She whirled to face the park gates and nearly jumped out of her skin: a young man was strolling toward them, whistling softly. The tune carried through the silent park like music in a church. The boy seemed familiar, though Cordelia couldn’t have said why; he was dark-haired and smiling, carrying a heavy sword with an etched crosspiece in one hand. He was dressed in a pure white suit as if it were summer, his shirt and jacket spattered with bright red blood. He was handsome—striking, really, with dark green eyes the color of new leaves. Yet something about him made her skin crawl. There was something feral about his smile, like the grin of the Cheshire cat.

James was gazing at the boy in what seemed to be dawning horror. Beside him Matthew and Charles remained frozen in their strange tableau, their eyes blank and staring.

“But that can’t be,” James said, half to himself. “It’s not possible.”

“What do you mean? What’s not possible?”

“That’s Jesse,” James said. “Jesse Blackthorn.”

“Tatiana’s son? But he died,” Cordelia said. “Years ago.”

“Maybe,” said James, taking a knife from his belt. His gaze never left the boy—Jesse—as he approached, fastidiously skirting a border of holly. “But I recognize—I’ve seen his portrait in Blackthorn Manor. And a few photographs Grace had. It’s him.”

“But that’s impossible—”

Cordelia broke off, her hand flying to Cortana. The boy was suddenly standing in front of them, twirling his sword in his hand like a music-hall singer with a cane. His jacket hung casually open, his smile widening as he looked from James to Cordelia. “Of course it’s impossible,” he said. “Jesse Blackthorn is long dead.”

James cocked his head to the side. He was pale, but his gaze was steady and full of loathing.

“Grandfather,” he said.

Of course. It was not the boy who had struck Cordelia as familiar, but rather his cruel smile, the way he moved, those pale clothes like the ones she had seen him wear in the hell-world where she had followed James. He wasn’t looking at Cordelia—rather pointedly so.

Interesting.

“Indeed,” said Belial, with an unexpected cheerfulness. “Even without quite the ideal vessel, I walk in your world freely. Feeling the sunshine on my face. Breathing the air of London.”

“Calling a dead body ‘not quite the ideal vessel’ is rather like calling the sewers of London ‘not that bad a holiday destination,’ ” said James, flicking his eyes over Jesse Blackthorn’s admittedly well-preserved remains. “Indulge me a moment—the tale I heard of the manner and time of Jesse’s death. Was all of it a lie?”