The House of Shattered Wings (16 page)

But she couldn't bring herself to do so. She sat in the chair she'd pulled up—the same chair she'd have used, in other times, to collect an entry toll—and watched the dying Fallen. It was unclear by what miracle he clung to life; the thing in the bed seemed hardly human-shaped anymore, the body slick and fluid in a way no body should be, with just the ghost of its old face staring up at her—with dark, bruised circles under his eyes and the bones of the face bulging from beneath the translucent skin.

Nurses and orderlies slipped in and out of the room, bringing clean sheets, taking soiled cloths and charts away—coming with syringes and injecting their contents into Samariel, though it made no difference to the husk on the bed.

Madeleine had a nascent headache, perhaps a side effect of having used Morningstar's orb. It hadn't been angel essence, but the sheer power that had coursed through her had been like nothing she'd felt before. In that moment, she'd been quite ready to believe Claire when she said all angel magic would kill magicians bit by bit; and now she had the magician's equivalent of a hangover, with her tongue stuck to her palate, and a set of drummers that had taken up residence in her brain on a more or less permanent basis. Perhaps she should ask Aragon for an aspirin, though she could imagine his face if she did so.

“Still here?” Aragon came back with a tray of scalpels, which he laid by the bed.

“Yes,” Madeleine said. “I'm surprised they trust you with this, instead of Hawthorn's doctor.”

“Oh, they've gone for Iaris. She should be here at any moment, but in the meantime . . .” Aragon shrugged. “I've done business with Hawthorn, too, and Asmodeus knows he can trust me.” He ignored the slight revulsion that went through Madeleine. “All the Houses are the same, Madeleine. You should know that.”

“I know,” Madeleine lied.

Aragon didn't insist. “Mind you,” he said, “I'm sure not much trust is required to leave him into my care. It's not like I can make him worse.”

“Do you—” Madeleine looked away from the bed, and back to Aragon. “Do you know what did this?”

“You mean the description? I thought you'd seen it.”

“Yes,” Madeleine said. “Shadows that move, that feel like they're picking apart your thoughts. But that doesn't tell me . . .”

“What it is?” Aragon asked. “Or how it can kill that way?”

On the arms, which hung limp and deformed, were the same marks Aragon had pointed out on Oris, the same marks Madeleine had seen on the other corpses: the perfect circles with a single dot in the middle, a livid blue against the paleness of the skin.

“I think it's some kind of creature, a summoning or something.”

“Summonings are impossible,” Madeleine said. She thought of the shadows again, moving as though they were alive; of the hissing sound just on the cusp of hearing. “Aren't they?”

“Summonings have a mind of their own, and rules of their own, which often end badly for the summoner. But you're right, broadly speaking. There hasn't been a successful summoning in centuries. There are legends, of course—people who went digging into the past of the city—the Middle Ages, the Greeks and Romans, even the prehistory—who summoned up harpies and unicorns and saber-toothed tigers.”

“And they're untrue?”

“I . . . don't think so,” Aragon said. “But they're old. Even being generous with them, the most recent one would have been four hundred years ago, and the Fallen in question spent decades just preparing his ritual. We just don't have the power—or the level of obsession—for this anymore. They require energy beyond even what a Fallen might produce; even with artifacts, even with essence.”

Madeleine tensed, but the words didn't appear to be directed at her.

Aragon went on. “It does sound like a summoning—or a trained beast. Maybe a construct, modified with magic. It's clear that it's not human. Not, mind you, that anything human was capable of leaving those marks.”

A construct. That didn't sound like a cheerful notion, either. Again, there were tales: memories of Fallen who had survived the war and seen constructs in action. There was a reason why no one dared to use them anymore.

“He doesn't look the same as—” Madeleine swallowed. “He doesn't look the same as Oris.”

“No,” Aragon said. “Oris didn't look as though every bone in his body had shattered.”

“You said—you said Fallen bones couldn't support the body.”

“No,” Aragon said. “They're thin and built for flight. Like a bird's. Hollow inside.” He tapped the head of the bed, thoughtfully. “Oris died when magic was removed from him. I think Samariel's magic was removed for a much, much longer time.”

Madeleine would have felt sick, once upon a time. “More slowly perhaps,” she said. So he wouldn't die all at once, but would linger for a little while. Except that no one, of course, should be alive in that condition.

