthorn has caused, how many lives she has ruined.” Lilith’s hands moved together in a strange dance, as if she were shaping something between them. Her fingers were long and white as icicles. “She has spent years tormenting the Herondale boy, the one you love.” The air between her hands had begun to shimmer and solidify. “Is it not your duty to avenge him?”

Cordelia thought of James. Of his steady gaze, always encouraging, always believing the best of her, always believing in her. And the thought of him stiffened her spine, her will. She raised her chin defiantly. “You think James is like Belial, because he is his grandson,” she said. “But he is nothing like him. He wants peace, not revenge.” She turned to Lilith. “I will not kill Tatiana, not when she is helpless—I have cast away my weapon—”

The shimmer between Lilith’s hands solidified. It was a sword, made entirely of ice. The red light of the sky sparked off it, and Cordelia could not help but be struck by its loveliness. Its blade was like quartz, like moonlight hardened into stone. Its hilt resembled rock crystal. It was a thing born out of the chill of winter stars, beautiful and cold.

“Take it,” Lilith said, and Cordelia could not stop herself; her hand flew out and seized the ice sword, sweeping it in front of her. It burned coldly against her hand, a glimmering, deadly icicle. “And kill the thrall. She murdered your father.”

“Not I, but I was glad to see him die,” Tatiana hissed. “How Elias screamed—how he begged for mercy—”

“Stop!”Cordelia screamed; she was not certain at which of them she was shouting. Only that tremors were shuddering through her body as she held herself still; it hurt, and she knew the pain would stop if only she ceased fighting Lilith’s will.

“Tsk,” said Lilith. “I did not want to have to do this, but look—see what this creature, this thrall, has just done—”

And Cordelia saw a vision of the Institute courtyard. She saw Anna, struggling to hold Christopher. Christopher, who was jerking and twisting in her arms, as if trying to get away from something that had its teeth sunk into him. Anna had her stele in her hand; she was desperately trying to scribble iratzes onto her brother’s skin, each one vanishing, like a teaspoon of ink spilled into an ocean of water.

Beside Anna lay the pearl-handled knife that Tatiana had thrown. Its blade foamed with blood that was already turning black with venom even as Cordelia watched. A silent scream built in her throat, a desperate need to call out to Anna, even though she knew Anna could not hear her. Knew, even as Christopher’s spasming motions ceased, even as he exhaled and went still, his eyes fixed blankly on the sky above him, that there was nothing she could do to save him. Knew, as Anna folded up over his body, her shoulders shaking, that he was gone.

All the breath went out of Cordelia in a rush, as though she had been stabbed in the stomach. And with it went her will to resist. She thought of Christopher, his kindness, his mercy, the way he had smiled at her as he led her through the Silent City to Grace, and she turned toward Tatiana, the ice sword flashing in her grip. In that moment, it did not matter that it was not Cortana. It was a blade in her hand, as with one swift, sure motion she slit Tatiana’s throat open from ear to ear.

There was a roaring in Cordelia’s mind. She could not think, could not speak, could only watch as Tatiana’s blood poured from her throat. She made a noise, a sort of gurgle, as she sank to her knees, clawing at her neck.

Lilith was laughing. “It is too bad for her that you refuse to use Cortana,” she said, prodding at Tatiana’s spasming body with her toe. “You could have saved her life. A paladin’s bonded weapon has the power to heal what it has harmed.”

“What?” Cordelia whispered.

“You heard me,” said Lilith. “And you have doubtless read it in the legends. A paladin’s blade has the power of salvation as well as destruction. But you wouldn’t have healed her anyway, would you? You do not have that much mercy in your heart.”

Cordelia tried to picture herself stepping forward, somehow healing Tatiana, who had sowed so much ruination, so much pain. Even now, she might not be able to save Tatiana’s life, but she could kneel beside her, speak a comforting word. She began to step forward—just as Tatiana toppled over, falling facedown into the snow. Her body burst into flames. Cordelia stood motionless as she watched the fire swiftly consume her: her clothes, her skin, her body. Acrid smoke rose from the conflagration, sour with the stench of burning bone.

“Oh, my,” clucked Lilith. “Swift action is a paladin’s friend.” She laughed. “You should really pluck up your courage, my dear. Without Cortana, you are only half the warrior you could be. Do not fear your own destiny. Grasp it.”

