Magnus just shook his head slightly. “Good luck. Don’t get killed.”

James had already turned and was making his way through the archway that led to the steps up to the bridge, the others close behind and around him. All of them held seraph blades except Cordelia; as always, Cortana glimmered in her hand.

James had thought there seemed a sort of shadow hanging over the bridge, a darkness that he had attributed to the shadow of the glamour Magnus had cast. But as they gained the top of the steps, seraph blades drawn, the world began to darken in front of James’s eyes. The gas lamps flickered wildly and went out.

The stone towers cracked and blackened, deep jagged lines spreading across the pavement beneath them. The wind picked up, and the heavy steel suspension chains seemed to sway: the clouds overhead roiled and darkened in the dark gray sky. There was an acid tang to the air, as if a storm was oncoming.

“Jamie.” Matthew was still beside him; as James turned to look at his parabatai, he realized that Matthew’s hair looked white, like an old man’s. The color was leaching out of everything, turning the world to a photograph. He sucked in a breath. “Are you all right? You look—”

“I can see the shadow realm.” James’s own voice sounded hollow to him, distant and echoing. “It’s all around me, Math. The bridge is splintering—”

Matthew’s hand clasped his arm. His fingers seemed the only warm thing in a world made of ice and ashes. “There’s nothing wrong with the bridge. Everything’s all right, Jamie.”

James wasn’t sure that was true. The bridge looked warped and broken. From the cracks in the granite poured a reddish light. The blood-colored light from his vision.

The others were fanning out, looking up and down the bridge. Clouds were scudding back and forth above the bridge like anxious messengers.

James tipped his head back. More clouds were gathering directly overhead. They were heavy and reddish, almost wet-looking, as if they were filled with blood. James narrowed his eyes. He had thought he could see stars through the clouds, a few faint stars hovering above the bridge’s upper walkways. They were not stars, he realized, instinctively sliding a throwing knife from the scabbard at his waist. Stars did not have pupils, or scarlet irises. Stars did not blink.

James drew his arm back and flung the blade.

It came screaming out of the air like a diving hawk—a demon the size of an omnibus, its yellowish coat streaked with dried blood. It shot straight for James, a blur of black teeth and red talons—and a haft of gold, where the hilt of James’s knife protruded from its shoulder.