“I don't know what the shadows are,” Aragon said. His hands tightened around the bedstead. “I don't know, and this is . . . alarming.” His face didn't move, but Madeleine could read the fear in the depths of his eyes; in the hands that remained stubbornly clinging to the metal frame of the bed.

Aragon had never been afraid of anything or anyone. “You're worried,” she said, slowly, carefully. It was . . . even worse than Selene being worried. Aragon was always detached and clinical—impatient sometimes, but certainly never scared.

“Of course I am,” Aragon said sharply. “There is something that's killing again and again in this House, with as much ease as a child snapping kindling sticks. I'd advise you to be worried, too.” He closed his eyes for a moment and then said, with a visible effort, “Sorry. It's been a long night. You shouldn't listen to my ramblings.”

But it hadn't been ramblings—simply the truth; the mask of propriety and impassibility lifted to show her what lay beneath. “I'm scared, too,” Madeleine said. She'd seen it, felt it, and would give anything to never see or feel it again in her life.

“Don't be,” Aragon said, but she couldn't believe him anymore.

Her gaze drifted to Samariel's face: the eyes were closed, but no one would have mistaken this for sleep. Likely he was too far gone to even hear them. Time to leave. “I'll be back,” she said; and turned, and saw Elphon in the doorway.

Oh God, no.

The thundering of her heart must have been heard all the way into Heaven. Elphon, blissfully unaware of anything amiss, walked into the room and bowed to her. “We've met before, I think,” he said gravely.

Madeleine kept her voice level, but it took all the self-control she could muster. “We have met.” Not just once; every day of his life—they'd worked side by side in the gardens of Hawthorn, cut branches and tended flower beds together—how could he not remember?

“You're the alchemist.” His gaze strayed to the bed; he sounded vaguely disapproving.

“Oh. No,” Madeleine said, shaking her head. “Of course I'm not here for that. Whatever happens to him, he belongs to Hawthorn.”

Elphon said nothing for a while. “I guess that's one way of putting it.”

Aragon had disappeared—slipped out the door in Elphon's wake, no doubt. Madeleine suppressed a curse. She should make her excuses and leave, too; but curiosity got the better of her. “Are there—no people from before, in Hawthorn?”

“Before?”

Madeleine shook her head. “I'm a refugee. Surely Asmodeus has told you that? I was in Hawthorn. Under Uphir.”

Elphon's face froze. “Were you?”

She nodded. “I left the night of the coup.”

“Oh.” She couldn't read Elphon's expression. “Well, I wasn't there, but to answer your question, there are people left from that time. Not many—I think not everyone swore fealty to Lord Asmodeus.”

Of course they wouldn't, and of course he would ruthlessly remove them. Madeleine shook her head, trying to banish dark thoughts. Well, there was nothing for it. She might as well be honest. “You . . . look a lot like someone I used to know, once. Someone who died the night of the coup.”

“All Fallen look alike.” His face was haughty, distant.

“Yes, you've told me that before. But the thing is, he was called Elphon, too. And I knew him well, well enough not to mistake him for someone else. We . . . we worked together.” It seemed like such an inadequate way to encompass all that Elphon had meant to her; the exhilarating nights racing each other to the roof of the House; the quiet lunches that they'd had, hiding behind fountains and trimmed hedges; the night they had snuck down to the Seine, and watched the black waves lapping on the shore, trying to imagine that there, too, amid the polluted waters, there was magic and wonder. And, remembering, she measured the gulf between this other life and the one she had now. The river was dark and dangerous, like everything else in Paris: waters that would eat at your flesh, waves that would reach out, grab you from the embankments, and drag you under the choppy surface to drown. There was a power in the Seine, yes; magic and awe—not innocent wonder, but something as dark and as gut-wrenchingly terrifying as the God who had destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah—a faction as strong as any House, ruthlessly destroying anything that intruded on its boundaries. Not even the major Houses dared to tangle with it; and yet she and Elphon had sat on parapets, dangling their legs over the black waters, and thought only of fairy tales. . . .

Kids, that was what they had been. Innocent, careless, stupid kids. “It was in another lifetime.”

