Chain of Gold

by Cassandra Clare

  “Hello, Grandfather,” James said.

  The demon came toward him, smiling courteously. The acrid wind ruffled his pale hair. “You know who I am, then?”

  “You are Belial,” said James.

  “What a clever boy,” said Belial. “I had taken great care to leave no trace behind me.” His hand described a graceful parabola in the air; his knuckles were like curved hinges. “But then, you are my grandson.”

  “But this is not your realm,” said James. “It was Belphegor’s realm, was it not? And you took it from him.”

  Belial chuckled benignly. “Poor Belphegor,” he said. “I wounded him quite gravely when he was not expecting it. No doubt he is still floating about in the space between the worlds, trying to find his way home. Not a nice fellow, Belphegor—I wouldn’t waste your sympathy on him.”

  “It isn’t sympathy,” said James. “I thought at first perhaps Belphegor was my grandfather. But it didn’t fit. Not quite. Then Agaliarept said that his master’s realm had been taken from him—”

  “You met Agaliarept?” Belial seemed highly amused. “What a fellow. We spent some good times together before he got himself trapped in that box. You do move in interesting circles, James.”

  James ignored this. “And I started to think, who would steal a whole world? And why?” He watched Belial’s face for any change, but the Prince of Hell betrayed no emotion. “Then I remembered reading a book that mentioned you.”

  “Many books mention me,” said Belial.

  “This one called you the thief of realms, of worlds. And I—I thought it was a mistake. That it had meant to say you were the greatest thief in all the worlds, in any world. But it was correct, wasn’t it? You steal realms. You stole this realm from Belphegor.” James felt dizzy; his wrist, where Christopher’s nails had scored him, ached and throbbed. “You thought no one would guess you were behind the demon attacks. You thought that if you left traces, they would be ascribed to Belphegor. What I don’t understand is that all my life, you have been showing me this place, this realm—” He broke off, fighting for control. “I see this world whether I wish to or not. But why show me a realm that isn’t yours?”

  Belial grimaced. “You are mortal, and you measure out your lives in days and years. We demons measure our lives in centuries and millennia. When I wrested this place from my brother, there were no Shadowhunters. They were not even a thought in Raziel’s stupid pretty little head. Over the centuries I have bent everything in this realm to my will. Every tree, every rock, every grain of sand is under my command, and so, my boy, are you. That is why I brought you here.”

  “I came here of my own free will,” said James. “I chose to meet you face-to-face.”

  “When did you know I was not Belphegor?”

  James felt suddenly weary. “Does it matter? I guessed some of it when the Mandikhor on the bridge spoke to me. There was no reason for a Prince of Hell to want to see me so badly unless we shared blood, and no reason for him to be so cagey about which prince he was unless he was playing some sort of trick. Agaliarept said his master’s realm had been stolen by a more cunning demon, and I had heard my grandfather called Hell’s most cunning prince. When Ariadne spoke, when she called her master the Lord of Thieves, I knew it. The Mandikhor’s master, the thief, the cunning prince, my grandfather—they were one and the same.”

  “And who do you think spoke to you through Ariadne, and the others?” said Belial. He waved a lazy hand in the air, and for a moment, James glimpsed the infirmary in the Silent City. The sick were lying motionless in their beds, Jem guarding the archway, his staff in his hand. The room was silent. James could not help but gaze at Christopher, still and bruised-looking. “I had grown tired of your dawdling,” Belial said, lowering his hand. The vision blinked out of existence. “You needed to understand that if you did not come to me, the dying would never stop.”

  James thought of Matthew and Cordelia. How they had stared at him in disbelief when he had told them why he had to go through the gateway, why he had no choice. I must meet my grandfather in his realm, whether it is a trap or not. Some traps must be sprung. For if I do not meet him and bargain with him, there will never be an end to this death.

  “You are the reason there have been so few demons all these years in London,” said James. Too scared to show their faces, Polly had said. “They stayed away because they were afraid of you. But why?”