And with that, she disappeared in a flash of extending wings, an owl darting into the sky, leaving Cordelia to stare in horror at what she had done. The ashes that had been Tatiana Blackthorn rose with the wind and blew in eddies around the courtyard, drifting into the sky until they vanished. The sword in Cordelia’s hand slid from her grip, falling away to melt among the ice along the street. Her heart was a bell, tolling for death.

The fog that hung over the city had thickened. Lampposts and stopped carriages loomed up out of the mist, as if she were fleeing through a snowstorm. There were other shadows too, moving ones, appearing and disappearing in the fog—mundanes, wandering? Something more sinister? She thought she saw the flash of a white robe, but when she dashed toward it, it had vanished into the mist.

All Cordelia knew was that she had to get back to the Institute. Over and over she saw the tableau of Christopher lying dead, so vivid in her mind that when she finally reached the Institute gates and the courtyard beyond, she was shocked to find it deserted.

It was clear there had been a battle—the snowy ground was disturbed, spotted with blood and thrown weapons; even ragged chunks of the Watchers’ staffs. But the silence that hung over the place was eerie, and when Cordelia went into the cathedral, it held the same tomb-like quiet.

She had not realized how cold she was. As the warmth of the Institute enveloped her, she began shivering uncontrollably, as if her body had finally been given permission to feel the chill. She made straight for the Sanctuary, where the doors were already open. The great, high-ceilinged room yawned beyond.

And inside, silence. Silence and a grief so palpable it was like a living force.

Cordelia was reminded of the awful room in the Silent City where her father’s body had been laid out. She recalled Lucie saying that no one had cleared away the bier Jesse had been laid out on, and indeed, here it was, with Christopher stretched atop it. He was on his back, his hands folded across his chest. Someone had closed his eyes, and his spectacles had been laid neatly beside him, as if at any moment he might awake and reach out for them, wondering where they had gone.

Around Christopher’s body knelt his friends. James, Lucie, Matthew, Anna. Ari. Jesse. Anna was at the head of the bier, her hand lightly against Christopher’s cheek. Cordelia did not see Alastair or Thomas, and she felt a small chill—she had been glad, selfishly, that Alastair had not been there for the battle, that he had been well out of it. But now that she had been out in the city, she had begun to worry. Were they lost in the creeping fog? Or worse, facing whatever creatures were hiding in that fog?

As Cordelia approached, she caught sight of Grace, huddled alone in a corner. Her feet were bare and bloody; she was curled in on herself, her face in her hands.

James looked up. He saw Cordelia and rose to his feet, his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. Something in his eyes had changed, Cordelia thought with an awful pang. Changed forever. Something had been lost, as he seemed lost, like a little boy.

Not caring if anyone was watching, she held out her arms. James crossed the room and caught her tightly to him. For a long time he held her, his face pressed against her loose hair, though it was damp with melting snow. “Daisy,” he whispered. “You’re all right. I was so worried—when you ran—” He took a deep breath. “Tatiana. Did she get away?”

“No,” Cordelia said. “I killed her. She’s gone.”

“Good,” Anna said savagely, her hand still against Christopher’s cheek. “I hope it was painful. I hope it was agony—”

“Anna,” Lucie said gently. She was looking from Jesse, who was expressionless, to Grace, still huddled against the wall. “We should—”

But Grace raised her head from her arms. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks with dried tears. “You promise?” she said, her voice trembling. “You promise me she’s dead? Belial cannot raise her?”

“There is nothing to raise,” Cordelia said. “She is dust and ashes. I promise that, Grace.”

“Oh, thank God,” Grace whispered, “oh, thank God,” and she began to shake violently, her whole body shuddering. Jesse got to his feet and went across the room to his sister. Kneeling down beside her, he took one of her hands, pressing it between his own, murmuring words Cordelia could not hear.

James’s lips brushed Cordelia’s cheek. “My love,” he said. “I know it is not easy to take a life, even such a life as that.”

“It does not matter now,” Cordelia said. “What matters is Christopher. I am so, so sorry, James—”

His face tightened. “I can’t fix it,” he whispered. “That is the unbearable part. There is nothing I can do.”

Cordelia only murmured and stroked his back. Now was not the time to speak of how no one could fix this, how death was not a problem to be solved, but a wound that took time to heal. Words would be meaningless against the chasm of the loss of Christopher.