Elphon's face was set. “I don't remember anything. Nevertheless, if what you say is true—”

“It is,” Madeleine said. “Why would I lie to you?”

“Then I have no doubt Lord Asmodeus has his own reasons.”

“Of course he has. He killed you!”

If she'd hoped to provoke some reaction, she was disappointed. Elphon merely shrugged. “As I said—Lord Asmodeus has his own reasons, and I have no doubt he would act in the best interest of the House. It's not my business to inquire.”

In another lifetime,
she thought, sadly. They had both changed, immeasurably; taking the bitter, salt-laden paths to this dying room, where they spoke to each other as strangers. “You're right,” she said, finally. “Just as it's not my business to inquire. Good-bye, Elphon.”

She left without looking at his face; afraid of what she would see, if she turned round.

ANCIENT HATREDS

THE
cells were damp, and cold—and the
khi
currents in them flowed lazily: layers and layers of metal and fire with the strength of primal screams. They seemed to be one of the few things in the House that had not decayed, and Philippe could understand why: because the memory of pain and rage and the dreams of revenge and death that had pooled between the stone walls were too strong, too vivid to leach away, even in the midst of Silverspires' atrophy.

It wasn't only the
khi
currents, though; there was something inside him, too; something dark and angry, raging at the prosperity of the House, at the worship of Morningstar. If he closed his eyes, he would feel it roiling within him like trapped crows—a storm of claws and sharp beaks, and darkness at its heart; a hint of the shadows that had killed Samariel.

He was linked to the curse, to the memories, and—whether because of the cells or because of the recent murder—it was rising, threatening to drown Philippe in visions of the past.

He needed to stay awake. He needed to—he needed to meditate, as he used to do in Annam, back when he'd ascended. But what he'd told Isabelle was true: it was so far away in the past it felt like something that belonged to someone else.

He leaned against the wall, the harshness of bare stone against his back; and tried to feel optimistic about the future. It didn't work. Asmodeus's face had been terrible to behold, and Philippe was pretty sure that even Samariel's recovery—an unlikely thing, the stuff of miracles and desperate wishes—would not assuage his anger. Asmodeus hadn't had him brought here for his own good.

Funny. He hadn't thought he'd be so worried to be free of Selene's oversight, but he would have chosen Selene over Asmodeus, any day.

Her spell was almost gone by now: the few threads tying him to Ile de la Cité were spun thin, like fragile silk. A simple tug would snap them. He had what he wanted, except that now it was useless. He lay against the wall, and considered his options. With
khi
currents this strong, he could weave magic, but there was no spell that would shatter the doors of the cells. Whoever had designed them had reinforced them with enough layers of magic to be impervious, and Asmodeus's guards had added a few spells of their own to make sure he didn't escape. He could call for help, but he had no doubt the outraged Father Javier had gone straight to Selene after Asmodeus's men had seized him from his bedchamber. That left . . .

If he focused a little—no need for much drawing of
khi
currents, or for anything save the lightest of breaths—he could feel Isabelle, somewhere above him; worried, fearful. But why draw her into this? She'd be no match for either Selene or Asmodeus. No, if there was anyone he wanted to call for, it would have been Aragon or possibly Emmanuelle, or even Selene, but that supposed he had a plan.

He had none.

The door opened. Philippe rose, flowing into a stance akin to a fighter's. He was not surprised to see Asmodeus walk in, followed by two beefy humans in the uniform of Hawthorn.

The last time he'd seen Samariel's lover, he had been wild, and disheveled, and with the fires of some western Hell burning in his eyes. Now he was cool, composed, the eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses studying him dispassionately. But Philippe wasn't fooled. The fires were still there; merely hidden under a thin layer of courtesy, like the almonds at the core of dragées: bitterness under the thinnest coat of colored sugar.

Once, Philippe had been one of the Jade Emperor's emissaries, carrying edicts with his official seal to the mortal spheres; he had even gone deep into a dragon kingdom, carrying the execution order of its underwater king; staring past generals with crab pincers and soldiers with fish tails with no hint of fright. He remembered the Dragon King—in human shape, his yellow robes billowing in the waves of his anger; each shake of his antlered head making the palace of coral and jade shake; the pearl under the king's chin, growing darker and darker, the hint of an approaching storm. Through it all, Philippe hadn't moved, had simply repeated Heaven's will—the time and place of the king's death and the righteous mortal who had been appointed executioner—all of it with the cool arrogance of one under heavenly orders.

