“He died,” James said.

“Oh, yes, quite painfully,” said Belial. “And that would have been that, really, but Tatiana is a stubborn woman. She called on me. I did owe her a favor, and I have my own sense of honor—”

James made a scornful noise. Belial widened Jesse’s green eyes in mock horror.

“You forget,” said Belial. “I was an angel once. Non serviam and all that. Better to reign in Hell. But we keep our promises.” He stretched luxuriously, like a cat, though his grip on the sword—its hilt, Cordelia saw now, carved with a design of thorns—never faltered. “I ordered Gast to preserve Jesse’s body. To keep him in a twilight state, not quite dead and not quite alive. During the day, he slept in his coffin. At night, he was a ghost.”

Cordelia thought of Lucie. Lucie, who could see ghosts. Who had been so secretive lately. “All the necromancy Tatiana was doing,” she said slowly. “The dark magic that got her exiled to the Citadel. It wasn’t to raise Jesse—it was to keep him preserved like this?”

“Oh, she’s always wanted him raised as well,” said Belial. “But that didn’t suit me. I’ve had to put her off for years. It wasn’t until she was carted off to be watched over by the Iron Sisters that I was able to access her precious baby boy so that he could do what I needed him to do.”

“So you made him a killer,” said James flatly. “But why?” Cordelia loved that look on James’s face—sharp, problem-solving, precise—it seemed the opposite of the Mask, somehow. He was seeing a pattern, one she didn’t see yet, the way those with the Sight saw through glamours impervious to mundanes. “You woke his body at dawn—possessed it—walked him around London like a puppet. Had him use the pithos to take runes from dead Nephilim. Had him kill.” Realization sparked in his eyes. “Not just to collect death energy, or to make Leviathan’s sigil. You were making Jesse stronger. Strong enough to bear those stolen runes.”

Belial smirked. “Ah, yes, and you saw it all. It’s rude to spy, you know, even in dreams.”

“You still deny you had anything to do with those dreams?” said James.

“I do indeed. It was not me who showed you those deaths. Perhaps someone else wished you to see them.” He shrugged. “You can believe me or not. I have no reason to lie, and less reason to care what you think.”

Cordelia exchanged a look with James; she sensed they both doubted they would get a better answer from Belial. “So Jesse isn’t alive or dead,” said James, “and your anchor inside him allows you to possess him without his body giving way and crumbling apart. You’re even carrying the Blackthorn sword.” He looked disgusted. “So why did you ask me again, outside Edom, if I would let you possess me? Why not give up on me?”

Belial only grinned his icy grin. “Perhaps I don’t need you. Perhaps I only want to kill you. Your reluctance, your refusal to cooperate with me—they have vexed me very much. And one does not vex a Prince of Hell without consequences.”

“No,” James said. “That’s not it. Jesse isn’t your final goal.”

“His body can only be used half the day,” said Cordelia. “Isn’t that right? At night he becomes a ghost and his body can’t be used?”

“He is alive only half the day, and not even the amusing half,” Belial agreed. “No, I have never thought of this body as a final destination for my soul. More a method of reaching that destination.”

“Which is still James,” said Cordelia. “But you will not touch him.” She raised her blade.

And this time, Belial did not flinch. He began to smile—a manticore’s smile, as if his jaw were not properly hinged, and the grin might take over his whole face, turning it to a mask of teeth.

“Cordelia, no.” James flung out his hand, his arm across Cordelia’s body. He was suddenly very pale. “The runes,” he said. “When Jesse lost the pithos, you had to send an Eidolon to retrieve it from Christopher, even though it risked discovery of your plan. You needed it that badly. You’ve been making Jesse a warrior. Demon and angel, dead and alive. You think he can defeat Cortana. That’s why you made him. To get Cordelia out of the way—to get at me—” He spun to face her. “Daisy—run—”

And leave you without protection? Cordelia shot James a single, incredulous look before she raised Cortana high above her head. “I said,” she repeated, “you will not touch him—”

Belial charged at her. One moment he was lounging with the Blackthorn sword dangling from his hand. The next he was a streak of fire, a blaze tipped with silver.

James lunged at Cordelia, knocking her out of the way. They rolled across the packed dirt of the pathway; Cordelia somersaulted up and into a standing position, slashing out with Cortana. Her blade clanged against Jesse’s—Belial’s. She registered the pattern of thorns winding around the cross guard of the Blackthorn sword even as he spun, stabbed out at her again—the blade’s tip parted the fabric at her collar with a whisper. She felt the burning sting, a hot spill of blood.

She heard James shout her name. But he seemed distant; the gardens and everything in them were far away. She was facing Belial as if on the vast chessboard James had described to her from his vision. There was nothing there but the two of them, and the next moves they would make.

She charged at Belial, leaping onto a nearby bench and pushing off it, spinning like a top as she whirled through the air, coming down with the sword. He sprang out of the way, but barely fast enough: the sword slashed a cut across the front of his shirt.

He bared his teeth.

Wound him, she thought. Three mortal wounds from Cortana—

Belial hissed and leaped at her, the Blackthorn sword dancing in his hand. Distantly, Cordelia was aware that she had never seen sword work like this before. She should have been cut to ribbons. A week ago she would have been, despite a lifetime of training.

But she was a paladin now. She let the power of it flow into her, igniting the marrow of her bones. Cortana was lightning in her hand: the blade slammed against Belial’s, over and over, filling the gardens with the sound of ringing metal. Surely one of the blades would crack in half. Surely the world would crack in half, and she would spin across the gulf, carried by Cortana’s whirling blade.

The Blackthorn sword swept by, dancing and slashing, but with every movement Cordelia was able to dart out of its way. She returned over and over, Cortana blazing in her hand, driving Belial backward on the path, even as his eyes widened with incredulity.

“This is impossible!” he hissed, the Blackthorn sword slicing through the air where Cordelia had stood a moment ago.

Cordelia exulted, raising Cortana overhead, then delivering a fast kick to Belial’s abdomen. It propelled him back; his unbuttoned jacket flew open, and Cordelia saw James’s gun, thrust through his belt.

Belial dropped into a crouch, slashing out with the Blackthorn sword; Cordelia leaped over the blade intended to slice her legs out from under her. She feinted, parried, and brought Cortana down in a long diagonal arc; it slammed against the cross guard of Belial’s sword.

His right hand began to bleed.

He howled, a long scream of rage that seemed to shake the last leaves from the trees. It struck Cordelia as impossible all London could not hear it. Her heart pounded—had she wounded him? Would it be enough?—as Belial raised his raging eyes and barked out a vicious laugh.