Lucie stopped short. She had not realized Malcolm and Jesse had been talking about plans, about her, while she was not there. She did not much like the idea. “Jesse, that’s ridiculous. I do not want you to live a life of such—such exile.”
“But it is a life,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
She shook her head. “I did not bring you back from the dead so that—” So that you could go away from me, she almost said, but cut herself off. She had heard a noise—something at the front door. She and Jesse looked at each other in consternation. “Who could it be?” she whispered.
“Probably nothing. A villager, perhaps, looking for Malcolm. I’ll answer it.”
But he seized up the poker from where he’d left it and stalked out of the room. Lucie hurried after him, wondering what it was that made the Blackthorns so fond of using fireplace tools as weapons.
Before he could reach the door, she stepped in front of him, her instinct always to protect Jesse even if he didn’t need protection. She jostled him out of the way and threw the front door open. She stared, halfway between horror and relief, at the three figures on the doorstep, wrapped in winter coats, flushed from the cold and the long walk up the hill.
Her brother. Her father. And Magnus Bane.
* * *
Cordelia dreamed that she stood upon a great chessboard that stretched out infinitely beneath an equally infinite night sky. Stars spangled the blackness like a scatter of diamonds. As she watched, her father staggered out upon the board, his coat torn and bloody. As he fell to his knees, she raced toward him, but as fast as she might run, she seemed to conquer no distance. The board still stretched between them, even as he sank to his knees, blood pooling around him on the black-and-white board.
“Baba! Baba!” she cried. “Daddy, please!”
But the board spun away from her. Suddenly she stood in the drawing room at Curzon Street, light from the fire spilling over the chess set she and James had played upon so often. James himself stood by the fire, his hand upon the mantel. He turned to look at her, achingly beautiful in the firelight, his eyes the color of molten gold.
In those eyes was no recognition at all. “Who are you?” he said. “Where is Grace?”
Cordelia woke gasping, her covers tangled tightly around her. She fought her way free, almost retching, her fingers digging into her pillow. She longed for her mother, for Alastair. For Lucie. She buried her face in her arms, her body shaking.
The door to her bedroom swung open, and bright light spilled into the room. Framed in the light was Matthew, wearing a dressing gown, his hair a wild tangle. “I heard screaming,” he said urgently. “What happened?”
Cordelia let out a long exhale and unclenched her hands. “Nothing,” she said. “Just a dream. I dreamed that… that my father was calling to me. Asking me to save him.”
He sat down beside her, the mattress shifting under his weight. He smelled comfortingly of soap and cologne, and he took her hand and held it while her pulse slowed its racing. “You and I are the same,” he said. “We are sick in our souls from old wounds. I know you blame yourself—for Lilith, for James—and you must not, Daisy. We will recover together from our soul-sickness. Here, in Paris, we will conquer the pain.”
He held her hand until she fell asleep.
* * *
James wasn’t sure how he’d expected Lucie to respond to their arrival, but he was startled nonetheless at the fear that flashed across her face.
She took a step back, nearly knocking into the boy standing next to her—Jesse Blackthorn, it was Jesse Blackthorn—and flung her hands up, as if to ward them off. As if to ward off James, and her father.
“Oh, dear,” Magnus muttered.
This struck James as an understatement. He was exhausted—nightmare-plagued sleep interrupted by uncomfortable carriage rides, the unburdening of his soul to Magnus and his father, and a long, wet walk up a slippery cliff path to Malcolm Fade’s house had worn him down to the bone. Still, the look on Lucie’s face—worry, fear—sent protectiveness shooting through his veins.
“Luce,” he said, stepping into the cottage’s entryway. “It’s all right—”
Lucie looked at him gratefully for a moment, then flinched as Will, unsheathing a blade from his weapons belt, strode into the cottage and seized hold of Jesse Blackthorn by his shirtfront. Dagger in his fist, fury in his blue eyes, Will shoved Jesse hard against the wall.
“Foul spirit,” he snarled. “What have you done to my daughter to force her to bring you here? Where is Malcolm Fade?”
“Papa—no, don’t—” Lucie started toward Will, but James caught at her arm. He rarely saw his father angry, but Will had an explosive temper when roused, and threats to his family galvanized his rage more quickly than anything else.
“Tad,” James said urgently; he only used the word for father in Welsh when he was trying to get Will’s attention. “Wait.”
“Yes, please wait,” Lucie broke in. “I’m sorry I left as I did, but you don’t understand—”
“I understand that this was a corpse possessed by Belial,” Will said, holding his blade level with Jesse’s throat. Jesse didn’t move; he hadn’t moved, in fact, since Will had grabbed him, nor had he spoken. He was very pale （well, he would be, wouldn’t he, James thought）， his green eyes burning. His hands hung carefully loose at his sides, as if to say, See, I present no threat. “I understand that my daughter is softhearted and thinks she can save every fallen sparrow. I understand that the dead cannot live again, not without exacting a terrible price on the living.”
James, Lucie, and Magnus all started to speak at once. Will said something, angrily, that James could not quite hear. Looking exasperated, Magnus snapped his fingers. Blue sparks leaped from them, and the world went utterly quiet. Even the sound of the wind was gone, swallowed up in Magnus’s spell.
“Enough of this,” the warlock said. He was leaning in the embrasure of the door, hat tipped over his forehead, his posture a study in exaggerated calm. “If we are discussing necromancy, or possible necromancy, that is my area of expertise, not yours.” He looked closely at Jesse, his gold-green eyes thoughtful. “Does he speak?”
Jesse raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, right,” Magnus said, and snapped his fingers again. “No more Silence spell. Proceed.”
“I speak,” Jesse said calmly, “when I have something to say.”
“Interesting,” Magnus murmured. “Does he bleed?”
“Oh no,” said Lucie. “Don’t encourage my father. Papa, don’t you dare—”
“Lucie,” Jesse said. “It’s all right.” He raised his hand—the one with the stolen Voyance rune slashed across the back. He brought his palm up and pressed it to the tip of Will’s dagger.
Blood welled, red and bright, and spilled down his hand, reddening the cuff of his white shirt.
Magnus’s eyes narrowed. “Even more interesting. All right, I’m tired of freezing in this doorway. Malcolm must have some sort of sitting room; he likes his creature comforts. Lucie, lead us to it.”