Matthew rolled his eyes. “I think they’ve changed the locks. My mother, making a point as usual.”

“Oh. Well, do you want to come in?”

“No need; I’m just on an errand. James sent me. You still have that pithos, don’t you?”

“I do!” Christopher said, brightening. Excitedly he explained the discovery that the stele removed runes from one person and transferred them to another. Though—for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain—he left Grace out of it. “I must say, I find it very strange,” he concluded. “And inefficient! But the killer must be murdering people and taking their runes for some dark purpose that we do not yet grasp.”

“Right, I see,” Matthew said, though Christopher wasn’t sure he did see, as he hadn’t appeared to be paying attention. “Whatever its purpose, James needs it right away—so I had best take it to him now.”

Of course James would already have a plan of some kind—James was always coming up with plans. Christopher felt around in his pockets and located one of the white rags he used for cleaning his instruments. He carefully wrapped the pithos in it and handed it to Matthew.

“It’s just as well you take it,” he said. “I’m completely exhausted anyway. I’m going to sleep in your room, if you don’t mind, seeing as you’ve got a whole other flat.”

“Of course,” Matthew said, tucking the pithos into a pocket inside his coat. “My home is yours.”

They said their goodbyes, and then Christopher went up to Matthew’s room, which looked oddly bare since Matthew had taken many of his books and belongings with him when he moved. Something tickled the back of Christopher’s scientific mind—something about Matthew, something he’d forgotten to tell him, perhaps? But he was too exhausted to think much on it. There would be plenty of time to sort things out tomorrow.

22

HEART OF IRON

And there the children of dark Night have their dwellings,

Sleep and Death, awful gods. The glowing Sun never looks upon

them with his beams, neither as he goes up into heaven, nor

as he comes down from heaven. And the former of them roams

peacefully over the earth and the sea’s broad back and is kindly

to men; but the other has a heart of iron, and his spirit within

him is pitiless as bronze: whomsoever of men he has once seized

he holds fast: and he is hateful even to the deathless gods.

—Hesiod, Theogony

“Concentrate on what, precisely?” James said. He felt slightly nervous: Magnus’s gaze was focused and intent, as if he were staring into James and through him.

“You truly have your grandfather’s blood in you,” Magnus murmured, still staring at James with a curious expression.

James stiffened. He knew Magnus meant nothing by it: it was a statement of fact and nothing more. Still, not pleasant words to James’s ears. “There are doors in your mind that lead to other worlds,” said Magnus. “A mind forever voyaging, as they say. I have never seen anything like it. I understand that Jem has taught you how to close them, but your control is not yet perfect.” He dropped his hands with a smile. “Well, never mind, we shall voyage together.”

Not entirely sure he wanted the answer, James said, “Are you not at all concerned what my parents will say when they find out we have risked this? And they will find out.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Magnus waved a breezy hand. James shot a look at Cordelia, who stood by the study door with her sword drawn, looking like a statue of Joan of Arc. She shrugged as if to say, Well, it’s Magnus.

“James, I believe your parents will understand, once they have a grasp of the gravity of the situation,” said Magnus. “Nor, considering their own past activities, do they have much of a leg to stand on.” He laid a long-fingered hand over James’s chest, atop his heart. “Now, no more of this trying to shock or upset you to bring you into the shadow realm. It isn’t necessary.”

James looked at him in surprise, but the world was already sliding away to grayness. The familiar walls of the study turned to monochromatic dust; the books and couches and chairs crumbled and vanished. James was rising, spinning into the void.

He had never experienced travel into the shadow realm like this before. The world hurtled away from James, as if he were rocketing down a tunnel. One moment the study was there, the fire, Cordelia, the London night beyond the window. The next his familiar world was flying away—he reached out to catch it, to grab on, but only darkness surrounded him; no moon, no stars, just a darkness that felt infinite, never-ending.

A light flared in the shadows, an amber glow that gradually intensified. Magnus stood a few feet away from James, yellow light playing around his right hand. He gazed about, frowning. “This,” he said, “is not Edom.”

James got to his feet, the world righting itself around him. Suddenly there was an up and a down, a sense of gravity absent a real sense of space. And there was ground underfoot, or something like it. It was not the dust of Edom, but a smooth and polished surface, stretching into the infinite distance, made up of alternating squares of dark and light. “Magnus,” he said, “I think we may be standing on a chessboard.”

Magnus muttered something under his breath. It sounded as if he were cursing in another language. James turned in a circle: he thought he could see glints above him, like pinprick holes in the black sky. A faint glow clung to everything: he could see it outlining his hands, his feet. Magnus seemed to be glowing slightly too. James moved his hand across the air and watched his bracelet glitter.

“James, think,” Magnus said. “Can you picture Edom, the last time you saw it? Can you recall the dark fortress?”

James took a deep breath. The cold air tasted like metal, silvery-sharp. He had never felt so far away from home, yet he was not at all afraid. Somewhere, he thought, somewhere very close, if he could just reach out—

And then he saw it, a small whirlwind, like a miniature sandstorm. He stepped back as it grew, solidifying, taking shape.

It was a throne. The sort of throne James had seen in books, illustrating pictures of angels—ivory and gold, with gold steps rising up toward a massive seat. A peculiar symbol was carved repeatedly into the sides, spiky and odd-looking, and across its back were written the words: AND HE WHO OVERCOMES, AND HE WHO KEEPS MY DEEDS UNTIL THE END, TO HIM I WILL GIVE AUTHORITY OVER THE NATIONS; AND HE SHALL RULE THEM WITH A ROD OF IRON, AND I WILL GIVE HIM THE MORNING STAR.

This was an angel’s throne, he thought, or at least it had been made to look very like one. And the words carved on the throne were in Latin, though the strange symbol carved across the sides and arms was nothing he recognized—

No, he thought. He did recognize it. He’d seen it in that book, just the other day. Belial’s sigil. He glanced over at Magnus, who closed his fist, his expression wary. The amber light that had glowed from his fingers vanished.

“Grandfather,” James said, looking at the throne. “Grandfather, show yourself.”

James heard a low chuckle, very near, as if someone leaned close to his ear. He jumped back as Belial appeared on the throne, lounging rather casually. He wore the same pale suit he’d worn in Belphegor’s realm, the color of mourning, with white lace at the cuffs and throat. His hair was that same mix of white and gray, like dove’s feathers. “I’m surprised, James. I was left with the impression that you wanted nothing to do with me. Have you reconsidered my offer?”