Cordelia looked over at the bier and caught Lucie’s gaze. Alone among them all, Lucie was weeping—silently and without movement, the tears trickling down her cheeks one by one. Oh, my Luce, Cordelia thought, and wanted to go to her, but there was noise at the Sanctuary door, and a moment later, Thomas and Alastair came in.

“Oh, thank the Angel,” James said, hoarsely. “We had no idea what happened to you—”

But Thomas was staring past him. Staring at Christopher and the others. At the bier, the lighted tapers. The scrap of white silk in Matthew’s hands. “What…” He looked at James, his eyes bewildered, as if James would have an answer, a solution. “Jamie. What’s happened?”

James squeezed Cordelia’s hand and went over to Thomas. Cordelia could hear him speaking, low and fast, as Thomas shook his head, slowly and then faster. No. No.

As James finished the story, Alastair backed away, as if to give James and Thomas privacy. He came to join Cordelia, and he took her hands in his. He turned them over, silently, looking at the red frost burns where she’d held the ice sword. “Are you all right?” he said, in Persian. “Layla, I am so sorry I was not here.”

“I am glad you were not here,” she said fiercely. “I am glad you were safe.”

He shook his head. “There is nothing safe about London now,” he said. “What is happening out there—it is Belial’s doing, Cordelia. He has turned the mundanes of the city into mindless puppets—”

He broke off as Thomas approached the bier where Christopher lay. As big and broad-shouldered as Thomas was, he seemed somehow shrunken as he stared at Kit’s body, as if he were trying to disappear into himself. “It’s not possible,” he whispered. “He doesn’t even look wounded. Have you tried iratzes?”

No one spoke. Cordelia recalled her vision of Anna, drawing healing runes on Christopher over and over, becoming more and more frantic as they vanished against his skin. She was not frantic now—she stood like a stone angel at the head of the bier and did not even look at Thomas.

“There was poison on the weapon, Thomas,” said Ari gently. “The healing runes could not save him.”

“Lucie,” Thomas said roughly, and Lucie looked up in surprise. “Isn’t there something you can do? You raised Jesse—you brought him back—”

Lucie whitened. “Oh, Tom,” she said. “It’s not like that. I—I did reach out for Kit, just after it happened. But there wasn’t anything there. He’s dead. Not like Jesse. He’s truly dead.”

Thomas sat down. Very suddenly, on the floor, as if his legs had given out. And Cordelia thought of all the times she had seen Christopher and Thomas together, talking or laughing or just reading in companionable silence. It was the natural outcome of James and Matthew being parabatai and always together, but it was more than that: they had not fallen together by chance, but because their temperaments aligned.

And because they had known each other all their lives. Now, Thomas had lost a sister and a friend as close as a brother, all in one year.

Matthew stood up. He went over to Thomas and knelt down beside him. He took Thomas’s hands, and Thomas, who was so much taller and bigger than Matthew, gripped onto Matthew as if he were anchoring him to the ground. “I shouldn’t have left,” Thomas said, a hitch in his voice. “I should have stayed—I could have protected him—”

Alastair looked stricken. Cordelia knew that if Thomas blamed himself for Kit’s death because he had been with Alastair, it would crush her brother. He already blamed himself for so much.

“No,” Matthew said sharply. “Never say that. It was only chance that Kit was killed. It could have been any of us. We were outnumbered, outmatched. There was nothing you could have done.”

“But,” Thomas said, dazed, “if I’d been there—”

“You might be dead too.” Matthew stood up. “And then I would have to live with not just a quarter of my heart cut out, but half of it gone. We were glad you were somewhere else, Thomas. You were out of danger.” He turned to Alastair, his green eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t just stand there, Carstairs,” he said. “It isn’t me Thomas needs now. It’s you.”

Alastair looked stunned, and Cordelia knew immediately what he was thinking: That can’t be true, it can’t be me Thomas needs, or wants.

“Go,” she said, giving him a little shove, and Alastair put his shoulders back, as if he were readying for a battle. He marched across the room, past Matthew, and got down on his knees beside Thomas.