  “To make you all soft,” Belial said. “The Mandikhor has cut through you like a knife through bread, and why not? You remember nothing of what it means to be warriors.”

  “And then you started to let the demons back in,” James said slowly. “To keep us anxious and distracted. Not paying attention.”

  Belial flicked sand from his sleeve. “You and your friends seem to have been paying quite a bit of attention.”

  James spoke coldly. “We humans are not such fools as you think.”

  Belial’s smile widened. “You have me all wrong, child, if you think I feel that humans are foolish,” he said. “They are Heaven’s most beloved creation. ‘In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god,’  ” he quoted softly. “ ‘The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals.’   ”

  “Shakespeare,” said James, “was being sarcastic.”

  “You are not truly human, regardless, are you?” said Belial. “No Nephilim is. You walk among humans, you look like them, but the powers of even the lowest among you exceed the strongest human being.”

  James wasn’t sure what he had been expecting of Belial. This attitude toward human beings was not it. But demons were tricky creatures, like faeries in that way: they twisted and shaped truth to their own purposes. And demons, unlike faeries, could lie.

  “Why did you want to meet me so badly?” James said, keeping his voice neutral. “And why not come to me? Why did you insist I come to you?”

  Belial threw his head back, but if he laughed, it made no sound. “You are a surprise,” he said.

  “Did you expect more fear?” said James. “Then you do not know my father. You do not know my mother. You do not know my family, or me.”

  “I expected more anger,” said Belial. “But perhaps you have moved past such things. You do seem to know about me already. You Nephilim and all your little books. What have you learned about your grandfather, then?”

  “ ‘You made Belial for the pit, angel of enmity; in darkness is his domain, his counsel is to bring about wickedness and guilt. All the spirits of his lot are angels of destruction, they walk in the laws of darkness; towards it goes their only desire,’  ” James quoted.

  Belial seemed amused. “Did you not also learn the meaning of my name? Beli ya’al in the original Aramaic—or is it Hebrew? It means ‘never to rise.’ I alone among the Princes of Hell cannot walk on Earth in my own form. I must possess a body in order to exist in your realm.”

  “You possessed Ariadne,” James said. “In the sickroom.”

  “Only for a moment,” Belial said bitterly. “When my spirit possesses a human body, it is like a bonfire burning within a fragile casing of paper. The body will be destroyed within hours. Lilith, Sammael, all the others—they can walk upon Earth, even in their own forms. Only I am thus restricted, for Heaven punishes us all according to its lights. I of all the princes loved human beings most, so I alone am separated from walking among them.” As he spoke, he gestured. His hands were as beautiful and ageless as the rest of him, with slim, long fingers. His nails were matte black. “And then there is you.”

  The burning had intensified in James’s veins. He could feel fever-sweat trickling between his shoulder blades, dampening his hair. He did not dare look down at his arm.

  “The only host body I can use,” said Belial, “is one of my own blood. I tried with your mother, but that clockwork angel she wore prevented me from getting near her. Even when it was gone, Ithuriel protected her. She is too poisoned with angel blood to make a home for me.” His lip curled. “But y
ou. We could share your body, James. My presence would cure the Mandikhor venom in your veins. You would live, and the power you would have would be immense. For are you not my heir, my own flesh and blood?”

  James shook his head. “The demon attacks, the sickness—you caused all of it because you need me to be willing.” The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. James’s whole body throbbed with pain. “This is why you wanted Belphegor to be blamed for what you’ve been trying to do. For all of this. You’ve been trying to get around the law that says you cannot rise. You were never trying to fool us, the Shadowhunters, about who my grandfather was. You were trying to fool the others like you.”

  “Angels above and demons of the Pit,” said Belial, examining his black nails. “Indeed. I don’t deny that.”

  “You need me to volunteer myself for possession. To allow you to become me.”

