“We needed something from your greenhouse,” said Thomas. “A particular plant. I retrieved it and I suspect it will not be missed, given the state of the conservatory.”

Jesse raised his eyebrows.

“Do you make a habit of breaking into people’s houses and insulting their gardening?” demanded Grace. “And why was Miss Herondale in the Italian gardens?”

“I—” Lucie began.

The world went white. White, then gray. Lucie gasped as the garden in front of her vanished, replaced with a vast desert and a night sky blooming with unfamiliar stars. In front of her, she could see James, his clothes spattered in blood. He looked ill, sick and feverish. As she stared in shock, he lunged forward with a blade in his hand.

The vision disappeared. She was back on the grounds of the manor in Chiswick, her body doubled up, fighting for breath. What she had seen was real; she knew it.

“James,” she choked. James is in some sort of trouble. We have to help him. But she could not say that in front of Thomas; he had to concentrate on the antidote, and besides, he would think she was mad. She tried to steady her voice. “I should join him.”

Thomas looked puzzled. So did Grace. Only Jesse seemed to understand.

“Where is he now?” said Jesse. “I’ll go check on him. You know how quickly I travel.”

Lucie and Grace exchanged a quick, almost conspiratorial look. “Where is James, by the by?” Grace asked loudly. “Is he not with you?”

“He is in Highgate Cemetery,” said Lucie. “He went to the Silent City.”

Jesse gave a short nod and vanished.

“What on earth, Lucie?” said Thomas. “What’s this about James?”

“I should join him in Highgate,” said Lucie. “I will be more help to our friends there than I will be to you in the laboratory. Now that we have the last ingredient, time is of the essence in creating this antidote, is it not?”

“Yes, but must you go to Highgate now?”

“I just feel I ought to be with him, and with Cordelia. We’ve done what we came for here—I’ll only be a distraction to you in the lab.”

“Lucie may borrow our pony trap,” Grace said quickly. “It should suffice to get her to the Silent City if she wishes.”

Surprised, Lucie shot her a grateful look. Thomas looked torn. “I ought to go with you, Lucie.”

“No,” Lucie protested. “Tom, you must go to the Consul’s house. I could not live with myself if the antidote was delayed on my account.”

Which, Lucie thought, was certainly true. Thomas was persuaded at last to bid farewell and headed back toward the manor’s long drive.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Grace bent a hard gaze on Lucie. “What are you planning? I know you sent him away for a reason. A real one.”

“I sent him away because of Jesse,” Lucie said. “And because—I heard you talking to that demon, Grace. It was threatening you about some spell. The Clave—”

Grace had gone an awful sort of color. In books, when people went pale, it was dramatic. In this moment, the sight made Lucie feel a little sick. “Do not even say their name,” she said. “Yes, my mother invoked black magic to try to bring my brother back, and with black magic came demons—demons with whom she made bargains, demons with demands, exacting promises. I wish to the Angel she had not done any of it. I tried to keep the worst of it from Jesse, but I—he is all I have, and I cannot lose him. If the Clave learned of my mother’s doings —”

“I know,” Lucie said, trying for a calming tone. “I understand that no one can know Jesse is here, that you’re hiding him because if the Nephilim found his body, they’d destroy it. But he must be hidden, protected? The Enclave didn’t find him when they searched the grounds here—”

“Mama kept Jesse’s coffin in her bedroom, and the Enclave did not enter there,” said Grace in a near-whisper. “I moved him, after she became ill. I couldn’t bear to go in there. And I couldn’t bear for him to have to wake there every sunset.”

“That’s awful—” Lucie began, then she gave a cry of surprise as Jesse reappeared. Grace, clearly more used to Jesse’s ghostly comings and goings, looked unruffled.

“Did you find him?” Lucie asked immediately. “Did you see James?”

Jesse hesitated. “I did not see him, but I did see Matthew and Cordelia. James was—missing.”

“That’s all? James was missing?” Lucie demanded. “Matthew and Cordelia would not leave him.”

“I think he left them, if he even chose to go,” said Jesse slowly. “There were… remnants of dark magic there.”

Lucie’s stomach clenched. “We must get to them. Now.”

“You could take our trap, as I suggested,” Grace said, though Lucie noticed she did not offer to come with her.

“No. Thank you, but—” Lucie turned to Jesse. “Please, can you take me with you? The way you travel?”

