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“He is powerful,” said Matthew. “He is also in pain. Those two wounds Cordelia dealt him already still cause him agony. But you can heal them, with Cortana—”
“Heal Belial?” Cordelia flinched. “I would never.”
“James believes the idea will tempt Belial,” said Matthew. “He is not used to pain. Demons normally don’t feel it. If you tell him you’re willing to make a deal—”
“A deal?” Cordelia’s voice rose incredulously. “What kind of deal?”
Matthew shook his head. “I’m not sure it matters. James only said you had to get close, and that you would know the right moment to act.”
“The right moment to act?” Cordelia echoed faintly.
Matthew nodded. Cordelia felt a quiet panic; she’d no idea what James intended. She’d told herself to think like him, but she felt as if she were missing the integral pieces of a puzzle, the key bits that would allow it to be solved.
Yet she couldn’t bear to show her doubt in front of Lucie and Matthew, both of whom were looking at her with a desperate hope. She only nodded, as if what Matthew had said made sense to her. “How did he know?” she said instead. “That you’d see us again, or be able to tell us anything?”
“He never gave up,” said Matthew. “He said none of you would take Belial’s offer, or leave London—”
“He was right about that,” said Lucie. “Cordelia and I came here, but we never went through the York Gate to Alicante. We stayed in the Institute with the others. Thomas, Anna…”
“James guessed all that.” Matthew was looking at the Portal, at its stormy view of London. “He said you’d come for us. Both of you. He believed in you.”
“Then we must believe in him,” said Lucie. “We can’t delay any longer. We have to get to London.”
She started toward the Portal; as she reached out for it, Cordelia saw the image within the enchanted door change from Westminster Bridge to the abbey, with its Gothic spires reaching toward the storm-struck sky.
A moment later Lucie went into the Portal and was gone. Then it was Matthew’s turn, and then Cordelia’s. As she stepped into the whirling darkness, letting it spin her away from Edom, she thought, What on earth did James mean by “the right moment to act”? And what if I don’t figure it out in time?
34 COMMUNION
Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers:
for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness?
and what communion hath light with darkness?
—2 Corinthians 6:14
It wasn’t at all as James had expected. He’d thought there would be wrenching pain, a sense of violation, perhaps the feeling of being caught in a nightmare. Instead, one moment he was in the courtyard in Edom, bracing himself, and the next he was walking across Westminster Bridge, with the Palace of Westminster and its famous clock tower straight ahead.
He could feel his legs carrying him forward. He could feel the air change from the choking heat of Edom to a wet, piercing chill. He could even feel the wind in his hair—a cold dark wind, blowing off a Thames the color of dried blood—and he wondered: Had something gone wrong with Belial’s plan? Was he really possessed?
The air stung his eyes; reflexively, he tried to raise his hand to shield them. And found he couldn’t. He could feel the impulse to lift the arm in his mind, but his arm didn’t respond. Without conscious planning he tried to look down at the arm, and felt a stab of horror as his gaze remained fixed on the far side of the river. Panic began to rise in him, and he realized he could feel something else—a burning ache in his chest, which flared in a stab of agony with each step.
The wounds of Cortana. Each one was a line of fire laid against his skin. How did Belial bear this constant pain?
He tried to clench his fists. Nothing. The sick panic of paralysis washed over him: his body was a cage, a prison. He was trapped. It didn’t matter that he’d prepared himself for it. He was panicking, and didn’t seem to be able to stop.
A familiar voice echoed through his mind.
“You’re awake,” his grandfather said with a terrible pleasure. James knew his mouth wasn’t moving; no sound was coming from him—this was Belial speaking to him mind to mind. Belial’s consciousness, locked with his own. “I’m sure you rather hoped I’d snuff your consciousness into oblivion. But what fun would that be for me?” He chuckled. “My triumph over London is at hand, as you can see. But my triumph over you is complete, and after anticipating it for so long, I wish to relish it as much as possible.”
London. They were at the middle of the bridge; James had a fine view of the city from here, and wished he didn’t. It had been transformed since he last saw it. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, casting an ashy pall over the city. London was frequently cloudy, of course, famous for its rain and its fog, but this was something else entirely. These clouds were ink black and roiling, reminding James of the sea below Malcolm’s cottage in Cornwall. Every few moments, red lightning speared the horizon, spilling a bloody light.
Normally there would be dozens of mundanes on this bridge, a constant stream of traffic in front of Westminster—but all was silent. The streets were utterly empty. The buildings that lined the river were dark, and there were no boats on the Thames. A dead city, James thought. A graveyard city, where skeletons might dance under an eerie moon.
The thought sickened him—and relieved him, all at once. Because though Belial was delighted, James felt only horror. His greatest fear had been that somehow, when possessed by his grandfather, James would think as Belial did, feel as he felt. But as Belial gloated over his imminent victory, James felt only disgust and fury. And determination, he reminded himself. He had chosen this; it was part of his plan.
Matthew had begged him to reconsider. But James knew his time of dodging Belial was over. The only way out was through.
