James looked around the drawing room. His friends were staring at him from chairs pulled close to the cozy fire. Anna—dapper in a blue waistcoat and black spats—Christopher, wide-eyed, and Thomas, his mouth set in a grim line. Lucie, her hands in her lap, clearly struggling with her emotions and determined not to show it.

“I hadn’t planned to tell you at all,” James said. He had sat in an armchair on the theory that one might as well be comfortable when telling one’s friends one might be engaged in murdering people in one’s sleep. “If there hadn’t been that mark on my windowsill—”

“Is that supposed to make us feel better?” demanded Thomas.

“You didn’t want to tell us because you knew that we would say it was ridiculous,” said Lucie. “You and Cordelia already rid us of Belial.”

“But a Prince of Hell cannot be killed,” James said wearily. He was exhausted down to his bones: he had barely slept the night before, barely eaten, and Grace’s visit had shaken him. He pushed away from thoughts of her now, returning determinedly to the matter at hand. “We all know it. Belial may be much diminished after being wounded by Cortana, but that does not mean his sphere of influence has ended. Something made that mark on my windowsill this morning.”

“You mentioned the mark before,” said Christopher. “What was it? What makes you so sure it has to do with Belial?”

James rose and took the Monarchia Daemonium from where he had placed it on the piano bench. It was a tall volume, bound in dark purple leather. “This is where I first read about Belial and the other eight Princes of Hell,” he said. “Each has a sigil, a sign by which he is known.” He sat down and opened the book to the two-page section on Belial. “This is the symbol I saw in the ice.”

The others crowded around, Anna leaning over the back of James’s chair. There was a silence as they took in the illustration of Belial—he was facing away, his head turned to the side, his profile razor-sharp. He wore a dark red cloak, and a single clawed hand was visible at his side. Not quite the elegant gentleman James had met in Belphegor’s realm, though there remained the same aura about him of leashed menace.

“So Belial left you a calling card,” Anna murmured. “Rude of him not to wait until the footman was at home.”

“So is it meant to be a message?” said Thomas. “A way of saying, ‘Here I am’?”

“Perhaps a way of saying he is me,” said James. “Perhaps he has found a way to possess me when I am unconscious—”

“You are not a murderer or possessed,” snapped Lucie. “In case you’ve forgotten, demons cannot possess Shadowhunters. You don’t think our parents forgot our protection spells when we were born, do you?”