The House of Shattered Wings (17 page)

Her face was hard; almost alien in its bleakness. “I saw you and Samariel together at the banquet. You will tell me everything that happened from that moment onward.”

*   *   *

LATER,
after she was gone, Philippe lay back against the wall, winded. He wasn't sure whether his highly censored version of what had happened had passed muster with her: the tale he'd woven, of Samariel's being intrigued by him, had been barely plausible. In her normal state she probably wouldn't have swallowed a word of it. But she was preoccupied, and so was he. The only thing she'd been interested in was the shadows; she'd made him describe them several times; and bit her lips thoughtfully, as if comparing them with something else. An eyewitness to Oris's death? He had obliged, because it seemed to be his only chance to get out of the cell.

He'd mentioned he suspected Claire; though he wouldn't very well explain the vision he'd had of her with the mirror without explaining what the mirror was—and of course he hadn't mentioned the curse or the memories: he wasn't crazy enough to admit to
that
.

Whatever Selene had said, he wasn't one of her dependents. She'd never give up one of Silverspires' men or Fallen, even to save the House; but he was the alien, the one who'd tasted Isabelle's blood; the convenient sacrifice that would buy her way out of the diplomatic tangle she was stuck in. He recognized the signs of it all too well. If push came to shove . . .

She hadn't renewed the spell, either. He'd thought it carelessness on her part, though she'd never been careless before. Perhaps she thought he wouldn't go far from where he was. Or perhaps she foresaw that she'd have to take him away from the grounds of Silverspires quite soon, and that it wasn't worth recasting the spell only to have to undo it again. He didn't want to dwell on that; so he snapped the last threads himself, reaching out to the fire and metal in the
khi
currents to form blades that would cut through anything. Now he could run, if there was an opening.

Not that he believed there would be one.

He must have slept, at some point; sliding noiselessly into dark, fearful dreams shot through with shadows sliding across mirrors.

When he woke up, woozy-headed, he saw Morningstar.

The Fallen was standing in the center of the room, which was no longer an empty cell: there was a table with . . . something strapped on it, something that moved and wheezed and moaned, something he couldn't afford to think of as human anymore. Morningstar's face was cold, emotionless, as he reached for a knife. He'd come for Philippe—but no, Morningstar wasn't looking in his direction. “Tell me again,” Morningstar said to the table. “All of it.”

Another vision from the past. Another memory. His head ached: he couldn't be sure if it was the dreams or the awful presence that filled the room. He'd thought Asmodeus was bad, but he'd forgotten how . . . overwhelming Morningstar was, how the mere sight of him hefting a blade could trigger a mixture of fear and awe—how he could hunger for the magic to turn his way, to acknowledge him in any way, even if it was simply to flay him alive—he would revel in the exquisite sensation of pain, in the surge of power that promised he could be anything, do anything. . . .

A noise at the door; and Asmodeus stood there, escorted by two guards in Silverspires' colors.

He was younger, his swallow-tailed coat hanging awkwardly on his frame; though his eyes were still as cold and hard as pebbles, polished to a sheen by the rush of living in the mortal world. “Lord Uphir is waiting for you upstairs, my lord.”

Morningstar was bent over his work, and didn't answer at first. He nodded to something Philippe couldn't hear, and then looked up. “Apologies. Important House business. Asmodeus, is it?”

Asmodeus bowed. “Yes, my lord.” There was something, some of the same underlying energy he had now, the same harsh, unyielding core that suggested he wasn't going to call anyone “my lord” for long.

“Give me a moment,” Morningstar said. And, then, turning to where Philippe crouched—the magic turning, focusing on him with the intensity of a naked fire—he said, “Do you see?”

Philippe didn't answer, but Morningstar shook his head. “That Fallen on the table plotted to overthrow my rule. We can't have that here. You must understand. We're only strong when we're united. Any strife among us is an opening for our enemies. I don't like this”—a bare smile that seemed to illuminate the entire cell—“but it has to be done. Cancers must be excised from the flesh.” And, reaching out, he bent over the table once again. “As promised,” he said, and the blade flashed down, and there was an end to the piteous cries.

Morningstar dropped the knife on top of the table. He moved toward the door, flexing his back. The enormous serrated wings moved with him, catching the light; every part of him exuding a peculiar
sharpness
, like blades forged by a master. “Come,” he said.

“My lord—” Asmodeus was still looking in Philippe's direction. “Lord Uphir—” He took in a deep breath. “He wants to see you alone.”

“He's never objected to the presence of my students before.” Morningstar turned back for a second, puzzled. Philippe braced himself against the pain that spiked through his eyeballs, even as he welcomed it. “Oh. Your lord is a fool, kinsman—do you know that? Mortals are more than the equal of Fallen.”

Kinsman. It was a rather peculiar way to refer to another Fallen; as if they were all brothers under the skin—something not even humans had managed.

Asmodeus said nothing. Morningstar laughed; a sound so loud and primal it seemed to push back the walls. “I won't force you to utter a word against him, don't worry. Come,” he said again, and walked through the door—and, in the darkness that followed him, shadows gathered and flowed like liquid ink, a tantalizing, heart-stopping glimpse of wings extending to blot out the light. . . .

The scene faded, leaving Philippe in the cell once more, breathing hard. The shadows were gone; and the world had gone dull without Morningstar's presence—everything was a touch darker, every sound oddly muted, every smell less sharp than it had been—as though he moved like a ghost through offerings not meant for him, tasting only the grit of the earth and the bitterness of ashes. He wanted—craved another vision, even though his head ached as though it would split in two. Another parcel of wisdom, of something, of anything that would make sense of what he was going through.

But he'd heard Morningstar, quite clearly.

Mortals.

A mortal's memories. But that was impossible. Leander had been Morningstar's last mortal student, and he was dead. Magic could prolong a life, he supposed; could heal some diseases, repair some muscles and strengthen some bones, but not to the centuries-long life span of a Fallen. Humans lived at most a hundred years, a hundred and ten? Nothing more than that.

But the memories were in the mirror; and the shadows were linked to them—he had seen them drawn to Samariel's bedroom, had seen Morningstar's ghost leaning against the bedpost, keeping watch over the body—the shadows were what the mirror had summoned. And the memories, quite unmistakably, belonged to one of Morningstar's mortal students.

The shadows were a mortal's revenge.

Who, and why? And how? The dead didn't cast spells. They didn't summon killing shadows, or seek revenge on those who had wronged them; or the world would be full of angry ghosts.

It was impossible. And yet . . .

And yet it changed nothing. It was tentative, useless knowledge—if he told Selene he had a connection to the shadows, she would toss him to Asmodeus without a second thought. He needed a person he could trust to investigate further, and there was a short supply of those at the moment. He was at the bottom of a cell, praying that Selene would find a use for him; a reason to protect him from Asmodeus—throwing in his lot with the House he'd so desperately tried to get away from.

He might have laughed, if the situation weren't so serious—if he hadn't remembered Asmodeus's pure, incandescent rage, the desire to hurt someone, anyone connected with Samariel's death.

Heaven help him—he was going to need the Jade Emperor's own luck to survive the coming hours.

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?