The Inquisitor was spluttering silently. Mrs. Bridgestock, who had been standing quietly among the Pouncebys, said, “What about Grace? If this… murderous demon knows she exists—if it preyed on her brother—”

“Grace was born a Cartwright,” Ariadne said, startling everyone. “Her parents were devoted Shadowhunters. She would have had the protection spells, years before Tatiana even met her.”

The Inquisitor swept his cloak around himself. “I will leave tonight. I must go to the Adamant Citadel and request a formal audience with Tatiana Blackthorn. She will have to be brought out of the Citadel by the other Sisters, for no man can enter the place. But Wentworth is right—it is time to interrogate her.”

As if he had called an end to civility, a hubbub of voices erupted—questions and demands:

But which demon was it, possessing the boy? What if it returns?

Well, so what if it does? Without a body, it’s just a disembodied demon, isn’t it?

How’d it get the runes off the bodies? James, do you know?

What demon has the power to call up a Prince of Hell? How would they expect to control him?

Demons don’t think that far ahead—do they?

Will, who’d been sitting with his boots on a chair, kicked it over. It hit the ground with a crash that, to James’s surprise, brought an immediate silence.

“Enough,” Will said firmly. “As many of you know, the Consul is currently in the infirmary with her injured son. She has sent word, however, with Brother Zachariah.” He inclined his head to Jem. “She’s invested me with the power to open a formal inquiry into this matter, which I will be doing. Tomorrow. For now, everyone who is not injured or the family of someone injured, please return home. There is no indication of further danger, and a great deal of work must now be undertaken. The Clave in Idris must be notified, and repair work begun. For this is our Institute, and we will let no Prince of Hell turn it to ruins.”

There was a modest cheer. As Shadowhunters began to file out of the library, Will turned to look at James, and James could tell what he was thinking. First Belial, now Leviathan? Two Princes of Hell? It was too great a coincidence. James’s father was clever; too clever, perhaps. But he also knew how to wait and let the truth come to him. James had no doubts that it would.

“Well,” said Alastair, “that was a whacking great lot of rubbish James just spouted, wasn’t it?”