The Demon’s Surrender

by them.

Sin could hear quiet spreading in Anzu’s wake, through the house and then outside it, the battle stilling, over and won. She went to the window and saw it was raining, not a demon’s storm but just the light gray drizzle of London, rain falling in the silent street.

A small sound made Sin turn around.

In the mess of the summoning circle, through the lingering smoke, she saw the new gray shimmer of Alan’s hair.

His shoulders were humped, his back an arch of pain, as he struggled onto his hands and knees. He was making a low, terrible moaning noise. Sin knew that he was moaning and not speaking because Alan the silver- tongued, her smooth, cunning liar, had given up his words to a demon, had not used words in so long that they were lost for now. Animal sounds were passing his lips, nothing human.

“Nick,” Alan choked out at last. His voice was destroyed, as if someone had been slowly strangling him for days.

He dragged himself up into a sitting position, and his outstretched hand almost reached Nick’s body, fingers hovering over his shoulder, as if Alan was too scared to touch him.

Alan’s hand finally fell on Nick’s shoulder, very lightly, very gently, the same way Sin pulled the blankets over Toby when he was asleep and she did not want to wake him.

Nick lurched upward, shuddering, black eyes staring and terrible, like a dead thing come to unnatural life.

Alan did not flinch.

“Don’t you ever,” Nick snarled. “Don’t you ever do anything like this to me again.”

“Okay, Nick,” Alan soothed him. “I won’t. I promise.” “You’re just lying,” Nick said. “You said you’d never leave. You always lie.”

“I know,” Alan murmured. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I missed you,” Nick raged, his voice cracking, and he put his head down, forehead pressed against Alan’s knee.

Alan laughed a little, trembling and amazed, and Sin felt a rush of triumph, like the victorious adrenaline that always ran through her exhausted body after a successful performance, but multiplied by a thousand.

Mae laughed, her laugh a victory song even as she held her brother up, and Sin looked at her, knowing that their smiles mirrored each other, joyful and fierce.

Then Sin looked at Alan, and he looked back at her. He looked so much older, or as if he had been through an illness everyone had thought would prove fatal. There were crow’s-feet scored deep in the corners of his eyes, and his hair was thick with silver. His eyes had not changed at all, still dark steadfast blue and dear.

“Alan,” she whispered.

He whispered back, “Cynthia, I’m here.”

She had him back. The Market was safe. They had lied and murdered and now they had trapped the magicians, become almost as bad as the magicians, ready to see people as food for demons.

There was already one man possessed, walking through London in the rain. There would be more. The Market had to accept that. Sin had to accept that, what they had become in order to win.

It had been worth the cost. But it was such a cost.

Alan stroked Nick’s hair with hands that could not stop shaking.

“Shh, it’s all right,” he said, lying again already, making the lie a lullaby. “Everything’s all right now.”

Sin turned back to the window, watching through the glass as that dark shape walked away through the rain, the human lost, the demon alone.

She had been in enough battles before to know victory was always bitter, and the bigger the fight, the worse the cost. But she hoped she would never again taste victory as bitter as this.

22

The Leader of the Goblin Market

THE LIGHTS OF THE GOBLIN MARKET WERE SHINING ON THE arching branches of the trees around Kensington Gardens. They were floating on the silvery surface of the lake, like lilypads with light instead of a lily.

Sin was dancing.

She was covered in tiny beacon lights like the one she had used in Black Arthur’s house, shining like pearls with tiny candles set inside, and strung together across her skin with gossamer-thin threads of silver. It was a costume to brighten the old audience’s eyes and dazzle all those for whom this was their very first Market.

The Goblin Market was spread around the lake on all sides, larger than it had ever been before, like a tiny city.

Sin knew there was nothing more important than opening a show with a bang.

She was dancing in silence by the lake, an illuminated apparition, her reflection a white shadow on the waters, her feet moving through the dark grass. People had started to gather, murmuring to one another, a hushed spoken start to applause.

Two tall torches were burning on either side of the lake.

The torches carved a warm orange cave in the evening. There was a cold wind blowing, making the flames of the torches form strange shapes, as if they were dancers themselves.

The music started, lifting the scene to a whole new level. The drums of the Market started first, setting