Thomas raised his head. “Alastair,” he whispered, as if Alastair’s name were a talisman against pain and grief, and Alastair put his arms around Thomas, with a gentleness Cordelia did not think she had ever seen her brother express before. He pulled Thomas close to him and kissed his eyes, and then his forehead, and if anyone had wondered what their relationship might be before, Cordelia thought, they would not wonder now. And she was glad. It was past time for the end of secrets.

She caught Matthew’s eye and tried to smile at him. She did not think she actually managed anything like a smile, but she hoped he read the message in her eyes, regardless: Good work, Matthew.

She turned to look at James. He was frowning, but not at Thomas or Alastair. It was as if he heard something—and a moment later, Cordelia heard it too. The sound of hoofbeats in the courtyard.

“That’s Balios,” James said. “And others. Charles must be back with the patrol.”

Matthew nodded. “We’d better go see what they’ve found,” he said, sounding weary unto death. “By the Angel, how is this night not ended yet?”

Charles had ridden out alone, but he had returned with about ten members of the First Patrol, all in gear, all on horseback. They crowded the courtyard, steam rising from the horses’ flanks, and as the patrol dismounted one by one, Cordelia could not help but stare.

They looked as if they, too, had been in a battle. They were tattered and bloodstained, their gear ripped and torn. A white bandage circled Rosamund’s head, soaked through with blood on one side. A large patch along the side of Charles’s jacket was blackened with burn marks. Several of the others bore healing runes; Augustus, one of his eyes swelling blue and black, wore a dazed expression, nothing like his usual cocky demeanor.

Charles threw his reins over his horse’s neck and stalked over toward James, Cordelia, and the others. There was a grim expression on his scratched face; he looked like a Shadowhunter, for once, rather than a mundane businessman.

“Grace was telling the truth,” he said, without preamble. “We went straight to Highgate, but the entrance to the Silent City was surrounded by demons. A swarm of them. We could barely fight our way through—finally Piers broke through the line, but…” He shook his head. “It didn’t matter. The doors to the City were sealed shut. We couldn’t find any way through, and demons just kept coming.…”

Piers Wentworth joined them. He had his stele out, his gloves off. He was drawing a healing rune onto the back of his left hand. Cordelia couldn’t blame him—he had a nasty cut along the side of his neck, and one of his fingers appeared broken. “That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” he said, looking over at James. “Have any of you been out in the city?”

“Only a little ways,” said Cordelia. “It was hard to see anything in the fog.”

Piers barked a hollow laugh. “It’s much worse than just fog. Something has gone horribly wrong in London.”

James glanced back at the others. Matthew, Thomas, Lucie. Alastair. Jesse. They all looked pale and stunned; Cordelia could tell that James was worrying that they could take very little more.

He also hadn’t mentioned Christopher. Not yet. Or the Watcher attack. Clearly he wanted Charles and the patrol to speak first. “What do you mean, Piers?” he said.

But it was Rosamund who answered. “It was like riding through Hell as soon as we left Highgate,” she said, and winced. She put a hand to her head, and Piers reached over with his stele to mark her with an iratze. “We couldn’t fight the demons in the cemetery—some of us thought there were too many of them, anyway.” She eyed Augustus coldly. “The minute we left, a thick fog came up. We could barely see through it. Lightning was striking everywhere—we had to dodge it, it was hitting the ground all around us—”

“It split a lamp in Bloomsbury in half,” put in Esme Hardcastle, “like the blasted tree in Jane Eyre.”

“Not the time for literary references, Esme,” snapped Rosamund. “It nearly set Charles on fire. Whatever it was, it wasn’t ordinary lightning. And the storm—it stank of demonic magic.”

“None of the mundanes we passed reacted to any of it,” said Charles. “Not the storm, not the fires. They were wandering around in a daze.”

“We saw a woman crushed by a runaway milk cart and no one stopped to help,” Esme said in a wobbly voice. “I ran to her but—it was too late.”

“Alastair and I saw the same kind of thing,” said Thomas, “when we were out in the carriage. Davies suddenly just—stopped driving. He didn’t respond when we called to him. We saw other mundanes too—children, old people—just staring into space. It was as if their bodies were here, but their minds were somewhere else.”

Charles frowned. “What on earth were you doing, going for a carriage ride?”

Alastair crossed his arms over his chest. “It was just after we talked to you in the office,” he said, a sharp note in his voice. “We didn’t know anything had gone wrong.”

