The House of Shattered Wings

TWELVE. BARGAINS MADE IN ANGER

SELENE had cleared her desk. No more maps or papers to mar the smooth mahogany, or hide the gilded flowers of the border. Now one could clearly see the way they wrapped around the writing surface, the way they delicately followed the contours of the curved legs: the work of a master, lovingly kept and lovingly restored when necessary. It was a deliberate testament to Silverspires’ wealth; the clean desk the reflection of an uncluttered mind, one that made its priority to investigate the attack on Samariel.

If nothing else — she doubted it was working as well as she would like it to — it drew the attention. She could see Claire’s gaze focused on the desk, on Selene’s hands; wondering what could be read from them.

Not much, not anymore.

“You know why I’m here,” Claire said at last, crossing her arms over her chest. Her blue eyes were wide-open, ingenuous. Selene wasn’t fooled.

Claire had come accompanied by two of the ubiquitous children, and a bodyguard she had named as “Eric,” and treated with a suggestive familiarity. She wouldn’t be the first or the last head of House to sleep with a bodyguard.

Selene was wondering when Claire would get on with things. She had other preoccupations, like the matter of the shadows that had attacked Samariel and killed Oris and now threatened every dependent of the House; and how best to handle Asmodeus and his uncontrollable grief. And, so far, all Claire had done was repeat Asmodeus’s arguments — about reparations owed, and how Silverspires must be seen to care about Hawthorn’s loss, all things Selene had listened to until she choked on them.

“Do go on,” Selene said with a bright smile. “I’m listening.”

“I’m not… unsympathetic, of course,” Claire said, putting both hands on the table, their veined backs catching the light of the lone lamp in the room. “Lazarus has always been an ally of Silverspires.”

No. Lazarus thrived on its unique position, which meant they couldn’t afford for any House to reign supreme. They would ally with anyone, as long as they could continue to sow chaos. It was harmless, she supposed. Expected, at any rate; after all, Houses were not good in the Christian sense, or in any sense at all.

“I’m not averse to paying reparations,” Selene said, calmly, smoothly. “However, all of this is going to be pointless if we don’t find out who is behind this.” It was one of them, no doubt. Who else could it be? No one but Houses had that kind of magic available; gang lords were weak and scattered, and too busy killing one another; lone, unaffiliated Fallen kept their heads down, and would bear no grudge to Samariel, or Oris.

Philippe had mentioned something about Claire — some incoherent story about her hands and the cathedral, which made little sense to Selene. But there was always a chance she’d catch Claire off balance. “Philippe seemed to think you weren’t entirely blameless in the matter.”

“Oh.” Claire actually managed an utterly guileless look of surprise; quite a feat. “I don’t see what makes him think that.”

The fact that she couldn’t have looked more innocent if she’d tried — and God knew Claire was no innocent. Selene bit down on the angry thought before it could escape her. She had no proof; and no idea of what, exactly, Claire had done — which made a conversation in that direction all but impossible. “You and Asmodeus and Guy are well informed,” she said. “Too well informed.” Not to mention that she and Asmodeus seemed to be taking their cues from each other, giving her suspiciously similar arguments.

“Why, Selene.” Claire’s smile was wide. “We care about the city. We wouldn’t want to see it in disarray, with people dying right and left, and Houses left open to attack.”

“And about Silverspires?”

“Silverspires is part of that fragile balance, isn’t it?” Claire smiled, again. “Houses that die… leave a hole that is difficult to fill.”

But that she and Asmodeus and Guy of Harrier would rush to fill. Selene shook her head. “I see.”

“I was sure you would. We’re also investigating, as you know.” Selene knew, all too well — dependents tied up in pointless questioning, clustered for hours with Guy and Asmodeus and Claire and all the others, coming out shaken and unsure of whether the House could keep them safe anymore. For this alone, she’d have Claire’s head, one day.

Claire was still speaking. “I wasn’t suggesting you should stop your own investigation, or stop keeping us updated on its progress.” She smiled, widely. “Which appears to be rather fragmentary at the moment, but then, I can appreciate the difficulty of keeping a House together in those trying circumstances.”

Bitch. Selene kept her bright smile plastered on, refusing to acknowledge the gibe. “I see,” she said, again. And, because it was late, because she was tired; and because Claire had always got on her nerves with her holier-than-thou facade: “You know Philippe.”

