♕

"Would you stop that!?" Dahlia yelled at Matthew who was currently angrily throwing pillows all over the bedroom.

"The pithios is in someone else's possession, none of us know where it is, the world may as well be ending! James will never forgive me now." Matthew whispered, throwing a pillow into the fireplace.

Dahlia stared at the pillow burning mournfully.

"And you need to burn my pillows for that?" she inquired, laying a gentle hand on his bent figure.

Matthew was like an ocean; calm at the surface but full or currents and wild waters underneath.

"Yes." Matthew responded curtly.

Dahlia dropped down on her knees in front of him so they were eye-level. "Look at me Math. It's not you fault-"

"I was home Dahlia, I should have-"

Dahlia cupped his face and lowered her head down so their foreheads were touching.

"Math. The weight of the world does not lay on your shoulders darling," she whispered. "We'll bear the weight together if you're so adamant."

Matthew closed his eyes. "What did I do to deserve you?"

Dahlia laughed shortly. "I don't deserve you."

Matthew's eyes flew open. "Don't you dare, for a second, think that you don't deserve love Dahlia. You deserve all the world can give, not me. I-I am only half a man, how could you possibly love me?"

Dahlia kissed him gently. "Because to me you are whole." she whispered against his mouth.

"Dahlia-" his voice came out strained, his hands finding her hips.

She slowly drew him up, her hands finding his collar. Dahlia didn't know how it happened but suddenly they were on Matthew's bed, their bodies impossibly close.

His hands tangled into her own; designs of red and scars of runes.

His mouth was hot on hers, she felt her soul leave her body. Her heart was racing in her chest, his hands were in her hair setting them free of their pearly confinment. 

Matthew was as beautiful as the Northern Lights and as graceful as midnight stars. 

His lips were a secret language that only Dahlia knew. His hands trailed up her body, unhooking her dress.

"Dahlia." he breathed out. "Dahlia, my angel, my star." 

"Kaashvi. I want you to call me Kaashvi, and only Kaashvi." Dahlia said, her voice was shaking but her words still carried out. 

"Kaashvi." Matthew tried. A bright smile broke out on his face. "Kaashvi, my angel, would you like me to keep going?"

Dahlia only nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "Do whatever you want Matthew. I love you, I love you more than all the stars in the sky."

Matthew made a noise Dahlia couldn't identify, then he was kissing her again.

She let herself fall into the moment with Matthew kissing her and touching her. 

A fantasy sort of heaven. 

♕

Dahlia awoke at near morning when there was a loud banging at the house. Dahlia jolted up with the bedsheets covering her. Matthew stirred beside her. Dahlia blushed.

"Matthew." she whispered, shaking him and getting out of bed, swaddled with a blanket under the bed.

Matthew mumbled.

Dahlia sighed and got dressed. She shook Matthew, her hands splayed on his bare arms.

Matthew shot up. "What hap-" He stopped himself listening to the banging. 

Dahlia only gave him a tired smile, she was quiet drained, and ran down stairs stumbling multiple times over her own feet. Her knees felt like jelly from excitement and this unknown feeling.

She threw the door open and there stood a panting Cordelia in gear and her red hair in a ponytail.

Dahlia blinked.

"Dear Angel, what happened?" asked Dahlia worriedly.

Cordelia was gasping for air. "It's-James-"she gasped out. 

Dahlia's eyes widen. She turned around, "Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!" she yelled.

Matthew rushed downstairs, still buttoning a waist coat on his hair a mess. Dahlia bit her lip and looked away.

Matthew seemed to be smirking at her reaction.

Cordelia sighed in relief at Matthew's presence, "Hurry, the two of you, James he's having another nightmare and he simply won't wake." 

Matthew's eyes widened as he dashed out the door already across the street nearly breaking down the door. Dahlia ran after him, right behind Cordelia.

They rushed upstairs to James' room where he was trashing in his bed, calling out in his sleep. Cordelia set herself on top of him, shaking him. "James. James!"

James jolted, falling on the floor, Cordelia stumbling to keep him upright. 

"Here." Matthew reached out; James caught hold of his parabatai's hand and hauled himself upright.

James leaned back against the marble fireplace. Matthew looked at him worriedly. "Steady on Jamie, bach." he said.

