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She and Lucie looked around with an awful sort of fascination. Here was something so familiar, and yet not familiar at all: the great square at the heart of Alicante, with the Hall of Accords at one end, and the statue of the Angel Raziel in the center. Only there was no Hall of Accords here, only a massive pillared building made of a darkly glowing metal; this had been the glint Cordelia had seen earlier. Its sides had been engraved with words in a curling demonic script.
As for the statue of the Angel, it was gone. In its place was a statue of Belial, carved from marble. A sneer was stamped on his beautiful, inhuman face; he wore scaled armor, and wings of black onyx burst from his back.
“Look at him. Look how pleased he looks with himself,” Lucie said, glaring viciously at the statue. “Ugh, I wish I could—” She gasped and doubled over, her hands on her stomach. “Oh—it hurts.”
Terrified, Cordelia caught hold of Lucie’s arm. “Are you all right? Lucie—”
Lucie looked up, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated and very black. “Something horrible,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong. I feel them—the dead—”
“It’s because we’re in Idumea, isn’t it? You said it was a dead city—”
Lucie shook her head. “Those are old ghosts. These are new—so full of rage and hatred—like they just died, but nothing’s lived here in so long, so how—?” She flinched and staggered back against the base of the statue. “Daisy—look—”
Cordelia turned to see what seemed to be a whirling cloud of dust. She thought of stories of storms in the desert, great sheets of sand moving across the sky, but this was no natural phenomenon. As it drew closer, spinning across the square, Cordelia could see that it was indeed a moving, tightly packed cloud of dust and sand, but within that cloud were shapes—faces, really, with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Like paintings of seraphim, she thought in a daze, great wings covered in eyes, wheels of fire that spoke and moved.
Lucie was moaning softly, clearly in agony as she crouched against the statue. The spinning cloud was right in front of them. Out of the dust and sand, a face began to form, and then a torso and shoulders. A mournful face, with spilling black hair and sad, dark eyes.
Filomena di Angelo. As Cordelia stared in amazement, she spoke—a strange, half-formed figure circled in whirling sand. “Cordelia Carstairs,” she said, and her voice echoed like the wind that blew across the desert. “Have you at last come to save me?”
This is a demon, Cordelia thought. Some sort of nightmare creature that preys on guilt. Only—that did not explain Lucie’s response to it. Still…
“You are a monster,” Cordelia said. “Sent by Belial to trick me.”
The dust whirled, and a new face appeared within it. An old woman, sharp-eyed, familiar. “It is no trick,” said the semblance of Lilian Highsmith. “We are the souls of those Belial murdered in London. He has trapped us here for his own amusement.”
The sand shifted. Basil Pounceby’s grim face stared out at them. Lucie was breathing in rasping gasps; Cordelia fought back her fear, her desire to flee to protect Lucie. This creature would only follow. “We have been ordered to harry anyone who comes into Idumea and drive them away,” growled the ghost of Pounceby. “Belial finds it an amusing joke to bend Shadowhunters to his will and force us to eternally witness the destruction of that which was once Alicante.”
“Belial,” said Cordelia. “Where in Idumea is he now?”
Another shift. It was Filomena again, her expression desperate. “In the dark Gard,” she said. “That which was Lilith’s palace but is now his. He flies there and back on a great dark bird. We think he has taken prisoners.”
Prisoners. Cordelia’s heart leaped. “You must let us through, Filomena,” she said. “I failed to protect you before. Let me try now. Let us go to the Gard, for when we get there, I will kill Belial, and you will be free. His hold on you will be ended.”
“How do you think you can slay Belial?” Basil Pounceby’s voice, thick with scorn. “You are just a girl.”
In one smooth motion, Cordelia drew her sword. Cortana glowed in her hand, a staunchly defiant gold, untouched by the bloody sun. “I am the bearer of Cortana. I have already wounded Belial twice. A third wound will end him.”
Filomena’s eyes widened. And then she was gone, the sand reshaping and re-forming itself, into the most familiar countenance of all. Pale hair and eyes, gray stubble, a deeply lined face. Her father.
“Cordelia,” said the ghost of Elias Carstairs. “You heard my words in Paris, when I spoke to you, did you not?”
Any doubts Cordelia had entertained that these were really the spirits of the London dead vanished. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, Baba—”
“Daisy,” Lucie said, her voice thready. “I can’t—we don’t have much time—”
“I heard you in Paris,” Cordelia said, staring at her father’s face. “You tried to warn me.”
“I reached out,” Elias whispered hoarsely. “I heard your call in the darkness. But we are weak in death.… There is so little I could do.…”
“Father,” Cordelia said. “You were a great Shadowhunter once. The legendary Elias Carstairs. You led warriors into battle, into victory. Be a leader now. Defy Belial. Give me this chance to make it to the Gard. Everything depends on it. Father, please—”
She broke off as the cloud began to spin faster, and then faster still. Faces appeared and disappeared within the storm of it, eyes bulging, teeth gritted; Cordelia could no longer tell which face was which, but each wore the same look of grim determination. And then, with a great shrieking cry, the cloud burst apart into fragments, sand showering the cobblestones of Angel Square.
Cordelia’s ears rang in the silence. She turned to look at Lucie, who was straightening up cautiously. She said gently, “They’re gone, Daisy.”
“Are you all right?” Cordelia lowered her sword. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes. But they’ll come back, I think. They’re subject to the will of Belial; they can only fight it for so long.” Lucie inhaled, a long and steadying breath. “We’d better get to the Gard while they do.”
