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“Might I ask where we’re going?” James said, his voice echoing oddly in his own head. “We seem to be headed for the Houses of Parliament.”
“We are not,” Belial said crisply. “We are going to Westminster Abbey. We are here for a coronation. Mine, that is. Twoscore generations of kings have been crowned here as rulers, and as you know, I am a stickler for tradition. I shall be crowned the king of London, as a start. After that—well, we will see how quickly the rest of the land bends its knee to me.” He chuckled. “I, Belial! Who was meant to never again walk on Earth! Let the Earth stretch herself under my boots in surrender; let Heaven watch in horror.” He flung back his head, staring up at the scorched sky. “You did not see the first revolt against your power coming, Great One,” he hissed. “And you have not stopped this one, either. Is it possible you are as weak as the Morningstar always said?”
“Enough,” James muttered, but Belial only laughed. They had reached the end of the bridge, were striding up onto the road. Parliament loomed up on their left. It was still and empty here, in the heart of the city; James could see where carriages had been abandoned, some tipped over as if they’d been dragged behind panicked horses.
“James!”
Belial whirled around as a figure slipped from behind an abandoned carriage. It was Thomas, his clear, honest face full of delight, stumbling over the debris on the ground in his haste to get to James. Behind him came Alastair, much more slowly. His expression was wary.
James felt his heart sink. You’re right, Alastair. Call out to Thomas, get him away from me—
But Thomas was already there, sliding his seraph blade back into his weapons belt, reaching his hand out to James. “Jamie! Thank the Angel! We thought—”
Belial moved, almost lazily, taking hold of the lapel of Thomas’s coat. Then, with no effort at all, he flung Thomas away. Thomas stumbled backward, and might have fallen had Alastair not caught him with an arm slung around his chest.
“Get away from me, you disgusting great lump,” said Belial; James could feel the words scratch their way out of his throat, laced with hateful venom. “Stupid as pigs, you Nephilim. Touch me again and you die.”
James felt sick at the look on Thomas’s face—hurt, horrified betrayal. But the look Alastair gave James was different. Cold and furious, yes, but narrow with realization.
“That’s not James, Tom,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Thomas paled. With every part of him, James wanted to stay, to somehow explain. But what was there to say? Alastair was right, and besides, Belial had already begun to turn away, dismissing Thomas and Alastair both.
He could try to force it, James thought. Make Belial turn back. A tiny thought, a whisper. But no. Not yet. It was too early. He pushed the thought down, forced himself to be calm, forced himself not to think about what it would mean if his plan didn’t work. That not only would Belial destroy everyone James loved, he would do it with James’s own hands, and James would see their fear, their pain, their pleading up close, through his own eyes.
Control yourself, James thought. Do as Jem taught you. Control. Calm. Hold tight to who you are, inside.
As the abbey rose in front of them, a mass of gray stone surmounted by towers, James felt another lick of horror down his spine. He watched, through eyes he could not close, as Belial approached the cathedral. There were Watchers in the streets, drifting in and out of Belial’s path, falling in behind him as he went. They circled like ghosts as he made his way across the Sanctuary, past the tall column of the War Memorial, and entered the abbey through the vaulted stone archway of the Great West Door, its ancient wooden panels flung wide open to receive him.
To James’s surprise, the Watchers did not follow Belial through the door. They waited outside the cathedral, clustered by the stone benches in the archway like dogs tied up outside a shop. Of course they could not come in, James thought; they were demons, and this was a holy place. But even as he thought it, he heard Belial’s laughter.
“I know what you’re imagining, and it’s wrong,” Belial said. “There are no holy places in London now, no space my influence does not touch. I could fill this ancient cathedral with all the demons in Pandemonium. They could desecrate the altar and spill their filthy blood upon the floor. But that would not serve my intentions, which are far more honorable than that.”
James did not ask what Belial’s intentions were; he knew it would mean another round of gloating. Instead, he said, “You wish to make sure you’re not interrupted. You’ve set them outside, like guard dogs, to keep away anyone who might try to stop you.”
Belial snorted. “There is no one who might try to stop me. There are your foolish little friends who stayed in London, of course, but there are too few of them to make any difference. The Watchers will see to them handily.”
He sounded sure of himself in a way that made James cold inside. He took in the abbey uneasily. He had been here before, of course; it was always a strange experience to walk through the peaceful space, echoing with the quiet voices of tourists and those at prayer. To see the endless memorials and chapels dedicated to the heroes of what mundanes called Britain. No Shadowhunters were mentioned. No battles against demons were recorded. Nobody here knew what he knew: that the world had almost been destroyed as recently as 1878, that his parents had saved it before either had even turned twenty.
Now he strode through the empty nave, Belial’s boots echoing against the tombstones embedded in the floor. Ghostly light from the clerestory windows illuminated the gold bosses that studded the ribs of the vaulted roof, a hundred feet above, and filtered down in dusty rays past shadowed arches upheld by massive fluted stone pillars. Behind the arches, tall stained-glass windows threw colored patterns on the myriad plaques, tombs, and memorials that lined the abbey’s ancient walls.
Belial came to a sudden stop. James was not sure why—they had not reached the High Altar yet, but were in the center of the nave. Here were long rows of empty wooden pews, lit by tall wrought-iron candlesticks in which burning tapers flickered. Past the pews was an ornately carved and decorated screen and beyond that, the tiered stalls and gilded arches of the empty choir. The emptiness of the place was vast, deathly; James could not escape the feeling they were making their way through the bare rib cage of some long-dead giant.
“Kaal ssha ktar,” Belial breathed. James did not know the words: the language was guttural, sour. But he felt the anger that coursed through Belial: a bitter, sudden rage.
“James,” Belial said. “I am learning some things that are making me quite upset.”
Learning them how? James wondered, but there was no point speculating. Belial was a Prince of Hell. It was reasonable to assume he could hear the whisperings of the demons who served him, that he could read patterns in the universe invisible to mortals such as James.
“These friends of yours,” Belial went on, his voice in James’s head growing shriller, almost painful. “I mean, really. I offered them mercy. Do you know how rare it is for a demon to offer mercy? Much less a prince of demons? I lowered myself for their sake. For your sake! And how do they repay me? They sneak about my city, they do their best to disrupt my plans, and worst of all, my own granddaughter creeps into Edom with that girl who bears Cortana—”
“I knew it,” James breathed. And he had known—he had been sure, somehow, that Cordelia would come after him, would find a way. And it did not surprise him at all that Lucie had not left her side.
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Belial. “If it weren’t for Lilith, always interfering—” He broke off, seeming to exert control over himself with some effort. “It hardly matters,” he said. “They arrived in Idumea too late to snatch you away from me. Their bones will whiten in the sun of Edom, along with those of your parabatai. And now…”
He stalked forward, passing through the choir, into the center of the abbey, between the north and south transepts. The cathedral, like most, had been built to resemble a cross: the transepts were galleries that formed the cross’s arms. High above, two enormous rose windows glowed in jeweled shades of blue, red, and green; before them a set of shallow steps led up to a dais, on which was another carved screen with two doors. A table bearing a large gold cross and draped in richly embroidered cloth stood between them.
“Behold.” Belial seemed to have forgotten his troubles; his voice was thick with glee. “The High Altar of my coronation.”