"Math," James said. "The pithos—did Christopher lose it?"

Matthew's eyes widened. "It was stolen—by someone who looked like me. How did you know it was gone?"

"Because he has it," James said. "Belial. He must have sent an Eidolon demon to Christopher, to trick him." He took a deep breath. "I think—I think I may know what's happening." 

Cordelia rose to her feet. 

Dahlia stared. "What do you mean, you know? You know who's responsible for the murders?" she demanded. "I mean, Belial, of course—" 

"I don't know all of it," said James, racing to the center table, where books on dreams and magic still lay scattered haphazardly. "But some of it. Why he's doing what he's doing. Maybe even how. Here—" He yanked the dark purple volume free. "The map," he said. "That map of London—where is it?"

"Here." Matthew slid the book toward him, open to the map in the center

"Mount Street Gardens?" said Matthew, squinting at the new scrawl. "We've been there before. It's quite near here."

"But that still doesn't make Belial's sigil, does it?" said Cordelia, glancing over Matthew's shoulder. "It looks rather like Poseidon's trident. A sort of spear with three prongs."

"It is a sigil," said James. "Just not Belial's. It's Leviathan's sigil." He tapped the Monarchia, where Leviathan's sigil was scrawled across a full page, spiky and vicious-looking. "Thus the trident. He is a sea demon, after all." 

Realization dawned on Dahlia. "Oh dear god, no." she muttered in utter horror.

"Magnus said the Princes had alliances," said Cordelia slowly. "Azazel and Asmodeus. Belial and—"

"Leviathan," said Dahlia. "James, you said the sigils can function as gates. If this murder happens—it will open up a gate for Leviathan to enter our world?" 

"Do you think it's already happened?" Cordelia asked.

James glanced at the window. "No. In my vision it was just after dawn, and dawn is breaking now. Mount Street Gardens isn't far, but we have no time to waste. We must run—" 

"Not like that, you're not," said Matthew sternly. "You need shoes, weapons, and a gear jacket at least, Daisy needs boots. And Dahlia need weapons and gear as well."

"And then?" said Dahlia searching desperately for chakaras.  

"Then we run."

♕

Dahlia, Cordelia, Matthew, and James arrived at Mount Street Gardens at a run. The gate was open, the garden itself seemingly deserted. Dahlia slowed to a walk as they passed onto the footpaths that ran beneath the plane trees. She told herself that the silence—despite the red Jacobean primary school building looming up on the right—was due to the earliness of the morning. The schoolchildren wouldn't have arrived yet, and it was chilly weather fora walk. 

And yet, she could not shake her feeling of prickly unease, as if someone were watching them. But the raked footpaths were bare. James ranged restlessly across the park, hatless, his dark hair whipping in the wind as he searched. They were all glamoured—they would certainly have alarmed the pedestrians on South Audley Street otherwise—but it seemed no one was here to see them. She was wondering if they were too late—or too early—when James gave a hoarse bark of alarm.

"Matthew! Come quickly!" 

Matthew and Dahlia shared a look of puzzlement; James was over by a bronze statue in the middle of the garden, waving furiously. Matthew ran to him, and after a moment, Dahlia and Cordelia followed.

She saw immediately why James had called Matthew to him first. The statue surmounted a now-dry bronze fountain; slumped behind the fountain was the body of a Shadowhunter—a man in gear, with dark red hair. Not faraway, an object glittered on the pathway, as if it had fallen or been tossed aside. The pithos.

 Nearing the fountain, Matthew froze. He had gone an awful color, like chalk.

 "Charles," he whispered. 

He seemed unable to move. Dahlia caught hold of his hand and half dragged him to where James was kneeling by the body—no, not a body, she realized with reluctant relief. Charles was alive, if barely. James had rolled him onto his back, and his blood-soaked chest rose and fell unevenly.

James had his stele out and was frantically drawing iratzes on Charles's skin, where a torn and bloody sleeve exposed his forearm. Dahlia heard Matthew suck in a ragged breath. He was staring intently at the runes, and Dahlia knew why: when a wound was fatal, iratzes would not hold their place on skin. They would vanish, overwhelmed by a level of damage they could not heal. 

"They're staying," she whispered, though she knew it was not a guarantee. She squeezed Matthew's hand hard. "Go—Matthew, you'll hate yourself if you don't."