  “Quite,” said Belial. He looked bored.

  “You took my grandmother’s happiness from her. You took my cousin Barbara’s life. And you want me to—”

  “To give me your body for my rising,” said Belial impatiently. “Yes, yes. Because I can make it all stop. My creature on the bridge told you as much.”

  “The Mandikhor,” said James. “You possessed someone and sent them to Emmanuel Gast. Had him raise the demon.”

  “Gast was a useful idiot,” said Belial. “He somehow thought that after he raised the demon, I would let him live, though the trail would have led to him eventually and he’s hardly the sort who could withstand torture or interrogation.” He yawned. “It’s really too bad—Gast was quite talented at dimensional magic. He managed to raise the Mandikhor in such a way that it exists partly in your world, and partly here, where it thrives.”

  “That’s why it can withstand sunlight in our world,” James said.

  “Precisely. Worlds are layered upon one another: the Mandikhor and its children are shielded in your realm by this one. And here it serves me completely. When I order it to cease attacking Nephilim, the attacks will stop. The deaths will stop. But if you refuse me, they will continue. And you, my boy, will die.”

  “Stop the demon first,” James rasped. “Bring him forth and destroy him, and you can—you can possess me. I’ll let you.”

  “No,” purred Belial. “That is not how these things work, James Herondale. This is my realm, and there will be no tricks. First you become my host. Then—”

  James shook his head. “No. The demon first. And you cannot just rescind your orders to the creature. You must destroy it.”

  Belial’s icy gaze hardened. His eyes are so much like my mother’s, James thought. It was strange to see those eyes filled with so much evil. So much hate.

  “It is not your place to give me orders,” said Belial. “Come here, boy.”

  James didn’t move. Belial’s eyes narrowed, then flicked over him, taking in his face, his gear, his bleeding wrist.

  “You refuse me,” he said slowly, almost as if he could not quite believe it. James would have said he seemed aghast, if Princes of Hell could be aghast.

  “As I said before,” said James. “I came here of my own free will.”

  “I see,” Belial said. “You are not as tractable as I had been led to believe. But you will realize the wisdom of my plans soon enough. I would prefer an adult male body,” he added, almost as an aside. “In fact, I would prefer you were a bit older, but needs must as the devil drives. As they say.” He grinned. “Recall that you are not the only one I could approach.”

  He waved a black-nailed hand, and multicolored light streaked across the dark air. It resolved into the shape of Lucie—Lucie in gear, her hair up in a determinedly tight chignon. She looked exactly herself, down to the ink stains on her hands. James’s stomach clenched.

  “Don’t you dare touch her,” he said. “Besides—Lucie would never agree.”

  Belial laughed. “Don’t be so sure. Consider it, James. Despite the strength in your blood, the body you occupy is frail. Look what you are dying of now. Four small nail marks in your arm. So very little to end so much. You reside in a flimsy shell that can age, and die, and feel terrible pain. But if you joined with me, you would become immortal. Would you not want that for your sister? For yourself?”

  “No,” said James. “It would not be worth it.”

  “Ah, the foolish confidence of Nephilim.” Belial’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is time for me to remind you, boy, just how fragile you truly are.”

  * * *

  There was a silence. Jesse stood, not breathing hard—not breathing at all—the sword in his hand. He looked from Grace to where Lucie crouched, still on the ground. He inclined his head toward Lucie, then, in the smallest of nods.

  She turned to Grace.

  “Yes,” Lucie said. “I can see Jesse.”

  Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. “But how?” she whispered. “James is a Herondale too but can’t see him—James could never see him—”

  “Lucie is unusual,” said Jesse. “She seems to be able to see more than ordinary ghosts.”

  He propped the sword against the side of the shed and went over to his sister. “Grace,” he said, gently putting his arms around her. Grace laid her head against his shoulder. “That demon. Was that Grandfather’s work, still lingering about?”

