—Hesiod, Theogony
“Concentrate on what, precisely?” James said. He felt slightly nervous: Magnus’s gaze was focused and intent, as if he were staring into James and through him.
“You truly have your grandfather’s blood in you,” Magnus murmured, still staring at James with a curious expression.
James stiffened. He knew Magnus meant nothing by it: it was a statement of fact and nothing more. Still, not pleasant words to James’s ears. “There are doors in your mind that lead to other worlds,” said Magnus. “A mind forever voyaging, as they say. I have never seen anything like it. I understand that Jem has taught you how to close them, but your control is not yet perfect.” He dropped his hands with a smile. “Well, never mind, we shall voyage together.”
Not entirely sure he wanted the answer, James said, “Are you not at all concerned what my parents will say when they find out we have risked this? And they will find out.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” Magnus waved a breezy hand. James shot a look at Cordelia, who stood by the study door with her sword drawn, looking like a statue of Joan of Arc. She shrugged as if to say, Well, it’s Magnus.
“James, I believe your parents will understand, once they have a grasp of the gravity of the situation,” said Magnus. “Nor, considering their own past activities, do they have much of a leg to stand on.” He laid a long-fingered hand over James’s chest, atop his heart. “Now, no more of this trying to shock or upset you to bring you into the shadow realm. It isn’t necessary.”
James looked at him in surprise, but the world was already sliding away to grayness. The familiar walls of the study turned to monochromatic dust; the books and couches and chairs crumbled and vanished. James was rising, spinning into the void.
He had never experienced travel into the shadow realm like this before. The world hurtled away from James, as if he were rocketing down a tunnel. One moment the study was there, the fire, Cordelia, the London night beyond the window. The next his familiar world was flying away—he reached out to catch it, to grab on, but only darkness surrounded him; no moon, no stars, just a darkness that felt infinite, never-ending.
A light flared in the shadows, an amber glow that gradually intensified. Magnus stood a few feet away from James, yellow light playing around his right hand. He gazed about, frowning. “This,” he said, “is not Edom.”
James got to his feet, the world righting itself around him. Suddenly there was an up and a down, a sense of gravity absent a real sense of space. And there was ground underfoot, or something like it. It was not the dust of Edom, but a smooth and polished surface, stretching into the infinite distance, made up of alternating squares of dark and light. “Magnus,” he said, “I think we may be standing on a chessboard.”
Magnus muttered something under his breath. It sounded as if he were cursing in another language. James turned in a circle: he thought he could see glints above him, like pinprick holes in the black sky. A faint glow clung to everything: he could see it outlining his hands, his feet. Magnus seemed to be glowing slightly too. James moved his hand across the air and watched his bracelet glitter.
“James, think,” Magnus said. “Can you picture Edom, the last time you saw it? Can you recall the dark fortress?”
James took a deep breath. The cold air tasted like metal, silvery-sharp. He had never felt so far away from home, yet he was not at all afraid. Somewhere, he thought, somewhere very close, if he could just reach out—
And then he saw it, a small whirlwind, like a miniature sandstorm. He stepped back as it grew, solidifying, taking shape.
It was a throne. The sort of throne James had seen in books, illustrating pictures of angels—ivory and gold, with gold steps rising up toward a massive seat. A peculiar symbol was carved repeatedly into the sides, spiky and odd-looking, and across its back were written the words: AND HE WHO OVERCOMES, AND HE WHO KEEPS MY DEEDS UNTIL THE END, TO HIM I WILL GIVE AUTHORITY OVER THE NATIONS; AND HE SHALL RULE THEM WITH A ROD OF IRON, AND I WILL GIVE HIM THE MORNING STAR.
This was an angel’s throne, he thought, or at least it had been made to look very like one. And the words carved on the throne were in Latin, though the strange symbol carved across the sides and arms was nothing he recognized—
No, he thought. He did recognize it. He’d seen it in that book, just the other day. Belial’s sigil. He glanced over at Magnus, who closed his fist, his expression wary. The amber light that had glowed from his fingers vanished.