A place of death or horror, scarred by tragedy.
She knew where it had happened. James had told her; he had seen the whole thing. She ducked down a narrow street alongside the pub. It was dark here, no gas lamps to pierce the night. Only a milky-colored moon, brushed by threaded clouds, just beginning to rise over the buildings.
She half expected to see her father’s ghost, but that was not unusual. Every once in a while she imagined herself turning and seeing him, smiling at him, saying, Baba joon, as she had when she was very young. To think he had died here, in this dark place that stank of human misery.
She straightened her back. Narrowed her eyes. Thought of Rostam, who had slain the Div-e Sepid, the White Demon.
With a deep breath, she said out loud, her voice echoing from the surrounding stone, “Te invoco a profundus inferni.… Daemon, esto subjecto voluntati meae!”
She said it again, and then again, calling on the deepest Hell, until the words began to blur together and lose their meaning. She became aware of a strange, muffling silence—as if she had been placed for a moment beneath a glass jar and could no longer hear the ordinary sounds of London: the rattle of carriage wheels, the tramp of feet on snow, the jingle of horse bridles.
And then, cutting through the silence, came the hissing.
Cordelia whirled around. It stood before her, grinning. The demon was humanoid, but both taller and skinnier than any human. It was wearing a long, ragged cloak the color of soot. Its skull was egg-shaped, with burned, puckered skin stretched over it; its eye sockets were skin-covered hollows, and its mouth was a slash, a wound in its face lined with pin-like scarlet teeth.
“My, my,” said the demon in a voice like metal scraped against stone. “You haven’t even drawn a pentagram, nor bear you a seraph blade.” As it spoke, gray liquid drooled from its mouth. “Such a foolish mistake, little Shadowhunter.”
“It is no mistake.” Cordelia spoke in her haughtiest tone. “I am no mere Shadowhunter. I am a paladin of Lilith, Mother of Demons, bride of Sammael. If you lay a hand upon me, she will make you regret it.”
The demon spat, a pellet of gray something. The stench in the alley was sickening. “You lie.”
“You know better,” Cordelia said. “You can surely sense her, all around me.”
The demon’s mouth opened, and a purple-gray tongue resembling a calf’s liver emerged from between its red teeth. The tongue slurped at the air, as if tasting it. Cordelia held still; she had not realized how revolting this would be. Her urge to lay hands on a blade, to slay the thing in front of her, was primal, bred in her blood. She felt her hands clench.
“You are a paladin,” it said. “Well then, paladin, why have you summoned me up from Hell? What does the Mother of Demons wish?”
“She seeks knowledge of the doings of the Prince of Hell Belial,” Cordelia said, which was true enough.
“I would be a fool to betray Belial,” the demon said. Cordelia was not sure she had ever heard a demon sound hesitant before.
“You would be a fool to cross Lilith,” she said. She folded her arms and stared the demon down. It was all she could do, of course; she didn’t have so much as a knitting needle on her with which to fight the demon if it came to that. But the demon didn’t know that. “And Belial does not know I am asking you this. Lilith does.”
After a moment, the demon said, “Your mistress rages at Belial because he occupies her realm of Edom. ‘There shall Lilith repose, and find for herself a place to rest,’？” it said in a high voice; it was unnerving to hear a demon quote a holy text. “But Edom is not his goal. He is moving, ever moving. He builds an army.”
“They wake,” Cordelia said, and the demon hissed through its scarlet teeth.
“Then you know,” the demon said. “Belial found them, empty vessels. He has filled them with his power. They wake and rise and do his bidding. And the Nephilim will be ended.”
A cold shiver went up Cordelia’s spine. “Empty vessels? What do you mean?”
“The dead,” said the demon, looking amused, “who are not dead. I will not say more.”
“You will answer—” Cordelia cut herself off. She caught up her witchlight rune-stone from her pocket and raised it, light spilling out between her fingers. In its illumination, she saw a score of slinking shadows. Small demons, perhaps twice the size of a typical cat. Each had a hard-shelled body, with sharp, protruding mandibles. They scuttled along on razored claws. One was an annoyance, but a group could de-flesh a human being in less than a minute.
Paimonite demons.
They had blocked the mouth of the street. Cordelia began to regret not having brought any weapons. She very much did not want Lilith to appear, but it was probably a preferable result to being torn apart by Paimonites.
The larger demon laughed. “Did you really think you’d only summoned me?” it purred. “You called out into Hell, and Hell will answer.”
Cordelia held out a hand as if to hold back the Paimonites. “Stop,” she commanded. “I am a paladin of Lilith, Mother of Demons—”
The larger demon spoke. “These are too stupid to understand you,” it said. “Not every demon plays the great Game, you know. Many are simply foot soldiers. Enjoy your battle.”
Its mouth stretched impossibly wider, grinning and grinning as the Paimonites scuttled forward. More were joining them, clambering over the neighboring wall, spilling into the alley like blackbeetles through a filthy hole in the ground.
Cordelia tensed. She would have to run. She had no choice. Either she would outrace the Paimonite demons, or she would die; there were simply too many of them to fight.
A Paimonite broke free of the pack and lunged at her. She darted aside, dealing it an almighty kick. It flew against the wall as the larger demon laughed, and Cordelia began to run, even as the other Paimonites closed in like a dark and moving river—
A gunshot rang out, tremendously loud. A Paimonite blew apart, spattering green and black ichor. A second shot, and this time Cordelia saw the force of it fling one of the smaller demons backward, where it smashed against the window of Ye Grapes and disintegrated.
The other small demons began to panic. Another shot, and another, smashing the Paimonites apart like stepped-on bugs. They began to scatter, chittering in terror, and Cordelia raised her witchlight.
Out of the shadows came James, an avenging angel with pistol in hand. He was coatless, and his gun seemed almost to glow in the clear cold, the inscription on its side shining: LUKE 12:49. She knew the verse by heart. I have come to bring a fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.
James held the pistol trained now on the tall demon, who moved quickly to put Cordelia between itself and James. James looked past it, at Cordelia, his eyes communicating a silent message.
Cordelia dropped to the ground. She fell as she’d been trained to do, letting her legs drop out from beneath her, catching herself on her feet and hands, twisting, poised to spring. She saw the demon open its red-toothed mouth in surprise, just as James pulled the trigger. The look of surprise remained as a bullet shot straight into the demon’s mouth; it blew apart, vanishing into ashes.
Silence. Not the silence that had descended after Cordelia had spoken the summoning spell; she could hear the sounds of London again. Somewhere in the distance were three mundanes, already quite drunk, calling out in rowdy voices their intention to get “bloody pissed” at Ye Grapes.