“You mortals fear such small things,” Belial went on. “Death, for instance. Merely the passage from one place to another. Yet you do all you can to avoid it. Now, torment—that is quite different. There is no reason for my brother to kill these acquaintances of yours, you know—not when more refined tortures are available and… infinite.”

James looked at Belial, his gaze level—and desperate. Perhaps only Cordelia, who knew him as she knew the map of her own heart, could see it. But it was there: desperation, and worse than that, despair.

James, no. Don’t do it. Don’t agree.

“Only if you swear,” James said, “that no harm or hurt will come to them—”

“James, no,” Cordelia burst out. “He is lying—”

“And what of your brother, Carstairs girl?” Belial demanded, his green gaze fixed on her. “Leviathan could cut him down as I cut down your father—I could blight every root of your family tree—”

With a scream, Cordelia raised her sword. James moved toward her, flinging out his hand—just as a noise cut through the still gardens. A sound like a fire, crackling and hissing. Shadows whirled and sliced through the air like dark birds. Belial’s borrowed eyes followed them, his expression wary.

“What mischief is this?” he demanded. “Enough! Show yourself!”

The shadows coalesced into a shape. Cordelia stared in utter astonishment as a figure took form, growing dark and solid against the sky.

It was Lilian Highsmith. Dead Lilian, in an old-fashioned blue dress. Sapphires sparkled at her ears. The same stones she had worn at the Wentworths’ party.

“You disappoint me,” she said, her voice low and even. “You found the Ridgeway Road, the forge and the fire. You call yourself paladin yet you cannot slay one measly Prince of Hell?”

“Measly?” echoed James, incredulous. “Ghost or not, how dare you speak to her like that?”

“Oh,” said Lilian. “I am no ghost.” She smiled—a smile not unlike Belial’s. Cordelia’s blood ran cold as Lilian broke apart into shadows again, then re-formed: she was gone and in her place was another familiar figure, the faerie woman with iridescent hair who Cordelia had spoken to at the Hell Ruelle, the one who’d first told her about Wayland the Smith.

“Is this better?” she breathed, her long fingers toying with her blue necklace. “Or perhaps you would prefer this?”

The faerie woman vanished, and in her place was Magnus Bane, dressed as he had been at the Market. Peacock-blue trousers and a matching embroidered waistcoat, with a watch on a glittering chain tucked into one pocket. Silver cuff links glittered at his wrists, and he wore a silver ring set with—

A luminous blue stone.

“Not Magnus,” breathed Cordelia. “It was never—it wasn’t Magnus.” She felt sick. “James—”

“No,” James whispered. “But who, then? This isn’t part of Belial’s plan. Look at his face.”