“The Mandikhor,” said James. “You possessed someone and sent them to Emmanuel Gast. Had him raise the demon.”

“Gast was a useful idiot,” said Belial. “He somehow thought that after he raised the demon, I would let him live, though the trail would have led to him eventually and he’s hardly the sort who could withstand torture or interrogation.” He yawned. “It’s really too bad—Gast was quite talented at dimensional magic. He managed to raise the Mandikhor in such a way that it exists partly in your world, and partly here, where it thrives.”

“That’s why it can withstand sunlight in our world,” James said.

“Precisely. Worlds are layered upon one another: the Mandikhor and its children are shielded in your realm by this one. And here it serves me completely. When I order it to cease attacking Nephilim, the attacks will stop. The deaths will stop. But if you refuse me, they will continue. And you, my boy, will die.”

“Stop the demon first,” James rasped. “Bring him forth and destroy him, and you can—you can possess me. I’ll let you.”

“No,” purred Belial. “That is not how these things work, James Herondale. This is my realm, and there will be no tricks. First you become my host. Then—”

James shook his head. “No. The demon first. And you cannot just rescind your orders to the creature. You must destroy it.”

Belial’s icy gaze hardened. His eyes are so much like my mother’s, James thought. It was strange to see those eyes filled with so much evil. So much hate.

“It is not your place to give me orders,” said Belial. “Come here, boy.”

James didn’t move. Belial’s eyes narrowed, then flicked over him, taking in his face, his gear, his bleeding wrist.

“You refuse me,” he said slowly, almost as if he could not quite believe it. James would have said he seemed aghast, if Princes of Hell could be aghast.

“As I said before,” said James. “I came here of my own free will.”

“I see,” Belial said. “You are not as tractable as I had been led to believe. But you will realize the wisdom of my plans soon enough. I would prefer an adult male body,” he added, almost as an aside. “In fact, I would prefer you were a bit older, but needs must as the devil drives. As they say.” He grinned. “Recall that you are not the only one I could approach.”

He waved a black-nailed hand, and multicolored light streaked across the dark air. It resolved into the shape of Lucie—Lucie in gear, her hair up in a determinedly tight chignon. She looked exactly herself, down to the ink stains on her hands. James’s stomach clenched.

“Don’t you dare touch her,” he said. “Besides—Lucie would never agree.”