“So before Grace arrived,” said Charles. “We thought Tatiana…” He looked around, as if truly seeing the courtyard—the spatters of blood, the discarded weapons—for the first time. And as if he were seeing them—Cordelia, James, and the others—for the first time. How miserable they must look, Cordelia thought; miserable and bloody and dazed. “What happened here?”

Rosamund looked uneasy. “Maybe we should go inside the Institute,” she said. “We can send a few riders to summon the rest of the Enclave. It clearly isn’t safe out here—”

“It isn’t safe inside, either,” James said. “Tatiana Blackthorn escaped from the Silent City. She tried to take the Institute. She killed Christopher. She had warriors with her, Belial’s warriors. Possessed Silent Brothers—”

Charles looked stunned. “Christopher is dead? Little Kit?” and for that moment he sounded not like the temporary head of the Institute, or Bridgestock’s pawn. He sounded a bit like Alastair did sometimes, as if he still thought of his little sibling as a child. As if Matthew’s friends too were children in his mind, Christopher only a little boy, looking up at him with bright and trusting eyes.

“Yes,” Matthew said, not ungently. “He’s dead, Charles. As is Tatiana. But it is all very far from over.” He glanced at Rosamund. “We can summon the Enclave,” he said. “But these creatures of Belial’s—they’re nearly impossible to defeat.”

“Nonsense,” said Augustus. “Any demon can be defeated—”

“Shut up, Augustus.” James had gone rigid; he was staring at the Institute gates. He put a hand to the pistol in his belt. “They’re here. Have a look.”

And indeed, pouring through the gates were more Watchers in the form of Silent Brothers; they were joined by Iron Sisters this time, with Death runes the color of flame edging their white robes. They were in two files, walking at a steady stride.

“They’re not alone,” Jesse said. He had drawn his sword and was staring with narrowed eyes. “Are those—mundanes with them?”

They were walking between one group of Watchers and another, prodded along by the points of sharpened staffs without seeming to notice. A ragtag group of five mundanes, seemingly chosen at random, from a man in a striped business suit to a little girl whose pigtails were tied with bright ribbons. They could have been gathered up from any London street.

Cordelia felt a cold spike of horror, sharp in her chest. The mundanes stumbled as they walked, blank-eyed and helpless as cattle being led to the slaughter. “James…,” she whispered.

“I know.” She could feel him beside her, his presence solid, reassuring. “We’ll just have to see what they want.”

The strange parade made their way into the courtyard and came to a stop in front of the assembled Shadowhunters. The Watchers were impassive, holding their staffs level, pointed at the mundanes. Dull-eyed, wordless, the mundanes simply stood where they were, gazing off in different directions.

Charles cleared his throat. “What is this?” he demanded. “What is going on?”

The Watchers didn’t move, but one of the mundanes stepped forward. She was a young woman, freckle-faced, wearing a servant’s black dress with a white apron over it. Her hair was tucked up under a cap. She could have been a maid in any fine house in London.

Like the rest of the mundanes, she wasn’t wearing a coat, but she didn’t appear to be cold. Her eyes stared into space, unfocused, even as she began to speak.

“Greetings, Nephilim,” she said, and the voice that rumbled from her chest was deep and fiery and familiar. Belial’s. “I speak to you from the void between the worlds, from the fiery pits of Edom. You may know me as the eater of souls, the eldest of the nine Princes of Hell, the commander of countless armies. I am Belial, and London is under my control now.”

“But Belial can’t possess humans,” Cordelia whispered. “Their bodies can’t sustain it.”

“That is why I have gathered so many together,” Belial said, and as he spoke, black pits, like scorch marks edged in flame, began to spread across the woman’s skin. A streak ran up her jaw, another along her cheekbone. It was like watching acid eat away a photograph. As the rents in her skin widened, her jawbone, exposed to the air, flashed white. “It will take more than one mundane to get—”

Her voice—Belial’s voice—choked off in a rush of blood and black, tar-like sludge. She melted like a candle, her body dissolving, until all that was left was a wet, blackened lump of fabric, and the charred edge of a once-white apron.

The second mundane stepped forward. This one was the man in the striped business suit, black hair slick with pomade, his pale eyes wide and dead as marbles. “To get my message across,” he finished smoothly, in Belial’s voice.

“Oh, this is awful,” Lucie whispered, her teeth chattering. “Make it stop.”

