“James,” said Cordelia. “No. He’s a liar—the prince of liars—no matter what you do, he’ll never save them—”
The smile vanished from Belial’s face. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “If you do not consent to what I want, your family and friends will die.”
“Cordelia is right,” said James. “You will kill them anyway. I cannot save them. You are only offering me that illusion to compel my agreement. Well, you cannot have it.”
Belial huffed out a sound that was almost like a laugh. “Spoken like the grandson of a Prince of Hell,” he said. “How practical, James. How logical. Do you know it was logic and rationality that resulted in our casting out from Heaven? For goodness is not logical, is it? Nor compassion, nor love. But perhaps you need to be able to see the situation more clearly.”
James glanced quickly at Cordelia. She knew what he was thinking, hoping—let Belial not realize that Charles is still alive, that the sigil is not complete—but feared her expression would give away her thoughts. She glanced down at the blade in her hand, smeared with Belial’s blood.
“You mortals fear such small things,” Belial went on. “Death, for instance. Merely the passage from one place to another. Yet you do all you can to avoid it. Now, torment—that is quite different. There is no reason for my brother to kill these acquaintances of yours, you know—not when more refined tortures are available and… infinite.”
James looked at Belial, his gaze level—and desperate. Perhaps only Cordelia, who knew him as she knew the map of her own heart, could see it. But it was there: desperation, and worse than that, despair.
James, no. Don’t do it. Don’t agree.
“Only if you swear,” James said, “that no harm or hurt will come to them—”
“James, no,” Cordelia burst out. “He is lying—”
“And what of your brother, Carstairs girl?” Belial demanded, his green gaze fixed on her. “Leviathan could cut him down as I cut down your father—I could blight every root of your family tree—”
With a scream, Cordelia raised her sword. James moved toward her, flinging out his hand—just as a noise cut through the still gardens. A sound like a fire, crackling and hissing. Shadows whirled and sliced through the air like dark birds. Belial’s borrowed eyes followed them, his expression wary.
“What mischief is this?” he demanded. “Enough! Show yourself!”
The shadows coalesced into a shape. Cordelia stared in utter astonishment as a figure took form, growing dark and solid against the sky.
It was Lilian Highsmith. Dead Lilian, in an old-fashioned blue dress. Sapphires sparkled at her ears. The same stones she had worn at the Wentworths’ party.
“You disappoint me,” she said, her voice low and even. “You found the Ridgeway Road, the forge and the fire. You call yourself paladin yet you cannot slay one measly Prince of Hell?”
“Measly?” echoed James, incredulous. “Ghost or not, how dare you speak to her like that?”
“Oh,” said Lilian. “I am no ghost.” She smiled—a smile not unlike Belial’s. Cordelia’s blood ran cold as Lilian broke apart into shadows again, then re-formed: she was gone and in her place was another familiar figure, the faerie woman with iridescent hair who Cordelia had spoken to at the Hell Ruelle, the one who’d first told her about Wayland the Smith.
“Is this better?” she breathed, her long fingers toying with her blue necklace. “Or perhaps you would prefer this?”
The faerie woman vanished, and in her place was Magnus Bane, dressed as he had been at the Market. Peacock-blue trousers and a matching embroidered waistcoat, with a watch on a glittering chain tucked into one pocket. Silver cuff links glittered at his wrists, and he wore a silver ring set with—
A luminous blue stone.
“Not Magnus,” breathed Cordelia. “It was never—it wasn’t Magnus.” She felt sick. “James—”
“No,” James whispered. “But who, then? This isn’t part of Belial’s plan. Look at his face.”
Indeed, fury had twisted Jesse Blackthorn’s features; he was barely recognizable. It was as if his human face was a skin stretched too tightly over the features below: Belial’s true, monstrous face. “Enough!” Belial hissed. “Show me who you are.”
False Magnus bowed low to the ground, and when he rose, he had transformed once more. Standing before them was a slender woman, her skin pale as milk, and her hair jet-black, falling down her back like dark water. She would have been beautiful but for her eyes: black snakes writhing from otherwise empty sockets. A rope of deep blue gems wound about her throat.