“Paladin,” Belial breathed. He turned to look at Cordelia, his expression half fury, half amusement. “That explains it. You are Nephilim, not an archangel. I should have been able to defeat you.”

“Me?” Cordelia said. “No—I am not her paladin—”

“Foolish child,” said Lilith. “You are mine. And while Belial, in his new form, might have been able to defeat a bearer of Cortana, he cannot defeat one who is my paladin.”

“That is a lie. I swore fealty to Wayland the Smith—”

“You swore fealty to me,” said Lilith. Shadow passed across her, and she changed: a tall man, burly, with close-cropped hair, now stood on the frozen grass where Lilith had been. He wore a bronze torque, and blue fire burned in its center.

Cordelia’s mind raced. A bronze torque with a blue jewel. A blue necklace. Sapphire earrings. A ring with a blue stone. The same jewels. The same—

Wayland smiled. “Do you not remember the oath you swore me?” Though Cordelia knew it was Lilith, had always been Lilith, the sound of his voice still moved her. “ ‘Whenever I lift up a weapon in battle, I do it in your name.’ It was as if you cried out to me, my paladin of the golden blade and the shining scabbard. All that power, bound to my name.”

“No,” Cordelia whispered. It couldn’t be true; she wouldn’t allow it to be true. She couldn’t look at James, even as the shadow passed again and Lilith was herself once more, the blue stones burning softly at her throat. She turned her serpent gaze on Cordelia.

“I am the Queen of Demons,” she said. “In the shape of a Nephilim woman, I touched the hilt of your sword, causing it to burn you from that moment on. As a faerie, I came to you at the Hell Ruelle to tell you of the smith who might mend it. As Wayland himself, I took your oath as my own, made you my paladin, and removed my curse from your blade. As Magnus Bane, I brought you close to Edom. As myself, I sent the Hauras and Naga demons to entice you into battle, to show you what a paladin could do. I choreographed each decision you made, each step you took.” There was pity in her voice. “Do not blame yourself. You are but mortals. You could never have known.”

But Cordelia was beyond hearing her. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, every pulse seeming to snap an accusation: stupid, foolish, reckless, arrogant. How could she have believed she would have been chosen as Wayland the Smith’s paladin? That he would have offered such a gift so quickly, with so little consideration, simply because he liked the look of her? She had wanted to be a hero so badly it had blinded her, and now she was here, crushed and shamed, gazing into the dark.