“I’ll do it,” James said, and was in the process of following through when Lucie cried out and leaped to her feet, pointing toward the main entrance of the park. Riding toward them through the gates, on a brown bay horse with a white star on its nose, was Malcolm Fade, High Warlock of London.

Catching sight of them, he dismounted from his horse and strode over. James, feeling he had lost the ability to be shocked or surprised by anything, finished the blood-replacement rune and rose to his feet. “Mr. Fade,” he said as Malcolm approached. “What are you doing here?”

“Just happened by,” said Malcolm, crouching down to peer into Charles’s face. He put a gloved hand under Charles’s chin and muttered a few words in a low voice. There was a spark of dark purple flame, and Charles jolted, blinking around as if he’d just woken up.

Matthew stared. “Is he—all right now?”

“He ought to see one of your Silent Brothers,” said Malcolm. “But he’s better, certainly. Whoever he is.” He squinted. “Is that the Consul’s son?”

“Warlocks never just ‘happen by,’ ” James said. “Not that we don’t appreciate your help—”

For some reason Malcolm looked sharply at Lucie. She stared back at him, her expression hard for James to read. At last Malcolm straightened up. “The gate between worlds has closed,” he said gruffly. “Leviathan has been forced out.”

James sprang to his feet. “The attack on the Institute—it’s over?”

Malcolm confirmed that the Institute had been attacked, the attacker had been a single monster: the Prince of Hell, Leviathan, who had slipped through a door, a gap between dimensions. “There were a few injuries, and quite a bit of property damage—but your people were very lucky, in fact. The Portal connecting Leviathan to Earth was very small, only about the size of the Institute courtyard.”

“That doesn’t seem small,” said Cordelia.

Malcolm smiled thinly. “For Leviathan, it was as if you wished to enter your house through a mousehole. He could only poke a few of his lesser tendrils through.”

“Those were his lesser tendrils?” James said. He pushed his hair back out of his face; there were bloodstains on his hands. “It’s because the sigil wasn’t completed. Because Charles didn’t die.”

“I’m feeling much better,” said Charles, though James would not have described him as looking much better. He was still quite pale, his lips bluish. There was only so much quick spells and blood-replacement runes could do. He squinted at Malcolm. “Are you the High Warlock?” he said. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance at last. I’m Charles Fairchild—you might know my mother, the Consul.”

“Charles,” Matthew muttered through clenched teeth. “You’ve just been stabbed.”

Charles was undeterred. “I regret, of course, that we didn’t meet under more auspicious circumstances—”