James was gazing at the boy in what seemed to be dawning horror. Beside him Matthew and Charles remained frozen in their strange tableau, their eyes blank and staring.
“But that can’t be,” James said, half to himself. “It’s not possible.”
“What do you mean? What’s not possible?”
“That’s Jesse,” James said. “Jesse Blackthorn.”
* * *
“Tatiana’s son? But he died,” Cordelia said. “Years ago.”
“Maybe,” said James, taking a knife from his belt. His gaze never left the boy—Jesse—as he approached, fastidiously skirting a border of holly. “But I recognize—I’ve seen his portrait in Blackthorn Manor. And a few photographs Grace had. It’s him.”
“But that’s impossible—”
Cordelia broke off, her hand flying to Cortana. The boy was suddenly standing in front of them, twirling his sword in his hand like a music-hall singer with a cane. His jacket hung casually open, his smile widening as he looked from James to Cordelia. “Of course it’s impossible,” he said. “Jesse Blackthorn is long dead.”
James cocked his head to the side. He was pale, but his gaze was steady and full of loathing.
“Grandfather,” he said.
Of course. It was not the boy who had struck Cordelia as familiar, but rather his cruel smile, the way he moved, those pale clothes like the ones she had seen him wear in the hell-world where she had followed James. He wasn’t looking at Cordelia—rather pointedly so.
Interesting.
“Indeed,” said Belial, with an unexpected cheerfulness. “Even without quite the ideal vessel, I walk in your world freely. Feeling the sunshine on my face. Breathing the air of London.”
“Calling a dead body ‘not quite the ideal vessel’ is rather like calling the sewers of London ‘not that bad a holiday destination,’？” said James, flicking his eyes over Jesse Blackthorn’s admittedly well-preserved remains. “Indulge me a moment—the tale I heard of the manner and time of Jesse’s death. Was all of it a lie?”
“My dear boy,” said Belial. Cordelia unsheathed Cortana; she saw Belial flinch almost imperceptibly, though he still refused to look at her. “My dear boy, there is no need to trouble yourself that your dear Grace lied to you.” He gazed lovingly down at Jesse’s left hand, where a Voyance rune gleamed, new and black. “There was a time, you know, when I feared your mother would never procreate. That there would never be a James Herondale. I was forced to make alternate plans. I placed an anchor in this world, sunk deep into the soul of a baby boy when his protection spells were placed on him. Little Jesse Blackthorn, whose mother didn’t trust Shadowhunters but did trust warlocks. Emmanuel Gast was easy enough to threaten into obedience. He placed the protections on Jesse, as instructed, and a little something extra as well. A bit of my essence, tucked under the skin of the child’s soul.”
Cordelia felt sick. A Shadowhunter’s protection spells were precious, almost holy. What Belial had done felt like a nauseating violation. “But James was born,” she said. “So you didn’t need Jesse after that, did you? Is that why he died?”
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Belial said. “His own mother did. She let the Silent Brothers place a rune on him. I warned her not to let them interfere. The angelic runes of the Gray Book reacted quite badly with the demonic essence deep inside him. So…”
“He died,” James said.
“Oh, yes, quite painfully,” said Belial. “And that would have been that, really, but Tatiana is a stubborn woman. She called on me. I did owe her a favor, and I have my own sense of honor—”
James made a scornful noise. Belial widened Jesse’s green eyes in mock horror.
“You forget,” said Belial. “I was an angel once. Non serviam and all that. Better to reign in Hell. But we keep our promises.” He stretched luxuriously, like a cat, though his grip on the sword—its hilt, Cordelia saw now, carved with a design of thorns—never faltered. “I ordered Gast to preserve Jesse’s body. To keep him in a twilight state, not quite dead and not quite alive. During the day, he slept in his coffin. At night, he was a ghost.”
Cordelia thought of Lucie. Lucie, who could see ghosts. Who had been so secretive lately. “All the necromancy Tatiana was doing,” she said slowly. “The dark magic that got her exiled to the Citadel. It wasn’t to raise Jesse—it was to keep him preserved like this?”