Once they had piled into the parlor—quainter and prettier than James would have guessed—Will and James sank down onto a long sofa. Lucie, on her feet, watched as Magnus placed Jesse in front of the roaring fire and commenced some kind of full magical examination of him.
“What are you looking for?” Jesse said. James thought he sounded nervous.
Magnus looked up at him briefly, his fingers dancing with blue sparks. Some had caught in Jesse’s hair, bright as scarab beetles.
“Death,” he said.
Jesse looked grimly stoic. James supposed he would have learned to endure unpleasant things, given the life he’d led—or was it a life? It had been once; but what would one call what he’d experienced since? A sort of nightmare life-in-death, like the monster from the Coleridge poem.
“He is not dead,” Lucie said. “He never was. Let me explain.” She sounded weary, as James had felt when spilling his own secrets at the wayside inn. How much trouble could have been avoided if they’d only all trusted one another in the first place? he thought.
“Luce,” James said gently. She looked so tired, he thought, at the same time both younger and older than he’d remembered. “Tell us.”
Much of Lucie’s story James could have guessed, in its broad strokes if not in its details. First came Jesse’s tale: the story of what Belial, and his own mother, had done to him. Much of it James already knew: how Belial had used the corrupt warlock Emmanuel Gast to seed a bit of Belial’s demonic essence inside Jesse when he was just a baby; how that essence had destroyed Jesse when the time came for his first Marks to be placed upon him. How Tatiana had turned her dying son into a sort of living specter: a ghost during the nights, a corpse during the days. How she had preserved his last breath in the gold locket that Lucie now wore about her neck, hoping one day to use it to bring Jesse back to life.
How Jesse had sacrificed that last breath, instead, to save James.
“Really?” Will sat forward, frowning in that way of his that suggested careful thought rather than displeasure. “But how—？”
“It’s true,” James said. “I saw him.”
A boy leaning over him: a boy with hair as black as his own, a boy with green eyes the color of spring leaves, a boy who was already beginning to fade around the edges, like a figure seen in a cloud that disappears when the wind changes.
“You said, ‘Who are you?’？” Jesse said. Magnus seemed to be done examining him; Jesse was leaning against the fireplace mantel, looking as if Lucie’s telling of her story—which was his, too—was draining him as well. “But—I couldn’t answer you.”
“I remember,” James said. “Thank you. For saving my life. I didn’t get to say it before.”
Magnus cleared his throat. “Enough sentimentality,” he said, obviously wishing to forestall Will, who looked as if he were considering leaping up and folding Jesse into a fatherly embrace. “We have a good understanding of what happened to Jesse. What we do not understand, dear Lucie, is how you brought him back from the state he was in. And I am afraid we must ask.”
“Now?” said James. “It’s late, she must be exhausted—”
“It’s all right, Jamie,” Lucie said. “I want to tell it.”
And she did. The story of her discovery of her powers over the dead—that she could not only see them when they wanted to remain hidden, as James and Will could, but could command them, and they were compelled to obey her—reminded James of the discovery of his own power, of the combined sense of strength and shame that it had brought.
He wanted to stand up, wanted to reach out to his sister. Especially as her story went on—as she told how she had raised an army of the drowned and dead to save Cordelia from the Thames. He wanted to tell her how much it meant to him that she had saved Cordelia’s life; wanted to tell her how much bleak horror he felt at the thought that he might have lost Cordelia. But he kept his mouth shut. Lucie had no reason to believe he wasn’t in love with Grace, and he would only look to her like an awful hypocrite.
“I am somewhat insulted,” Magnus said, “that you went to Malcolm Fade to seek his advice on what to do about Jesse, and did not come to me. Usually I am the warlock you annoy first, and I consider that a proud tradition.”
“You were in the Spiral Labyrinth,” Lucie reminded him. “And—well, there were other reasons for asking Malcolm, but they don’t matter now.” （James, who felt he had become an unwilling master of the ability to tell only as much of a story as was required at the time, suspected they mattered quite a bit, but said nothing.） “Malcolm told us, told me, that it was like Jesse was stuck at the threshold between death and life. Which is why you couldn’t see him like you can normal ghosts.” She looked over at Will. “Because he wasn’t really dead. What I did to bring him back wasn’t necromancy. I just—” She interleaved the fingers of one hand with the other. “I commanded him to live. It would not have worked if he were truly dead, but since I was only uniting a living soul with a living body—from which it had been improperly separated—it did.”
Will pushed a lock of black hair, threaded with strands of gray, back from his forehead. “What do you think, Magnus?”
Magnus looked at Jesse, still tensely propped against the mantel, and sighed. “There are a few blotches of death energy on Jesse.” He held up a finger before anyone could speak. “But they are only at the sites of the runes that Belial placed on him.”
So James had told Will and Magnus the full extent of what Belial had done to Jesse, Lucie thought. Jesse himself looked as if he were about to be sick.
Magnus added, “Otherwise, as far as I can tell, this is a healthy, living human being. I’ve seen what happens when someone raises the dead. This… is not that.”
James said, “I was present when Lucie told Jesse to cast out Belial. And he did it. It is not easy to battle a Prince of Hell for your own soul. To win the fight—” James met Jesse’s gaze directly. “It takes courage, and more than that. It takes goodness. Lucie trusts him; I believe we should too.”
A little of the tension seemed to leave Jesse, a loosening of the tightness that wrapped him like invisible chains. He looked at Will—they all looked at Will, Lucie with a desperate hope in her eyes.
Will rose to his feet and crossed the room to Jesse. Jesse did not cringe away, but he looked visibly nervous. He stood still and watchful, not dropping his gaze, waiting for Will to make the first move.
“You saved my son’s life,” said Will. “And my daughter trusts you. That’s good enough for me.” He held out a hand to Jesse to shake. “I apologize for having doubted you, son.”
At that last word, Jesse lit up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. He had never had a father, James realized. The only parent he had had was Tatiana; the only other adult force in his life had been Belial.
And Will seemed to be thinking the same thing. “You really are the spitting image of your father, you know,” he said to Jesse. “Rupert. It’s a pity you never knew him. I’m sure he would have been proud of you.”