Claire withdrew her hands from the desk, obviously taken aback. “Yes. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Do you truly think him capable of this?”

Instead of laughing, Claire shook her head. “All right. I’ll give you this, Selene. Because it’s you. No, I don’t think Philippe is capable of this. He’s angry at us, at all of us for what the Houses did — he thinks we’re responsible for wrecking Paris and the world, though why he should care is beyond me—”

“Of course he cares,” Selene said. “It’s his home. He’s been here so long he’s no longer Annamite.”

“So long?” Claire’s bright eyes were on her. “He’s what, twenty at most? Not that old for a mortal.”

Damn. She had tipped her hand. Claire hadn’t known who or what Philippe was; now she suspected something amiss. Well, not that it mattered. Words could hardly be taken back. “You know he’s not guilty,” she said, and wished she could believe that he’d had nothing to do with the attack on Samariel. His story of how he’d come to be in Samariel’s bedroom barely held water, and it was such a convenient coincidence that her spell on him had all but shattered. She disliked coincidence; in her experience, there was no such thing when matters of magic were concerned. “Where would he have got hold of such powers?”

“I have no idea.” Claire looked past her, at the curtains that marked the entrance to Selene’s private quarters. Did she know or suspect Emmanuelle’s presence behind them? It mattered little. Selene wasn’t about to apologize for any of it.

“You’re a bad liar,” Selene said, dryly.

“All right,” Claire said. “I know where we stand, Selene. Asmodeus has the other heads of Houses baying for blood. That blood could be yours, or it could be Philippe’s. In the scheme of things, it’s a small sacrifice to make.”

Easy enough, when you weren’t the one being sacrificed. On the other hand, Claire was right. Even if by some miracle she changed her mind and supported Silverspires — and why would she? — that still left the other heads of Houses. “Mmm,” Selene said. “I’m not quite sure why you, of all people, indulge Asmodeus. Hawthorn is on the rise.”

Claire shrugged. “You might say we have found… common interests. And Silverspires hasn’t fallen so far, has it? You still have many things to call your own; and Asmodeus hates that. Though, to be fair, he would seek to destroy any House, if they did this to Samariel. It’s no longer strategic; it’s personal. And that’s why he won’t back down.”

“But it’s not personal for you,” Selene said. She hesitated — she didn’t care for Claire — but there was an opening, and she took it. “In the long run, is this the best thing for your House?”

“In the long run?” Claire smiled, and lifted her hands, so that Selene could see the wrinkled, dotted skin. “There’s not much long run for me, Selene. We both know it. Magic doesn’t work miracles, and no one lives forever.”

Mortals, especially: they grew up in a blur of speed and bloomed like flowers, expending in a few meager years all the energy Fallen put into centuries. Selene had seen so many of them come and go, in the years she’d been with the House. An infusion of enough angel power could prolong life, but beyond a couple of centuries the human body seemed to decay on its own, as if hitting some limit that had been there all along. The work of God, perhaps: they were, after all, His subjects, and Selene was the last one who would deny His presence; or rather the hollow, dull pain of His continued absence. “You still ought to think of the future,” Selene said. She looked at the children; at Eric the bodyguard, who stared stubbornly ahead and refused to meet her gaze. “Of what you will leave behind.”

The future. The House she had been entrusted with — Morningstar would have wished to see it prosper, but the best she could hope for, in the current situation, was simply to survive. But of course she was the student, the apprentice; and never truly the master.

“Maybe so,” Claire said. “Let me be blunt, then: what could you offer that would convince me to side with you?”

Magic, spells, angel toll; all these flashed through Selene’s mind, and were swiftly discarded. Asmodeus could offer the same. If there had been any of Morningstar’s magical objects left, she would have put them in the balance; but Morningstar had been stingy in sharing his power, and she had exhausted her meager source of artifacts.

“My goodwill,” Selene said. “And certain… techniques that Morningstar passed on to me, which you will not find elsewhere.”

Claire pursed her lips. “I’ll think about it.” She rose from her chair and bowed to Selene. “You’d do well to think on what I’ve said to you, too.”

“Oh, I will,” Selene said, not bothering to disguise the irony from her voice as Claire and her escort left the room.

Then there was blessed silence — no Father Javier introducing further heads of Houses in her office, no emergency that required her immediate presence — nothing except a faint tinkle of bells as Emmanuelle drew back the curtain and stepped into the room.

