“Really?” Belial spoke mockingly. “It can be arranged, easily enough, but think of all you’d miss. Your sweet little parents. Your sister—how sad she would be to lose you. Your parabatai: I hear a wound like that will mark him for the rest of his life. And that adorable little wife of yours. I’m sure she would miss you.”

James’s hand tightened into a fist, sending a slow pulse of blood down his arm.

Daisy.

Like someone falling, reaching desperately for a handhold, his mind caught and clung to the thought of Cordelia. Cordelia picking strawberries at Cirenworth, dancing in her ashes-of-roses gown at the Institute ball, walking up the aisle of the Institute’s chapel toward him, whirling with Cortana in her hand. Her face when she was reading: the bow of her mouth, curve of her throat, arch of her hand.

Cordelia.

“Come now, James,” said Belial. “There is no need to be so stubborn. You can rest. Give yourself to me, be mine. I will let you sleep—”

Light burst into the darkness, illuminating shadows that had never seen illumination before, like the first sunrise of the world. Belial cried out; James threw up his arm, shielding his eyes as the brightness grew and grew, a lance of fire across his vision.

Cortana. A golden seam across his vision, widening. Images rose up to nearly blind him—he could see the skyline of London, the blaze of sunlight on ice, Thomas bound to a chair, the fiery baubles at the Shadow Market, green grass and Matthew throwing a stick for Oscar, the room above the Devil Tavern, Lucie and his parents turning toward him, Jem in the shadows. And there were hands on his shoulders, and they were hers, Cordelia’s, and she said, in a voice of absolute determination:

“He is not yours. He is mine. He is mine.”

James’s vision crackled out to blackness. There was the familiar twisting, whirling nothingness of the shadow realm, the great chessboard, Belial, the throne, all splintering into the void—and seconds later James landed hard enough to jar his bones.

Pain shot through his arm and he cried out. He heard someone say his name, and he opened his eyes: it was Cordelia. He was back in the study of the house on Curzon Street and she was standing over him, ashen, Cortana in her hand. “James,” she gasped. “James, what did you—”

He sat up, looking around dizzily. Quite a bit of the furniture in the room seemed to have fallen over; a delicate occasional table lay in splinters before the hearth. Magnus Bane sat in the corner of the room, one hand knotted into the front of his brightly colored waistcoat, his face contorted with pain.