Belial narrowed his eyes.
“I see why you made this place a chessboard,” said James. “Worlds, lives, all are a game to you.”
“Might I remind you,” said Belial, with a cryptic smile, “I did not seek you out. And here you come, fussing and angry, into my realm, my lands. I have left you quite alone—”
“You lie,” James said, unable to help himself. “You have tormented me in dreams. Showed me every death. Made me live them.” His breath came quickly. “Why are you murdering Shadowhunters and taking their runes? And why send me visions of what you’re doing? Why would you want me to know?”
Belial’s smile stayed fixed in place. He drummed his fingers—his hands were oddly curved, almost like claws—on the arms of his throne. “Visions, you say? I have not sent you any visions.”
“And that is a lie!” James shouted. “Is this your game? If you cannot force me to obey you, you will drive me mad? Or do death and grief amuse you for their own sake?”
“Be quiet,” said Belial, and his voice was like a slap. “Death and grief do in fact amuse me, but to assume you are worth my lies—that is arrogance indeed.” He gazed down at James, and James realized with a spark of surprise that there was a red mark on the lapel of Belial’s white suit. A red mark that was spreading.
It was blood from the wound Cortana had dealt him all those months ago. It was true then—he had not healed.
“You have one,” James said, his voice ringing clearly through the darkness. “All you need is three.”
Belial turned his burning eyes on James. “What did you say, child of my blood?”
“One wound,” said James, gambling that he was right. “You already have one mortal wound from Cortana. All it takes is three—”
“Be silent!” Belial roared, and suddenly James could see through the beautiful human mask of his face to what lay within—a terrible pit born of fire and shifting shadows. James knew he was seeing Belial’s true face, a burning scar across the skin of the universe.
“I am a Prince of Hell,” said Belial, in a voice like flame. “Such is my power. You think your protection will save you? It will not. You are human, as is she who bears Cortana—maggots crawling across the Earth.” He rose to his feet, the image of a human man, but James could see what lay behind and beyond the false image. A pillar of fire, of cloud, of lightning black as night. “I shall raise my throne above the stars of God! I shall walk upon the Earth and my reach shall exceed the heavens! And you will not stop me!”
He began to advance on James. There was a hunger in his gaze, a terrifying wordless appetite. James began to retreat, backing away from his grandfather.
“You have brought yourself to my place of strength,” Belial said. “There is no land here for you to reach into and turn against me.”
“It doesn’t matter.” James was still backing up, stepping carefully across the alternating squares: white, black, white. “You cannot touch me.”
Belial grinned. “You think you are protected here, because you are protected on Earth?” he said. “I invite you to test that theory.” He took another step forward and winced—he covered it quickly, but James had not missed it. Belial’s wound was paining him still. “In fact, why have you not already tried to escape back to your little world?” Belial mused. “Are you unwelcome there? Tired of the place? Worlds are small things, aren’t they?” He smirked. “Or is it that you don’t know how to get back, without your warlock to help you?”
Picture Edom, Magnus had said. James now tried the opposite—he pictured his study, the familiar little room, the fire, the books, the painting over the mantel. But though he could conjure a memory of it perfectly well, it refused to take on life or realness. It was an image only, adrift against the back of his eyelids when he shut his eyes.
“As I thought,” Belial said, reaching for James. His fingers seemed to have grown longer, like spindly crab’s legs. They flexed, white and sharp-tipped. “You have no power here—”
The explosion rocked James back on his feet. He had moved so quickly he had barely felt it himself—his hand under his jacket, the metal against his fingers, the recoil of the gun. The scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic scent of the air.
He looked at Belial wildly; he knew the shot had not gone wide. Belial hadn’t moved. He stood with his teeth bared, his hand outstretched in front of him, closed into a fist. As James stared, Belial opened his hand slowly. James’s heart sank. In the center of Belial’s palm lay a bullet, glowing red.