“I will stop when I am given what I want, child,” said Belial. Surely the mundane man’s hair had been black a moment ago, Cordelia thought. It was turning white as Belial spoke, the color of dead ash. “The form I am in now will not last long. The fire of a Prince of Hell burns away such clay as this.” He raised one of the mundane’s hands. The tips of the man’s fingers were already beginning to blacken and char.

“Enough,”James snapped. “Belial. What do you want?”

The mundane’s face twisted into a smirk. Belial’s smirk. “James, my grandson,” he said, “we have come to the end of our long dance.” The char was spreading down the man’s hand, to his wrist, and more black patches were visible on his neck, edging up toward his chin. “Tatiana Blackthorn is dead,” Belial went on. “She had come to the end of her usefulness, and now she is gone.” The mundane man jerked, and green-black fluid spilled from the corners of his mouth. It dripped onto the cobblestones, where it sizzled against the snow. When Belial spoke again, his voice was thick and wet, almost too distorted to understand. “Therefore I have come to tell you as directly as is possible that it… is… over.”

The man gave a low grunt, and his body collapsed in on itself, blackening and curling sickeningly. The man’s clothes fell empty to the ground, followed by a trickle of black ash. There was nothing else left.

Cordelia saw Tatiana’s body, burning away to ashes as Lilith laughed. It seemed a thousand years ago, yet it was hideously clear in her mind’s eye, as if it were still happening now.

“Stop!” It was Thomas, his kind face white with strain. “There must be some other way you can communicate with us. Let the mundanes go. Let one of the Silent Brothers speak to us instead.”

James, who knew Belial better than any of them, closed his eyes in pain.

“But that would be much less fun.” Belial giggled. A third mundane had stepped forward, with the same wooden, jerky gait as the others. This one was an older woman—someone’s grandmother, Cordelia thought, a gray-haired woman in a pale, much-washed flowered dress. She could picture the woman reading aloud by a fire, a grandchild on her lap.

“I have taken the Silent City,” Belial said, and it was alien and strange to hear his voice issue from the old woman’s lips. “I have taken the bodies of your Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters, and I have made of them an army and marched them down the Path of the Dead into your City of Bones. It was quite thoughtful of you, to keep a whole horde of Shadowhunters around whose bodies do not degrade, but who are no longer protected by your Nephilim spells—”

“Congratulations,” said James, looking sick. “You are very clever. But we know all this, and I know what it is you want.”

“You can stop this,” Belial hissed. “Give yourself up to me—”

“No. If you possess me, you will only wreak more destruction and more ruin.”

Augustus, Rosamund, Piers, and the others were staring in amazement. At least they would see now, Cordelia thought. They would all see that James was not in league with Belial; far from it. That he hated Belial, and Belial wished only to possess and destroy him.

“No,” Belial snarled. As Cordelia watched, the woman’s skin began to sift away like flour, revealing the white bones of her skull. “There can be… negotiation. I—”

But the old woman had no more ability to speak. Her skin had crumbled away from her neck, revealing her bare spine and trachea. There was no blood, only ash, as if her body had burned from the inside out. Her empty dress fell to the ground, covered in the gray-white powder of what had once been her bones.

“We have to stop this,” Lucie whispered. “There must be something we can do.” But Jesse was holding her arm tightly; Cordelia could not blame him.

A fourth mundane stepped forward—a thin young man wearing spectacles and a waistcoat. A student at King’s College, perhaps; he looked as if he had once been studious, thoughtful.

“Negotiation?” said James. “You know I will not negotiate with you.”

“But perhaps,” Belial mused, “you do not yet understand your situation. London is cut off from the rest of the world. A sigil of fire blocks the borders of the city, and none may enter or leave, by means magical or mundane, save at my whim. I have sealed every entrance, every exit, from the Portal in your crypt to the roads that lead out of London. Nor will any telephone or telegraph or other such nonsense function. I control the minds of all within these borders, from the meanest mundane to the most powerful Downworlder. London is locked away from the rest of the world. No help can come for you.”

Rosamund gave a little shriek and covered her mouth with her hands. The others were staring. Belial was clearly enjoying himself to the hilt, Cordelia thought; it was sickening, and she resolved to show no emotion. Not even when black lines began to appear on the student’s skin, ragged seamlike cuts, as if he were a rag doll that had been stitched together and was now coming undone. “If,” Belial said, “you will come with me, James, and listen to my proposition, I will give the Shadowhunters of London a chance to escape.”