With a stiff nod, Matthew drew away and fell to his knees beside James. He laid his hand, long and slender, glittering with his wedding ring, on his brother's cheek. "Charles," he said breathlessly. "Hang on, Charlie. We'll get you help. We'll—" 

He broke off and sat motionless, one hand on his brother's face, the other arrested in the motion of reaching for his stele. The slow rise and fall of Charles's shallow breathing seemed to have stopped as well. They were frozen, like statues.

Dahlia looked wildly at Cordelia, who was staring around them in amazement. The park was utterly silent, utterly still. Where were the sounds of birds—city starlings and sparrows? The sounds of London awakening: the cries of costermongers, the tread of pedestrians on their way to work? The rustle of leaves in the wind? The world felt still and frozen, as if pressed under glass.

Dahlia rose, she could move. So could Cordelia and James. She blinked.

"Cordelia, Dahlia," he said. "Turn around." 

She whirled to face the park gates and nearly jumped out of her skin: a young man was strolling toward them, whistling softly. The tune carried through the silent park like music in a church. The boy seemed familiar, though Dahlia couldn't have said why; he was dark-haired and smiling, carrying a heavy sword with an etched crosspiece in one hand. He was dressed in a pure white suit as if it were summer, his shirt and jacket spattered with bright red blood. He was handsome—striking, really, with dark green eyes the color of new leaves. Yet something about him made her skin crawl. There was something feral about his smile, like the grin of the Cheshire cat. 

James was gazing at the boy in what seemed to be dawning horror. Beside him Matthew and Charles remained frozen in their strange tableau, their eyes blank and staring.

"But that can't be," James said, half to himself. "It's not possible." 

"What do you mean? What's not possible?" Cordelia questioned.

 "That's Jesse," James said. "Jesse Blackthorn." 

"Tatiana's son? But he died," Cordelia said. "Years ago."

 "Maybe," said James, taking a knife from his belt. His gaze never left the boy—Jesse—as he approached, fastidiously skirting a border of holly. "But I recognize—I've seen his portrait in Blackthorn Manor. And a few photographs Grace had. It's him." 

"But that's impossible—" Dahlia broke off, her hand flying to Caliburn. The boy was suddenly standing in front of them, twirling his sword in his hand like a music-hall singer with a cane. His jacket hung casually open, his smile widening as he looked from James to Cordelia to Dahlia. "Of course it's impossible," he said. "Jesse Blackthorn is long dead."

James cocked his head to the side. He was pale, but his gaze was steady and full of loathing.

"Grandfather," he said. 

Of course. Dahlia watched as realization set into Cordelia, her hand flying to Cortana.

Interesting.

"Indeed," said Belial, with an unexpected cheerfulness. "Even without quite the ideal vessel, I walk in your world freely. Feeling the sunshine on my face. Breathing the air of London."

"Calling a dead body 'not quite the ideal vessel' is rather like calling the sewers of London 'not that bad a holiday destination,'" said James, flicking his eyes over Jesse Blackthorn's admittedly well-preserved remains. "Indulge me a moment—the tale I heard of the manner and time of Jesse's death. Was all of it a lie?"

 "My dear boy," said Belial. Dahlia unsheathed Caliburn; she saw Belial flinch almost imperceptibly, though he still refused to look at her. "My dear boy, there is no need to trouble yourself that your dear Grace lied to you." He gazed lovingly down at Jesse's left hand, where a Voyance rune gleamed, new and black. "There was a time, you know, when I feared your mother would never procreate. That there would never be a James Herondale. I was forced to make alternate plans. I placed an anchor in this world, sunk deep into the soul of a baby boy when his protection spells were placed on him. Little Jesse Blackthorn, whose mother didn't trust Shadowhunters but did trust warlocks. Emmanuel Gast was easy enough to threaten into obedience. He placed the protections on Jesse, as instructed, and a little something extra as well. A bit of my essence, tucked under the skin of the child's soul." 

Dahlia felt sick. A Shadowhunter's protection spells were precious, almost holy. What Belial had done felt like a nauseating violation. "But James was born," she said. "So you didn't need Jesse after that, did you? Is that why he died?"