He held himself with that same stillness, that same arrogance now. “I was expecting you,” he said.

“Were you?” Asmodeus smiled: a mouthful of white, sharp teeth in a pain-filled grin. “Then you'll have thought of what you were going to tell me.”

“There is nothing to tell. Samariel was like that when I found him.”

“Was he?” Asmodeus did not move. “And you have an explanation, no doubt, for why you were in his room at night.” He raised a hand. “Don't tell me it was an assignation. I know full well what Samariel liked, and it's not you.”

“I had business with Samariel. Private.” At this stage, disclosing his agreement with Samariel would only hurt him: Asmodeus would certainly not extend the protection of Hawthorn to the man he'd found with his dying lover; and to have the whole matter become public would merely make Selene give up on him for good. He needed Selene; she was possibly the only one who had any hope of bringing Asmodeus under control.

“There is no privacy, not anymore.”

“He wouldn't have wanted—”

Rage flared in Asmodeus's eyes, strong enough to make Philippe take a step back. “He lies boneless and dying. Don't presume to tell me what he would and would not have wanted. Not that it matters. The living have secrets. The dead can have none, not if they are to be avenged.”

Philippe thought carefully. He didn't have much that could deter the Fallen's wrath, but he tried it all the same. “I don't want to impede your vengeance. Our business has no bearing on his murder. I'll swear it on the City.”

Asmodeus smiled. “You have a quick tongue. Take care; it's easily removed. You're Annamite, and mortal. An oath on the City means nothing to you.”

Means nothing? Isabelle had said the same thing—he felt the same words of the old oath rising through him, and pushed them down. There was no point: Asmodeus wouldn't know what he was talking about. “I abide by my word,” Philippe said, drawing himself to his full height. It was all nonsense—here he was, vexed because some murderous bastard Fallen wouldn't trust his word? That was hardly the priority.

Asmodeus came closer. As he walked, something gathered behind him—shadows, Philippe thought at first, his heart in his throat, shadows like the ones in the ballroom—darkness pooling from the walls of the place, all the despair and pain gathering into the shadow of huge wings; until Asmodeus stood close enough to touch him, and, as with Morningstar, the weight of his presence was strong enough to make Philippe's knees tremble. “Yes,” Asmodeus said. “Fear me. I walked this earth before you were born, boy, and I've seen enough things to turn your blood to ice. I've done many of them, too, and I won't hesitate before doing them to you. All of them, do you understand me?”

That—that wasn't what he feared, but he couldn't get the words past his frozen lips. Beyond Asmodeus, he could catch glimpses of movement; flashes of wings and fangs; of biting, rending sharpness; and his chest was so tight with the rising curse, his ribs were going to burst into splinters—

“Do you understand me?”

The eyes, behind their glasses, the mad, fiery gaze; the pressure of the curse against his mind . . .
I was born long before you,
Philippe thought, trembling.
When you were still rebelling in Heaven, I had a family—father, mother, wife, children. I . . . ascended. I became Immortal. You're nothing compared to me.

He had to believe that; to hold on to that thought—and not to dwell on where he was, in a cell under the earth with close to no recourse—he found the
khi
elements leaping into his hands, eager to do battle, though to reveal himself, now, here, was a double-edged weapon—there were no shortages of Fallen here, more than enough raw power to utterly extinguish him. . . .

“Asmodeus!”

Selene stood in the doorway, her eyes burning. Threads of magic spun around her, drawn from the House itself, like a hive surrounded by a hundred swarms of bees. “Get out. Now.”

“I was just getting started,” Asmodeus said. He turned to face her; the overwhelming aura lessened; and then died altogether, as the shadows around Asmodeus departed. Philippe took in a deep, shaking breath—fresh air, though was it going to last?

Because, after all, the curse wasn't going to go away; not when it was so tightly tied to him.

“I know you weren't far in front of me,” Selene said, grimly, to Asmodeus. “You left your goons at the door to stop me, and a further two in the corridor.”

“Oh dear. I do so hope they're not harmed.” Asmodeus made it sound like a threat.

