Chain of Gold (49 page)

The other end of the rope he secured around his own waist.
When he was done, he looked steadily at James. “Go on, then,” he said. “If something happens—if you need us to pull you back through—tug on the rope three times.”

“I will,” James said. He turned to Cordelia; he was standing so close to the archway that the outline of his left side seemed grayed out, as if he were a sketch that was rapidly being erased. “Cordelia—”

Cordelia leaned over and kissed James swiftly on the cheek. She saw him blink and touch his fingers to the spot in surprise. “Come back,” she said.

James nodded. There was nothing more for any of them to say. With a last look behind him, James stepped through the archway and disappeared.

The world beyond the archway was black and gray. James moved first through amorphous shapes, and then into a place where a path wound between dunes of dry sand. The air was thick and acrid and tasted of smoke, and dust seemed to blow ceaselessly through the air, forcing him to shield his eyes with one hand.

Just above him, he could see a hole in gray-black clouds, and strange constellations of stars. They gleamed like the eyes of spiders. Some distance away, clouds had gathered and black rain was falling.

His only comfort was the rope around his waist. Like all Shadowhunter rope, its reach was much longer than it appeared: it unrolled and unrolled behind him with no sign of running out. He kept tight hold of it with his right hand: somewhere on the other end were Matthew and Cordelia.

After some time, the landscape changed. For the first time he saw the ruins of what had once been a civilization. Broken pillars littered the dry ground, along with the crumbling remains of old
stone walls. In the far distance he thought he could make out the shape of a watchtower.

The path curved around a dune. When James emerged from the other side, he could see the tower more clearly. It rose like a spear against the torn sky. In front of him was a square surrounded by the ruins of walls, and in the middle of the square stood a man.

He was dressed all in white, like a mourning Shadowhunter. His hair was a pale gray color, though he did not look old: it was the color of doves' feathers, cut unfashionably long. His eyes were a familiar steel gray. James recalled the illustration of the princes in the book he had studied, but those had been monstrous depictions: this was a Prince of Hell showing himself in his most human form. He looked like a statue carved by a divine hand: his features were ageless, handsome, everything in balance. It was possible to see in his face the terrible beauty of the fallen. Even his hands looked as if they had once been shaped for acts of divinity: for prayer and holy war at once.

“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
you
. 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.