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking," Belial said. "His own mother did. She let the Silent Brothers place a rune on him. I warned her not to let them interfere. The angelic runes of the Gray Book reacted quite badly with the demonic essence deep inside him. So ..."

"He died," James said. 

"Oh, yes, quite painfully," said Belial. "And that would have been that, really, but Tatiana is a stubborn woman. She called on me. I did owe her a favor, and I have my own sense of honor—" 

James made a scornful noise. Belial widened Jesse's green eyes in mock horror. 

"You forget," said Belial. "I was an angel once. Non serviam and all that. Better to reign in Hell. But we keep our promises." He stretched luxuriously, like a cat, though his grip on the sword—its hilt, Dahlia saw now, carved with a design of thorns—never faltered. "I ordered Gast to preserve Jesse's body. To keep him in a twilight state, not quite dead and not quite alive. During the day, he slept in his coffin. At night, he was a ghost."

Dahlia thought of Lucie. Lucie, who could see ghosts. Who had been so secretive lately.

 "All the necromancy Tatiana was doing," Cordelia said slowly. "The dark magic that got her exiled to the Citadel. It wasn't to raise Jesse—it was to keep him preserved like this?"

"Oh, she's always wanted him raised as well," said Belial. "But that didn't suit me. I've had to put her off for years. It wasn't until she was carted off to be watched over by the Iron Sisters that I was able to access her precious baby boy so that he could do what I needed him to do."

 "So you made him a killer," said James flatly. "But why?"

 "You woke his body at dawn—possessed it—walked him around London like a puppet. Had him use the pithos to take runes from dead Nephilim. Had him kill." Realization sparked in his eyes. "Not just to collect death energy, or to make Leviathan's sigil. You were making Jesse stronger. Strong enough to bear those stolen runes."

Belial smirked. "Ah, yes, and you saw it all. It's rude to spy, you know, even in dreams."

 "You still deny you had anything to do with those dreams?" said James. 

"I do indeed. It was not me who showed you those deaths. Perhaps someone else wished you to see them." He shrugged. "You can believe me or not. I have no reason to lie, and less reason to care what you think."

"So Jesse isn't alive or dead," said James, "and your anchor inside him allows you to possess him without his body giving way and crumbling apart. You're even carrying the Blackthorn sword." He looked disgusted. "So why did you ask me again, outside Edom, if I would let you possess me? Why not give up on me?"

Belial only grinned his icy grin. "Perhaps I don't need you. Perhaps I only want to kill you. Your reluctance, your refusal to cooperate with me—they have vexed me very much. And one does not vex a Prince of Hell without consequences."

 "No," James said. "That's not it. Jesse isn't your final goal."

"His body can only be used half the day," said Dahlia. "Isn't that right? At night he becomes a ghost and his body can't be used?" 

"He is alive only half the day, and not even the amusing half," Belial agreed. "No, I have never thought of this body as a final destination for my soul. More a method of reaching that destination."

 "Which is still James," said Cordelia. "But you will not touch him." She raised her blade. 

Dahlia flinched at the golden light that reflected into her eye.

This seemed to catch Belial's attention. "Ah, Dahlia. I haven't seen you in an age. Simply forgot you were here." he said sighing, as if disappointed in himself.

Dahlia cringed. "What the bloody-"

"Women shouldn't be allowed to curse, you know?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

Dahlia recalled what Augustus had said to her all those years ago.

She smiled, it was cold like ice and sharp like glass. "Get fucked." she replied.

Belial looked merely amused. "I have met you, do not remember me?"

Dahlia stared at him, debating whether she should throw him into the attic or not. "No...I think I would remember meeting a Prince of Hell."

Belial rolled his eyes. "Give your 'Ellie' my regards." 

Dahlia froze. She felt as if someone had stabbed her, right in the heart.

James and Cordelia exchanged puzzled glances.

"Elli-Eledora wouldn't associate with someone like you." spat Dahlia furiously.

Belial simply looked mildly amused.

"I remember you watching as she was torn apart. I recall my demon coming back with her remains."

Dahlia blanched. "Oh my god. Oh my god." 

Belial continued. "I realize now, that the blasted warlock did not finish his job. Your sword, Caliburn, tempered by the same steel as Excaliburn. It was supposedly lost, did you know that? Surprisingly the Joshi's found it. It's cursed. It only brings ill fated to anyone who wields it. See where it got your father?"