“I heard her,” she said. She carried a tray with dinner for both of them: veal blanquette with rice, the carrots peeking through the milky-white sauce; and a simple dessert of oven-baked apples with cream.

Selene stifled a bitter laugh. “Did you turn chef of Silverspires when I wasn’t looking?”

Emmanuelle didn’t rise to the aggressiveness in her voice. “Laure brought it up herself, as a matter of fact — she’s worried, though of course she won’t breathe a word of it. You need to eat. You’ve been running yourself ragged. It’s not because you’re Fallen that you lack limits.”

“I know where my limits are,” Selene said. I don’t need a nursemaid, she started to say, but then she saw the anxiety on Emmanuelle’s face. “I’m fine, truly. Thank you for the meal. And sorry for being a horrid killjoy.”

Emmanuelle shrugged. “It’s a stressful time. Here.” She grimaced. “We shouldn’t be eating at your desk. It’s hardly proper.”

Selene sighed. Emmanuelle, like Aragon, was always concerned with appearances, propriety, and all the niceties Selene used as loose guidelines or as weapons. “Let’s move to the dining room, then.”

The “dining room” was a small corner of the bedroom with a round table, two chairs, and a tablecloth of white embroidered linen that Emmanuelle changed every other week. Today, the embroideries were birds with their young: colorful feathers against the pure white of the cloth. Selene sat down, and took an absentminded bite of her food.

“Do you think she’ll accept your offer?” Emmanuelle asked.

Selene shook her head. “No. She won’t. She’s prevaricating, but in the end she’ll see that it’s not worth her while.”

“All that you said about Hawthorn—”

“Is true,” Selene said. “But they’re not that powerful, not yet.”

“I don’t get the feeling we’re particularly powerful, either,” Emmanuelle said, dryly.

“We’re still the biggest threat to Lazarus.”

Or rather, they were, but not for much longer. Not after this.

“You’re not considering—”

“I am,” Selene said. The food tasted horrible, drained of all sharpness. Had Laure forgotten the salt, or was she too tired to properly taste it? “It would get Asmodeus off my back.” It wouldn’t solve the murders — at least she didn’t think it would, didn’t think Philippe was responsible for them; but everyone would pack up and leave, and she’d get some much-needed peace and a chance to protect her own people, without members of the delegations crawling in every corridor and every room.

“It’s wrong,” Emmanuelle said. “You know what Asmodeus is going to do to him.”

“He’s not one of my dependents.” She’d seen something, in that cell; as Asmodeus turned toward her, framed by the magic he’d summoned; she’d have sworn she’d caught a glimpse of something else; of something dark and chillingly fluid — shadows like the ones Philippe and Madeleine had mentioned, or merely her own imagination overacting?

But, if Philippe wasn’t the killer — and he couldn’t be, because if he’d had that kind of power he’d already be free — then what were the shadows doing in his cell?

Emmanuelle said, “He’s only here because you imprisoned him. Even if he were guilty — which he’s not — it’s a horrible way to die.”

There were no good ways to die, though. Selene set her fork down, ignoring the look Emmanuelle shot her — no, she hadn’t eaten enough; she would catch up later. “It would save us so much trouble, though, wouldn’t it?” She didn’t need to look up to see Emmanuelle’s horrified gaze. But, as she said, she was considering it. Morningstar had, more than once, advised her to be more ruthless; and certainly he had always been ready to sacrifice whatever was necessary for the House. That had included his own dependents, sometimes.

But Selene wasn’t like that, surely?

Still… still, if she gave Asmodeus what he wanted, the House wouldn’t be the poorer for it. In fact, it might earn her Hawthorn’s goodwill, at least for a few months, and that was something in short supply at the moment. And it would certainly placate the heads of the other Houses; effortlessly show her as a ruler not to be crossed — and not as one of Morningstar’s youngest students, desperate to fill the gaping void her mentor had left in the heart of the House. And it wasn’t as though Philippe was innocent; whatever he was hiding from her, it wasn’t for the good of the House. He hated Silverspires as much as all the other Houses; more, perhaps, since she had imprisoned him. “He is resourceful,” she said aloud. “He might even escape.”

“You know he won’t,” Emmanuelle said. “And even if he did, be honest: it would change nothing. You would still have given him up. That’s the guilt you would bear. It doesn’t depend on how well he survives. It’s all about what you did or didn’t do.”