Selene did not smile, or move from her place on the threshold. “They slowed me down a bit. As did the other heads of Houses, as you intended.”

“Of course.” Asmodeus left Philippe's side, and bowed to her, though there was no respect in the gesture.

“This is my House, Asmodeus,” Selene said. “You may mock it; you may think we're degenerate and doomed to fail—”

“I didn't say that.” Asmodeus's smile was ironic.

“No. You worked on it, very hard.” Selene raised a hand; and Asmodeus flinched: a fraction of a movement only, but clear enough that Philippe could see it. “As I said, this is still my House, and I'm still head of House. Philippe is under my protection, and I won't give him up.”

Philippe had never thought he'd be glad to be claimed by a House. “Then consider this.” Asmodeus's smile was cold. “You're responsible for this. Even if you're not the one who ordered the killings, you've still failed to protect your guests.”

“Guests? You knew what you were doing when you were coming here, Asmodeus. You wanted to invade us and humiliate us, by showing we were incapable of investigating our own troubles. You
knew
Silverspires was under attack, and you brought more people here! It's hardly my fault if you got burned.”

“You—” Asmodeus's face twisted, and for a moment Philippe thought he was going to lunge at Selene. He controlled himself with a visible effort; his voice, when he spoke, was cold and contemptuous. “I will demand reparations, Selene.”

“And you will have them.”

“Will I?” Asmodeus pointed to Philippe, who still hadn't moved from his place by the wall.

Selene didn't move. “He had nothing to do with it.” But her voice lacked the force of conviction, and Asmodeus must have felt that. Or perhaps he would have reacted the same way regardless of what Selene said.

“Possibly yes, possibly not. But you know how reparations work, Selene. Eye for eye. Blood for blood.”

“You quote the Bible now?” Philippe asked. He couldn't help himself: he should have been more afraid, since it was his fate they were debating. But they were passing him around like some magical parcel—weighing and dissecting and selling him like coffee or rubber or anything else they owned.

Asmodeus did not even turn. “You will be silent.” And then, to Selene: “You know what I want.”

Selene nodded, but her gaze was wary. She didn't protest Philippe's innocence again. Her dress rippled in the wind from the corridor as she bent her head left and right. “Reparations usually involve the guilty party, Asmodeus.”

Asmodeus smiled. “That would be you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And so do you. Reparations are a gesture of goodwill, Selene. If you do not meet my demands—well, I and the other heads of Houses have to ask ourselves how sorry you are, exactly, about the attack on Samariel.”

Selene's hands had clenched into fists, but she didn't move. “Fine,” she said. “I'll think on it. In the meantime, you will leave me access to Philippe.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of impeding you. As you say, it's still your House.” He left, without turning back, but the irony of his words hung in the air long after he had gone.

“Sorry,” Philippe said to Selene.

“Not as sorry as you'll be if Asmodeus gets his way,” Selene snapped. She came into the room, bringing the smell of expensive perfume with her: patchouli and a hint of some other scent he couldn't identify, a breath from an entirely different world.

Philippe took a deep breath, and spoke, trying to put everything he had into a casual lie. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”

Selene did not answer. She was watching him, scrutinizing him from all angles. On show again; a freak; a man for sale. “My spell is almost gone,” she said sharply.

Philippe bit back a curse. Of course she'd know how her own work had fared. “And I'm still here.”

“That's not the question.” Selene watched him for a while; and then she sighed. “I can't read you, Philippe, or whatever your real name is.”

Gone. Dead in the war, like so many things. “I tried to break the spell on my own,” Philippe said. “But it didn't work.”

“Of course it wouldn't,” Selene said. She glanced at the door, where Asmodeus's two guards still waited. Of course she wouldn't admit that Philippe was more than he seemed, not in front of them.

“I think—” Philippe shook his head, and went for the lie nearest to the truth. “Something happened in Samariel's bedroom. Something that undid it, but I don't know what. It was like nothing I'd ever seen.”

Selene's gaze rested on him; he couldn't read her expression, much as she couldn't read him. Then she started weaving magic, frowning—a cool cocoon that wrapped around them both, magnifying sounds until all he could hear was the sound of his own breath. “There. This should keep Asmodeus from listening in.”

“You—”