“Ghosts can lie,” Jessamine conceded. “But there are certain forms of necromancy that can compel them to tell the truth, and even to allow the living to control them.” She shuddered. “That is why necromancy is so dreadful and forbidden.”

“That’s why?” Cordelia sounded doubtful. Turning to Lucie, she said, “Are you worried Gast’s ghost might have been lying?”

Lucie hesitated. Part of her hoped he had been lying, since he had claimed the demon was only meant to kill Shadowhunters. It was a frightening thought. “I just don’t want us to go off on a wild-goose chase. Gast was insistent that someone extraordinarily powerful hired him to summon these demons. We need to find out who that was.”

“We also need to know what kind of demons these are,” said Cordelia. “We cannot go to the Enclave just to report that Gast raised a bunch of poisonous demons: we already know these demons bear poison. We do not know why their poison is so deadly, or what Gast did so they can appear in daylight.”

“This all seems very dull,” said Jessamine. “If you don’t need me, I’ll be going.” She vanished with a sigh of relief, no doubt at no longer having to keep herself in visible form.

Lucie reached up to pull down one of her writing notebooks from the edge of the desk. Perhaps it was time to begin recording their thoughts. “There is another odd thing. We know Gast raised multiple demons, but he kept referring to one demon. He said he raised it, not them.”

“Perhaps the demon had offspring,” James suggested. “Some demons have dozens of spawn, like spiders—”

From outside Lucie’s window came the rattle of wheels and the neighing of horses. A moment later there was the sound of cries from the courtyard. James and Lucie both rushed to the window.

A driverless carriage had drawn up before the Institute’s front steps. Lucie recognized the arms on the side instantly: the four Cs of the Consul. It was Charles Fairchild’s carriage.

The carriage door flew open and Grace tumbled out, her hair streaming over her shoulders, her dress stained with blood. She was screaming.

Beside Lucie, James’s body tensed like iron.

The front doors of the Institute burst open and Brother Enoch came rushing down the steps. He reached into the carriage behind Grace and lifted out the twitching body of a woman, clad in a stained fuchsia dress. Her arm was bloody, wrapped in a makeshift bandage.

Tatiana Blackthorn.

Cordelia and Matthew had joined them at the window. Cordelia had her hand over her mouth. “By the Angel,” said Matthew. “Another attack.”

Lucie turned to tell James to hurry to Grace, but there was no need to say it. He was already gone.