Jesse was taken aback. “The way ghosts travel?” he said. “I’ve no idea if it would work, Lucie. I’ve never brought anyone with me.”

Lucie put her hand out. Jesse was standing close to her, and she could rest her palm upon his chest. He was solid, his skin soft where her fingers brushed against his collarbone. But there was no heartbeat beneath her hand.

She looked into his eyes. He might never forgive her for this, she knew, but she had no choice.

“Jesse Blackthorn,” she said. “I command you to bring me with you to my brother. Take me to Highgate Cemetery.”

He stiffened. “Lucie. No.”

Grace took a step toward them, looking puzzled. She began to reach out her hand toward Jesse.

“I command it,” Lucie said fiercely. With a look of fury on his face, Jesse pulled her into his arms, and the ground disappeared beneath her feet.

20 LESS THAN GODS

Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous

To less than gods. On the other side up rose

Belial, in act more graceful and humane.

A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed

For dignity composed, and high exploit.

—John Milton, Paradise Lost

“The rope is still slack,” Matthew said, after some interminable amount of time had gone by in the graveyard. He was very pale; Cordelia was worried about him. James’s passage into the other world seemed to be sapping his strength.

Cordelia had come as close to the archway as she could. She’d thought perhaps she could glimpse James through it, but she saw only a view of dead ground and broken trees, and a red moon rising.

“What if something’s happened to him?” Matthew asked.

“You told James to yank on the rope if he needed to get out,” said Cordelia. “He knows what to do.” She glanced down; she could see where his faint footprints led up to the archway and abruptly vanished. She reached out to touch the space below the arch, experimentally—maybe there was a weak spot in the barrier?

There was not. It was as unyielding as granite. Through it, she could see individual grains of sand stirred by the wind of another world. It seemed so close.

There was a crack as the rope pulled taut. Cordelia whirled as Matthew shouted out, the rope whiplashing forward, yanking him off his feet. He hit the ground hard on his back, struggling as he was dragged toward the archway.

He scrabbled at the earth, trying to slow his progress, his clothes catching and ripping on roots protruding from the ground. He slammed into the archway, hard, just before the rope went slack—he rolled away, groaning, as Cordelia ran toward him, unsheathing Cortana.

She dropped to her knees beside Matthew. There was dirt and blood in his hair. She caught at the rope, raising her blade.

“No,” Matthew rasped. “James—”

He didn’t want her to cut the connection to James, she knew. But being repeatedly slammed into the barrier between this world and the next would kill Matthew. Cordelia knew that, too; even if Matthew didn’t care, she did.

She brought Cortana down, cutting the rope around Matthew’s waist. Matthew rolled onto his stomach, struggling to his knees, just as Cordelia seized the severed end of the rope, wrapping a loose coil around her wrist and gripping as tightly as she could.

“Cordelia—” Matthew reached for her.

The rope jerked taut again. The force was incredible—it yanked Cordelia sideways, nearly impaling her on her own sword. She cried out as she was dragged toward the archway. She saw the barrier getting close as the rope was pulled through it. The space below the arch shimmered. She rolled, twisting her body around, raising Cortana in her hand; she was moving faster and faster.

She remembered the way the sword had embedded itself in the granite of Tower Bridge. And she heard her father’s voice, a painful sound, in her ears. This is a blade that can cut through anything.

She felt the hilt pulse against her palm—she heard Matthew shout—and she whipped Cortana forward, angled toward the archway as if it were so much paper she could slice through.

There was the sound of something shattering as Cortana drove through the barrier between this world and the next. Cordelia screamed as shards like plates of glass flew past her, each containing an image—she saw a beach and a bleeding moon, an underground cave, a citadel on a hill, a demon rising up before a watchtower.

The shards skimmed past and vanished. The rope went slack, leaving Cordelia’s wrist and hand burning. She rolled over, choking and gasping.

She was in the shadow realm: the sky above her was riven with gray clouds, hanging heavy like blocks of granite. Everywhere stretched dunes of ash and sand. The whitened bones of strange animals, long dead, protruded from the earth.

“Daisy?” said a familiar voice.

The rope fell from her hand as she struggled to sit up. Kneeling in the sand beside her was James. He was white-faced, the shadows under his eyes like bruises, his cheekbones streaked with dirt. “How are you here?” he whispered. “How are you possibly here?”