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“Stories are not lies,” Cordelia said. She raised her left hand. Then she brought the edge of her sword against it, the blade cool against her skin. She pressed, and it bit in, slicing open her palm. Blood welled from the cut and fell in thick drops to the marble floor.
She held up her injured hand to show Belial, who did not react, only continued watching her. Then she lay the flat of the blade upon the palm and drew it slowly across her hand. When she lowered the sword, the wound was gone, her skin showing no mark or scar, not even a white line where the cut had been. She flexed her hand a few times and then held it up again for Belial to inspect.
“Stories,” Cordelia said, “are true.”
“Interesting,” Belial murmured, as though to himself, but his eyes stayed hooked to Cortana, even as Cordelia lowered the sword. He looked hungry, she thought. Hungry for the end of pain.
“This is the blade Cortana,” Cordelia reminded him, “forged by Wayland the Smith. There is no other like it, and it can heal as well as harm. But it can only do so in the hand of its rightful bearer. You cannot simply kill me and use the sword to heal yourself.”
Belial was silent for a long moment. Finally he said, “What is your proposal, then?”
“Depart from James’s body,” Cordelia said. She knew it was a ridiculous suggestion, but she had to keep him talking. James had said she needed to get close to him, and here she was, desperately searching Belial’s face, looking for any sign of James at all.
Belial gave her a sour look. “Your gambit is sillier than I thought. I have worked far too hard and planned far too long to give up this form. It has been my primary aim all this time. However,” he added, “I am not unwilling to negotiate. If you heal my wounds, I will spare your life.”
Perhaps James had imagined things would be different, Cordelia thought. That he would not be trapped as he was. Or perhaps all he had wanted was for her to get close enough to kill him.
The thought made her sick. But she knew it was a possibility.
“I don’t want my life spared,” she whispered. “I want James.”
“James is gone,” said Belial dismissively. “No use being a child, crying for the toy you can’t have. Think of all you have in your life, should you live.” He furrowed his brow, clearly searching for anything he might consider a reason for Cordelia to keep on living. “You have a brother,” Belial said thoughtfully. “And though I slew your father myself, your mother lives. And”—his eyes sparked—“what of your newborn brother? A baby who has yet to speak a word or take a step? A child who needs you.”
He grinned loathsomely. Cordelia felt as though she had missed a step on a staircase, as if she were grasping at empty air. “The baby—?” She shook her head. “No. You’re a liar. You—”
“Really, Cordelia,” said Belial. He rose to his feet, the crown glittering in his hand. The light from the rose windows sparked fire from its gems as he raised it above his head. “You have made an offer you must know I will only refuse. Then you tell me I am a liar, which would suggest you are not interested in a negotiation. So, Cordelia Carstairs. Why are you really here? Just to watch me…” Belial smiled up at the crown. “Ascend?”
Cordelia raised her eyes to his. “I am here,” she said, “because I believe in James.”
Belial went still.
James, she thought. If there is any piece of you there. If any part of you remains, trapped beneath Belial’s will. Know that I have faith in you. Know that I love you. And nothing Belial can do can change that.
And still, Belial was unmoving. It was not a natural sort of stillness, but looked as if he had been frozen in place by a warlock’s spell. Then slowly, jerkily, his arms began to move, lowering themselves to his sides. He let go his hold on the crown, which fell heavily to the floor. Even more slowly, he raised his head and looked directly at Cordelia.
His eyes, she realized with a jolt—a jolt she felt at the very center of her soul—were gold.
“James?” she whispered.
“Cordelia,” he said, and his voice, his voice was James’s, the same voice that called her Daisy. “Give me Cortana.”
It was the last thing she’d expected James to ask for—and the first thing Belial would have wanted. Belial was a master of lies. Surely he could change the timbre of his voice, sound like James in an effort to fool her… And if she chose wrong, she would doom her city and, ultimately, her world to ruin.
She hesitated. And heard Matthew’s voice in her head: He said you would know the right moment to act. And to believe in him. She hadn’t lied when she spoke before. She was here because she believed in James. She had to have faith, not only because James had told her to, but because she’d come this far on her own instincts and her belief in her friends. And there was no turning back.
She still could not move forward, could not walk to the High Altar. She drew her arm back and flung Cortana. She almost cried out as it hurtled away from her, spinning end over end, and James’s hand shot out and caught it out of the air by the hilt.
He looked at her. His eyes were still gold, and full of sorrow.
“Daisy,” he said.
And plunged the sword into his own heart.
All Shadowhunters believed that they would die in battle; indeed, they were raised from childhood to understand it as the preferred method of death. Ari Bridgestock was no different. She had always wondered what battle would be her last, but in the past few minutes, she had developed a strong feeling that it was going to be this one.
It was cold comfort that Anna was here with her. Anna was a great warrior, but Ari did not think that even a great warrior had a chance in this situation. There seemed an endless horde of Watchers, enough to overwhelm an army of Shadowhunters and still keep coming and coming.
They had decided without needing to discuss it aloud that there was neither time, nor room, for the subtle maneuvering necessary to destroy the possession runes. All they could do was beat back the tide, knocking down enough Watchers to give themselves some breathing space—only to see them rise to their feet again.
