“So you don’t think it’s Belphegor?” said James. “What about Sammael?”

Magnus snorted. “Good Lord, you are determined. I recall seeking a demon for your father, once. He was equally stubborn.” He pointed with his walking stick. “Look. Here we are.”

They were in front of the bridge; though it was quite dark now and the gas lamps were lit, there was still a good amount of traffic—even the occasional motorcar purring along Tower Bridge Approach.

The others had begun to gather around. Reluctantly, James dropped the topic of his grandfather. “So, do you think you can do it?” he asked Magnus. “Create a distraction? Or should we come back later, when there are fewer mundanes about?”

Magnus’s eyes glittered. “No need for that,” he said. He stepped to the railing along the river’s edge, where a high wall dropped down to a stony beach that ran beside and below the bridge. With a flourish, he drew off his gloves and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. Then he held out his hands. Blue fire sparked at his fingertips.

Light arced over the Thames. Bright as a thousand naphtha beacons, it formed a glimmering path laid from bank to bank of the Thames. James heard Cordelia gasp in wonder as the light rose and twined, forming the ghostly shape of a shimmering Tower Bridge made of light. It was perfect down to the last detail, from the towers to the spiderweb cables and gleaming chains.

Magnus lowered his hands. He was breathing hard.

“It’s spectacular,” said Thomas, and there was a look of real wonder on his face that James was glad to see. “But—”

“It will not appear to mundanes as it does to you,” said Magnus. “They will not see the real bridge. They will see this instead. Look.”

He indicated an oncoming hansom cab with a wave of his hand. The small group of Shadowhunters gaped as it swung toward the glimmering illusion of Tower Bridge and onto the bridge deck. The wheels of the hansom rattled over the glimmering tarmac.

“Oh, good, I was afraid the bridge was going to collapse,” said Lucie, as more carriages followed the cab.

Magnus seemed to have thrown up a glamour over the entrance to the real bridge, as all the traffic, pedestrian and even omnibuses, seemed to be swerving unconsciously toward Magnus’s secondary, shining structure.

“Magnus would never create a bridge that would collapse,” said Matthew. His green eyes were shining, and James felt a rush of affection for his parabatai; Matthew had always loved magic. It was probably why he seemed so at home in the Hell Ruelle and places like it, surrounded by enchanted fire and starry-eyed warlocks.

“Thank you,” said Magnus dryly. “If you’re going to capture that demon, you’d better get to it. I can only keep this illusion going for so long.”

James inclined his head. “Thank you.”