“Enough. You dull, disobedient children,” said Belial. “Shoot me if you like, James; it will make no difference. Nor can the paladin protect you now.” He lifted the Blackthorn sword, moving easily, lightly, with no sign of weariness. “I shall cut down your wife and your sister as easily as scything grass.”

“No,” James said raggedly.

“You know what choice you have to make.” Belial took a step toward James, shoving Lucie out of the way; she stumbled aside. “You know what you must give up. Your family, the Institute, all depends on you.”

Lucie’s eyes widened. “James? What does he mean?” She turned to Belial. “Jesse,” she said. “Don’t do this—I know you’re inside there, I know you don’t want this—”

“Be quiet,” Belial snapped. “You, girl, do not matter. Your little talent with ghosts does not matter. When I heard you were born, I wept tears of fire, for you were female, and you could not see the shadow realms. You are useless, do you understand? Useless to me, to the world.”

But Lucie—slight and small, without a weapon in her hand—only looked at him steadily. “Talk all you want,” she said. “You certainly don’t matter. Only Jesse matters.” She held out her hands. “Jesse,” she said. “Be yourself and only yourself. Cast Belial from your body.”

Belial burst into laughter. “Oh, granddaughter, that is adorable. But I am not so easily gotten rid of.”

“Jesse,” Lucie whispered, and there was something about the way she said his name. She loves him, Cordelia thought, with a sudden astonishment. She loves him, and I never even knew he existed. “Jesse, I know you told me never to command you unless you asked me to. But this is different. A terrible thing was done to you.” Lucie’s voice shook. “You have never had any choice. But you can choose now. To trust me. To come to me. Please, Jesse.”

“Ugh.” Belial looked faintly nauseated. “This is quite enough.”

“Jesse Blackthorn. I command you,” Lucie said, her voice rising, “to cast Belial from your body. Be yourself.”

“I said enough,” Belial roared, and then his body jerked, the Blackthorn sword flying from his hand as he doubled over. He fell to one knee, his head thrown back. His mouth and eyes flew open, stretching impossibly wide.

Cordelia staggered to her feet, lifting Cortana. It felt heavy in her hand, as it had not before, but still familiar. Still powerful. She raised the blade.

“Not yet!” Lucie cried. “Daisy, wait—”

Belial spasmed. Dark light burst from his eyes, his mouth: a flood of blackness, pouring into the air like smoke. He turned, twisted, like a bug impaled on a metal spike. His body bent back, an impossible, awful curve, his shoulders nearly touching the ground as his hands flailed, reaching out to catch at nothing.