What she did or didn’t do. Yes, that was what it boiled down to, in the end. To her conscience; Fallen shouldn’t have had one, especially heads of Houses, and yet…

“You’re right,” she said at last. “I can’t.” Sheer foolishness, Morningstar whispered in her mind. How will you ever be a good leader for Silverspires, Selene?

She didn’t have an answer for him. She’d never had one. She’d loved and respected him, but had always known that, ultimately, he had been disappointed in her, just as he had been disappointed in all of his students: Hyacinth too unambitious, Seraphina too needy, Oris too fearful, Nightingale too careless, Leander too disobedient; and Selene, of course, too squeamish. If he’d lived longer, he would have turned from her, as he’d turned from each of his students. She didn’t hate him for it: he’d been a force of nature, and every one of them had been bound to fall short; to shrivel next to his forceful presence — to crack like flawed porcelain in the oven.

“We have to find something to give Asmodeus,” she said. “I can’t leave this hanging—”

A knock on the door; Father Javier, bowing. “Excuse me,” he said, but Aragon pushed him aside. “Selene,” he said. “You have to come down now.”

One look at his face was enough for Selene. “Samariel?”

“He’s dead,” Aragon said. “I need you down there with the corpse, to help with the last rites—”

“No, you don’t,” Selene said sharply; and got up, pushing back her chair. “Where is Asmodeus?”

“I left him with the body,” Aragon said. He looked puzzled. “Left him time to… compose himself. I expect he’ll be waiting for you. Why?”

Because he wouldn’t stay with the body; not right now. He grieved, of course; but, with people like Asmodeus, anger and revenge always came first. “We need to get down to the cells. Now.”

But when they got there, the door was open, faintly creaking on hinges that hadn’t been oiled in decades; and the cell lay empty — Philippe vanished, without a trace of where he might have gone.

“Now what?” Emmanuelle said.

Selene took a deep breath. “We—” She breathed in again, trying to keep panic at bay. They could search the House, but it would take them hours if not days: too many places where one could hide, too many nooks and crannies she wasn’t familiar with, and of course he wasn’t one of her dependents, didn’t have a tracker disk or anything she could use to find him… “I don’t have a clue where he is.” She breathed in the smell of mold and old terror from the cell’s walls. “We need to find him, and fast.”

* * *

THERE had been no warning. One moment Philippe was sitting in his cell; the next two of Asmodeus’s thugs had come in, one of them reaching out for something he couldn’t quite see — pain spiked through his eyelids, and he fell forward.

He woke up in a chair. Or rather, secured to a chair; and no matter how hard he pushed, the ropes wouldn’t give way. There were other restraints, too, pressing down on him, not like Selene’s intricate network tying him to the House, but a rough spider’s web of large threads — not very elegant, but certainly effective in keeping him confined to the chair.

Alone. And with Selene nowhere that he could see or feel. This was not good. This…

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Asmodeus said. He was sitting in another chair: an armchair with faded red plush, and why did Philippe have the feeling he’d seen it before?

Then he felt the khi currents in the room, roiling, the dreadful presence pressing against his skin. Oh no. Morningstar’s teaching rooms. “How do you know about this place?”

Something contracted around him, squeezing his hand until he thought his fingers would break — he bit his lip so as not to cry out.

Asmodeus’s voice was cold. “I ask the questions here.” His eyes were different somehow. It took Philippe a moment to see the redness around them; the mark of tears.

“He’s dead, then. Samariel.”

Again, the squeezing feeling — something popped in one of his fingers, sending a wave of pain up his arms. When he bit his lip again he tasted blood.

“You forget already. I ask the questions. And you will answer them. Tell me what you were doing with Samariel.”

The khi currents. He needed to — somehow, if he could get hold of them, if he could… He said, “It doesn’t matter. It was all a game for him — a power play in Silverspires—” Pain again, squeezing his entire body, and it was all he could do to breathe — bands of red-hot iron were slowly tightening around his chest.

He needed to — he needed to find the trance. He needed Selene, because she was the only one who would be able to help. But Selene wasn’t there, and he wasn’t part of the House — not truly, not one of her dependents and not tied to the magic of the House; there was no way he could reach her…

Isabelle.

He forced himself to think through the pain. He was tied to Isabelle. Flesh and blood and bone, the sweet taste of power on his tongue — her blood, his guilt, a tie stronger than any wards Asmodeus might have devised. He needed…

Isabelle could find Selene.