Dahlia shook her head violently.

"He died because of a demon attack along with my mother-"

"Do you really think they would die of something so....little?"

Dahlia wanted to throw up. "Shadowhunters die young. It's common to die of a demon attack."

"I killed them you foolish child, I needed that bloody sword. But your father was a stubborn man, so I simply got rid of him."

Rage mixed with anguish rose in Dahlia's chest. Her hand tightened on Caliburn.

"Your mother was rather beautiful and fierce; almost exactly like you. She shared the same fate as her husband for protecting his dying body."

Images of the Bombay Institute in utter chaos after her parents had died flooded her mind. Ariadne weeping. Her mother smiling at her one last time before departing. It was funny, Dahlia had thought then, how something could change so quickly.

"I don't suppose you'd hand the sword over willingly?"

Dahlia shook her head defiantly.

He smiled crookedly, and charged at her. One moment he was lounging with the Blackthorn sword dangling from his hand. The next he was a streak of fire, a blaze tipped with silver. Only he changed directions at the last minute and nearly lunged at Cordelia hadn't it been for James.

 They rolled across the packed dirt of the pathway; Cordelia somersaulted up and into a standing position, slashing out with Cortana. Her blade clanged against Jesse's—Belial's.

Belial hissed and leaped at her, the Blackthorn sword dancing in his hand.

The Blackthorn sword swept by, dancing and slashing, but with every movement Cordelia was able to dart out of its way. She returned over and over, Cortana blazing in her hand, driving Belial backward on the path, even as his eyes widened with incredulity. 

"This is impossible!" he hissed, the Blackthorn sword slicing through the air where Cordelia had stood a moment ago.

 Cordelia exulted, raising Cortana overhead, then delivering a fast kick to Belial's abdomen. It propelled him back. Dahlia raised Caliburn.

Belial dropped into a crouch, slashing out with the Blackthorn sword; Dahlia leaped over the blade intended to slice her legs out from under her. She feinted, parried, and brought Caliburn down in a long diagonal arc; it slammed against the cross guard of Belial's sword.

 His right hand began to bleed. 

He howled, a long scream of rage that seemed to shake the last leaves from the trees. It struck Dahlia as impossible all London could not hear it. Her heart pounded.

"You think because you have scratched me, it will make a difference?" he snarled. He wiped the back of his injured hand across his face. It left behind a scarlet streak of blood. But he was smiling now. "You think so little of your grandfather, James?"

Dahlia froze, Caliburn still upraised; she had not even realized James was beside her on the path, a seraph blade in his hand. She should be attacking, she thought, should be lunging at Belial—but there was something in his expression that held her back. Something in the way he smiled and said, "Did you not guess that I was delaying until my brother was ready?" 

James seemed to stiffen. Cordelia looked at Belial with a leveled gaze.

Belial laughed and raised his left hand. The air between the plane trees seemed to go white, and suddenly it was as if they were looking through an enormous window.

Through it, Dahlia saw a scene of chaos. It was the courtyard of the Institute, but barely recognizable. The flagstones had been smashed into heaps of rubble, around which gray-green water surged. Lightning crackled above, the air heavy and black. 

Through the shadows, figures darted, illuminated by witchlight. There was Ariadne, standing over a crumpled body, holding off something Dahlia couldn't quite see—something that looked like a massive rubbery limb clustered with vicious suction cups. It was a tentacle, she realized, the waving appendage of something huge, and hidden.

Anna, high atop a broken section of wall, intercepted a tentacle headed for Christopher with her whip. Henry, his chair backed up against a slab of rock, laid about him with a sanjiegun. Alastair clambered onto a pile of rubble, spear in hand, turning to help Thomas up after him. The windows of the Institute, full of faces— 

Belial dropped his hand. The window blinked out of existence. Dahlia could hear her own panicked breathing. 

Her mind was jumping from name to name. Ariadne, Will, Tessa, Sophie, Gideon, Cecily, Gabriel, Alastair, Thomas, Anna, Christopher, Henry, Matthew..

Dahlia hadn't seen Lucie, but she was almost certainly there as well, probably inside the Institute. Nearly everyone she loved in her life was there, facing obliteration. 