  Grace drew back slightly. “No,” she said, “It was—” She shook her head. “It isn’t safe. We can’t speak in front of her, not about anything. She’s the daughter of Will Herondale, Jesse; she’s practically the Consul’s niece—”

  Lucie rose silently, brushing grass from her clothes. She felt very awkward. She thought of the demon, its hissing whisper: the oaths your mother swore to those far more powerful than she. The demon had been Tatiana’s doing, she knew, and she suspected from the look on his face that Jesse guessed it too.

  “I know Lucie,” Jesse said, looking at Lucie over the top of Grace’s blond head. “I trust her. Just as you trust James.”

  Grace drew back and frowned. “I’ve never told him about you—”

  “Lucie!” A voice called her name; she looked up to see Thomas racing toward her. He cleared the low hedge easily and approached, looking puzzled but ready for a fight, bolas in his hand.

  Grace stepped back hastily from Jesse, wiping at her face. She turned to glare at Thomas. “Why have you invaded my home?” she demanded. “What is going on here?”

  “We didn’t think you’d be home,” Thomas said.

  “Not helpful,” said Lucie. “Tell her about the antidote, Thomas.”

  “Ah,” said Thomas, looking nervously at Grace. “Christopher and I have been trying to work out an antidote for the demonic poison.”

  “And?” said Grace in a clipped tone. She was watching Jesse out of the corner of her eye; he had retreated several feet and was looking at them silently. It seemed clear Thomas could not see him.

  “We needed something from your greenhouse,” said Thomas. “A particular plant. I retrieved it and I suspect it will not be missed, given the state of the conservatory.”

  Jesse raised his eyebrows.

  “Do you make a habit of breaking into people’s houses and insulting their gardening?” demanded Grace. “And why was Miss Herondale in the Italian gardens?”

  “I—” Lucie began.

  The world went white. White, then gray. Lucie gasped as the garden in front of her vanished, replaced with a vast desert and a night sky blooming with unfamiliar stars. In front of her, she could see James, his clothes spattered in blood. He looked ill, sick and feverish. As she stared in shock, he lunged forward with a blade in his hand.

  The vision disappeared. She was back on the grounds of the manor in Chiswick, her body doubled up, fighting for breath. What she had seen was real; she knew it.

  “James,” she choked. James is in some sort of trouble. We have to help him. But she could not say that in front of Thomas; he had to concentrate on the antidote, and besides, he would think she was mad. She tried to steady her voice.
“I should join him.”

  Thomas looked puzzled. So did Grace. Only Jesse seemed to understand.

  “Where is he now?” said Jesse. “I’ll go check on him. You know how quickly I travel.”

  Lucie and Grace exchanged a quick, almost conspiratorial look. “Where is James, by the by?” Grace asked loudly. “Is he not with you?”

  “He is in Highgate Cemetery,” said Lucie. “He went to the Silent City.”

  Jesse gave a short nod and vanished.

  “What on earth, Lucie?” said Thomas. “What’s this about James?”

  “I should join him in Highgate,” said Lucie. “I will be more help to our friends there than I will be to you in the laboratory. Now that we have the last ingredient, time is of the essence in creating this antidote, is it not?”

  “Yes, but must you go to Highgate now?”

  “I just feel I ought to be with him, and with Cordelia. We’ve done what we came for here—I’ll only be a distraction to you in the lab.”

  “Lucie may borrow our pony trap,” Grace said quickly. “It should suffice to get her to the Silent City if she wishes.”

  Surprised, Lucie shot her a grateful look. Thomas looked torn. “I ought to go with you, Lucie.”

  “No,” Lucie protested. “Tom, you must go to the Consul’s house. I could not live with myself if the antidote was delayed on my account.”

  Which, Lucie thought, was certainly true. Thomas was persuaded at last to bid farewell and headed back toward the manor’s long drive.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Grace bent a hard gaze on Lucie. “What are you planning? I know you sent him away for a reason. A real one.”