“You think I cannot do worse?” Asmodeus asked. “Tell me what you were doing with Samariel. Tell me.”

Bands of red-hot iron around his chest; the sickly sound of ribs cracking. He couldn’t admit to being in league with Samariel, or Selene would cast him out.

Isabelle.

He felt her, somewhere infinitely far away; a faint presence, as if she was resting or sleeping; separated from him as though by a pane of glass. Isabelle, please. Please, please, please.

“Darkness,” he whispered through the haze of pain. “There was darkness in the room, shadows that slid across the mirrors and the crystals. They killed him.”

Asmodeus laughed — for a moment the pain lifted, and he saw the Fallen’s eyes, as hard and as black as scarabs’ wings. “Fairy tales. And lies. You haven’t answered my question.”

Because he couldn’t. Because he couldn’t afford to, not now that he had picked his side, or rather that his side had been picked for him. He took in a burning breath, and said, “I’m telling the truth. I had nothing to do with Samariel’s death—”

“You will not speak his name! You will not sully it with your voice.” The mask of sanity was cracking; that boundless energy, that madness, barely kept in check—

Then there was pain again. The world tasted like blood and salt, and he couldn’t feel his hands anymore; each knuckle of each finger seemed to have burst.

He tried to close his eyes, to find again the serenity of immortals, but they were gummed with tears. He tried to call the khi currents to him, to talk to Isabelle, but nothing would leap into the broken mess of his hands — but there was only Asmodeus’s overwhelming presence, the growing pressure on his mind, a raging fire battering at his defenses until he thought his brain was going to explode.

He needed… he needed…

He’d done this before. He needed to focus, to find the sound of a waterfall in a land that was so far away it might as well be dead; to feel the wet tang of the air in the mountains at dawn, when the whole world was spread beneath his feet, tinged with the pink of clouds in the light of the rising sun — to ignore the sucking of wet breath in his lungs, the waves of red-hot pain in his arms, the frantic beating of his heart. He needed to — Serenity always remained frustratingly out of reach. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but the pain.

But there was something else — the familiarity of a vision, a memory — a pain in the back of his mind that wasn’t his. There was the memory of knives against flesh; of straining against restraints that only burned deeper into his skin; the bleak, hopeless despair that knew only death would end the agony, that no one and nothing was coming to save him, because they had already given him up….

Asmodeus’s face swam out of the morass, his mouth open in a question that he couldn’t hear. Every word slid like drops of water on polished glass: the pain in his body had abated, but the other one was still raging on, a whirling storm of suffering and anger and the desire for revenge on all that had harmed him. In a rare moment of lucidity — clinging, desperately, to thoughts that were his, he understood. This was the heart of the curse. This was the tight knot of pain and rage and disappointment, the khi current of wood and water he had followed to this room, the primal scream that fueled the darkness.

Betrayal.

This was not his; not his rage, not a betrayal of him, but something far, far older; the event that called for justice; for revenge. This — this was not his pain. This was not the present where he was being torn apart by Asmodeus, but the past; the memory of someone else’s pain; of someone else’s death — except that knowing it didn’t help him, not one whit — the memories were too strong, an overwhelming maelstrom of power and rage that dragged him along until he could no longer tell what agony and rage belonged to him, and what didn’t.

One must seize power, Morningstar whispered, sitting in the fractured image of a red plush armchair, the wings on his back glinting like blades in the instant before they cut into flesh. One must be ruthless and utterly dedicated. And, nodding gravely, he said, I gave everything to this House, and I expect my students to do the same.

That same horrible pressure against his brain, that same exquisite and painful sensation, the rush of knowing he did his master’s will, that he would die for it — all that complex and conflicted love sharpened to pure hatred, as he hung suspended in the chains of another House, traded away to buy peace.

He — Morningstar had given everything to the House — everything — ruthlessly sacrificed his own student to a long, painful death, so the House would be safe…. He—

Revenge. Hatred. Betrayal. All there bubbling up from the past, overwhelming his mind — no wonder it was so strong; no wonder it still drove that curse like a sharpened, salted blade — that a master should betray his own pupil, his beloved child….

You understand, Morningstar whispered, except it wasn’t Morningstar; it was the black maw of some huge animal — the faint outline of leathery wings and claws, a shape that kept going in and out of existence — that slid across mirrors and crystal glasses, waiting until the time was right to strike….

No, no, no.