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She had thought he would object. He didn’t. He closed his eyes before he kissed her, and she felt the harsh intake of his breath. She had feared it would feel like something other than a real kiss, like an experiment or a test. But his lips on hers swept away self-consciousness and thought. He was practiced at kissing her now: he knew what she responded to, where she was sensitive, where to linger and where to press. Her lips parted: her fingers stroked his neck as his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth. It was not just her body, but her mind and soul that were lost in the kiss, lost in Jesse.
And she began to fall.
She clung to the feel of his body against hers as a lighthouse in a storm, something to keep her anchored. Her vision darkened. She seemed to be in two places at once: in the Institute, kissing Jesse, and somewhere between worlds—somewhere where points of light raced around her, swirling like paint on a palette.
The points of light began to resolve themselves. They were not stars, as she had thought, but grains of dark gold sand. They swirled, blown by an invisible wind, half-concealing what stood in front of her.
High walls. Towers that pierced the sky, shimmering like crystal. The demon towers of Alicante? Was she seeing Idris? Gates wrought from silver and iron rose up; they were covered with a strange calligraphy, like Marks rendered in an alien script.
A hand, long and white, reached out. It was not her own hand—it was massive, inhuman, like the hand of a marble statue. It laid itself against the gates, and rough words scored the inside of Lucie’s mind:
Kaal ssha ktar.
A grinding, wrenching sound. Images flashed through her head: an owl, with glowing orange eyes; a sigil, like Belial’s, but with something oddly different about it; the statue of an angel holding a sword, standing above a dying serpent.
Belial’s face, turned toward hers, his mouth stretched wide in a grin, his eyes the color of blood.
With a gasp, Lucie wrenched her gaze away. Light flared and died; she was back in Jesse’s room; he was holding her, his eyes panicked as they searched her face. “Lucie!” His fingers tightened on her arms. “Are you all right, did you—”
“See anything?” she whispered. “Yes—I did—but I don’t know, Jesse. I don’t know what any of it means.”
23 A SINGLE CHANT
Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion. Those who heard them listened in delight, and so similar were the two voices that they sounded like a single chant. Born of pain and longing, their song had the power to break the unhappiness of the world.
—Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun
Cordelia ran.
It had begun to snow, and the wind whipped tiny ice crystals against her skin. The hansom cab had only been willing to bring her as far as Piccadilly because of roadwork, and so she was running up Half Moon Street, almost tripping over her skirts, heavy with wet snow along the hem. But it didn’t matter.
She ran, hearing Grace’s words in her head, explosive fragments that had blown her whole world apart like one of Christopher’s experiments.
He never loved me. Not really. It was a spell, administered through the bracelet. It was always you he loved.
Cordelia was hatless, and every once in a while a topaz pin would whip free of her hair and rattle to the sidewalk, but she did not stop to pick them up. She hoped someone found them and sold them and bought a Christmas goose. She could not slow down.
Belial gave me this gift, this power. I can convince any man to do anything I like. But it didn’t work on James. The bracelet had to be invented to keep him in line. He and I were still friends when I gave it to him. I recall snapping it onto his wrist and seeing the light go out in his eyes. He was never the same again.
Cordelia had been glad Christopher was there too; otherwise it might have seemed too much like a strange dream to have really happened.
Grace had been icily calm as she recounted what had happened, though she had not met Cordelia’s gaze, instead staring down at the floor. Under other circumstances Cordelia might have been furious. What Grace was telling her was a story of terrible cruelty and violation, but Cordelia sensed that if Grace showed anything of what she felt about it, she would come apart completely, and Cordelia could not risk that. She needed to know what had happened.
Cordelia had reached Curzon Street. She ran along the icy pavement, up the curve of the street, toward her house. Christopher had told her James would be there. She had to believe he would.
He loved you, Grace had said. Even the bracelet could not contain it. My mother moved us to London that I might be closer to him, exert more power over him, but ultimately it failed. All Hell’s power could not extinguish that love.
Cordelia had whispered, “But why didn’t he tell me?”
Grace had looked at her then, for the first time. “Because he didn’t want your pity,” she said. “Believe me, I understand. I understand all desperate, self-defeating thoughts. They are my specialty.”
And then Grace’s voice faded. The smell of the Silent City, the feeling of dazed, sickening shock, all of it fell away, because Cordelia had reached her house, and the lights were on inside. She raced up the front steps, thanking Raziel for her balance runes—her heeled boots had never been meant for running in—reached the front door, and found it unlocked.
She threw it open. Inside, she flung her damp coat in a heap on the floor and raced through the house—the dining room, the drawing room, the study—calling out for James. What if he wasn’t there? Cordelia thought, stopping at the foot of the steps. What if Christopher had been wrong?
“Daisy?”
She looked up. And there was James, coming down the steps, a look of surprise on his face. Cordelia did not hesitate. She bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