“Escape?” snapped Charles. “What do you mean, escape?”

A seam split in the student’s cheek. It gaped wide, and black flies began to crawl out of the wound. “There is a gate called York,” Belial hissed, “down by your River Thames, a gate that comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere. I will give the Shadowhunters of London thirty-six hours to depart London through that gate. No tricks,” he said, holding up his hands as James began to protest. The student’s hands were seamed with black lines, several of his fingers dangling as if held on by threads. “The Portal will take any who pass through it safely to a spot just outside Idris. It is only London I want, and only London I will take; I have no interest in Nephilim. But the lives of any who remain will be forfeit.”

“You will let the other inhabitants of London live?” Jesse asked. “The mundanes, the Downworlders…”

“Indeed.” Belial grinned, and the student’s face split apart and hung in flaps of skin. His hands were peeling away from the wrists, like bloody gloves. “I wish to rule an inhabited city. It amuses me to have them go about their normal lives, knowing nothing—”

There was a wet, squelching noise. Cordelia forced herself not to look away as the student toppled over. What was left of him resembled a raw side of beef stuffed into a suit of clothes. She wanted badly to be sick.

And then the last of the mundanes stepped forward. Cordelia heard Matthew swear softly. It was the little girl, her blank face innocent and clear, her wide eyes a shade of blue that reminded Cordelia of Lucie. “James,” Belial said, and the force of his voice seemed to shake the little girl’s body.

“Stop,” James said. Cordelia could sense him trembling beside her. She felt a cold terror. They were watching murder, murder after murder happening before their eyes, and James would blame himself. “Leave the girl alone—”

Blood flecked the child’s lips as she spoke with the voice of a Prince of Hell. “Not unless you will come with me to Edom.”

James hesitated. “You will leave Cordelia out of this,” he said. “Regardless of Cortana. You will not harm her.”

“No,”Cordelia cried, but Belial was grinning, the little girl’s face twisted horribly into a leer.

“All right,” he said. “Unless she attacks me. I will leave her be, if you agree to hear me out. I will lay before you your future—”

“All right,”James said desperately. “Leave the girl. Let her go. I will go with you to Edom.”

Instantly, the little girl’s eyes rolled up in her head. She collapsed to the ground, her small body still and barely breathing. As she exhaled, a plume of dark smoke emerged, rising and diffusing into the air. Rosamund dropped to her knees beside the girl and put her hand against the girl’s shoulder. Above them all, the smoke-shadow began to coalesce, spinning like a small tornado.

“James, no.” Matthew started toward him, the wind whipping his blond hair. “You can’t agree to that—”

“He’s right.” Cordelia caught at James’s arm. “James, please—”

James turned toward her. “This was always going to happen, Daisy,” he said, catching urgently at her hands. “You have to believe me, believe in me, I can—”

Cordelia screamed as her hands were torn from his. She was lifted off her feet—it was as if a hand were gripping her, squeezing her. She was flung aside like a doll; she hit the stone steps with a force that knocked the breath from her body.

Shadow swirled around her. As she struggled to sit up, gasping past her broken ribs, she saw James, half-hidden from her by darkness. It was as if she were looking at him through dimmed glass. She saw him turn toward her, saw him look directly at her, even as she tried to get to her feet, tasting bitter blood in her mouth.

I love you,she read in his eyes.

“James!”she screamed, as the shadows between them thickened. She could hear Lucie screaming, hear the others shouting, hear the terrible beating of her own terrified heart. Holding her side, she started toward James, aware of the Watchers moving toward the steps, toward her. If she could just reach him first—

But the shadow was everywhere now, cutting off her vision, filling the world. She could barely see James—the smudge of his pale face, the gleam of the pistol at his waist. And then she saw something else—Matthew, moving more quickly than she would have thought possible, shot through a gap in the darkness and flung himself at James, catching hold of his sleeve just as the darkness closed in on them both.

It seemed to boil and churn—there was a flash of bloody gold light, as if Cordelia looked through a Portal—and then it was gone. Gone entirely, not the wisp of a shadow remaining, only empty steps, and a scatter of what looked very much like sand.

Belial was gone. And he had taken James and Matthew with him.