"Your brother," said James, his voice barely recognizable. "Leviathan, the sea demon. You have called him up out of Hell."

"He owed me a favor," said Belial, his old insouciance returning. "And he enjoys this sort of thing. So you see, James, you really have no choice at all, regardless of Cortana...or Caliburn."

"You are telling me that if I do not give up my body willingly, let you possess me, then you will have Leviathan kill them," said James. "All of them." 

"Oh, yes, I'll make sure they all die," said Belial. "It's your choice." 

"James," said Cordelia. "No. He's a liar—the prince of liars—no matter what you do, he'll never save them—" 

The smile vanished from Belial's face. "I don't think you understand," he said. "If you do not consent to what I want, your family and friends will die." 

"Cordelia is right," said James. "You will kill them anyway. I cannot save them. You are only offering me that illusion to compel my agreement. Well, you cannot have it." 

Belial huffed out a sound that was almost like a laugh. "Spoken like the grandson of a Prince of Hell," he said. "How practical, James. How logical. Do you know it was logic and rationality that resulted in our casting out from Heaven? For goodness is not logical, is it? Nor compassion, nor love. But perhaps you need to be able to see the situation more clearly." 

Belial does not realize that Charles is still alive, that the sigil is not complete, Dahlia thought to herself.

"You mortals fear such small things," Belial went on. "Death, for instance. Merely the passage from one place to another. Yet you do all you can to avoid it. Now, torment—that is quite different. There is no reason for my brother to kill these acquaintances of yours, you know—not when more refined tortures are available and ... infinite."

James looked at Belial, his gaze level. "Only if you swear," James said, "that no harm or hurt will come to them—" 

"James, no," Cordelia burst out. "He is lying—" 

"And what of your brother, Carstairs girl?" Belial demanded, his green gaze fixed on her. "Leviathan could cut him down as I cut down your father—I could blight every root of your family tree—"

With a scream, Cordelia raised her sword. James moved toward her, flinging out his hand—just as a noise cut through the still gardens. A sound like a fire, crackling and hissing. Shadows whirled and sliced through the air like dark birds. Belial's borrowed eyes followed them, his expression wary. 

"What mischief is this?" he demanded. "Enough! Show yourself!" 

The shadows coalesced into a shape. Dahlia stared in utter astonishment as a figure took form, growing dark and solid against the sky. 

It was Lilian Highsmith. Dead Lilian, in an old-fashioned blue dress. Sapphires sparkled at her ears. The same stones she had worn at the Wentworths' party. 

"You disappoint me," she said, her voice low and even. "You found the Ridgeway Road, the forge and the fire. You call yourself paladin yet you cannot slay one measly Prince of Hell?"

"Measly?" echoed James, incredulous. "Ghost or not, how dare you speak to her like that?"

"Oh," said Lilian. "I am no ghost." She smiled—a smile not unlike Belial's. Dahlia's blood ran cold as Lilian broke apart into shadows again, then re-formed: she was gone and in her place was another figure, the faerie woman with iridescent hair.   

"Is this better?" she breathed, her long fingers toying with her blue necklace. "Or perhaps you would prefer this?"

The faerie woman vanished, and in her place was Magnus Bane, dressed as he had been at the Market. Peacock-blue trousers and a matching embroidered waistcoat, with a watch on a glittering chain tucked into one pocket. Silver cuff links glittered at his wrists, and he wore a silver ring set with— 

A luminous blue stone.

"Not Magnus," breathed Dahlia. "It was never—it wasn't Magnus. "She felt sick. "James—"

"No," James whispered. "But who, then? This isn't part of Belial's plan. Look at his face."

Indeed, fury had twisted Jesse Blackthorn's features; he was barely recognizable. It was as if his human face was a skin stretched too tightly over the features below: Belial's true, monstrous face. "Enough!" Belial hissed. "Show me who you are."

False Magnus bowed low to the ground, and when he rose, he had transformed once more. Standing before them was a slender woman, her skin pale as milk, and her hair jet-black, falling down her back like dark water. She would have been beautiful but for her eyes: black snakes writhing from otherwise empty sockets. A rope of deep blue gems wound about her throat. 

"Lilith," Belial said bitterly. "Of course. I should have known." 

♕