The House of Shattered Wings (18 page)

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.

A THREAD OF WOOD, A THREAD OF WATER

ISABELLE
was in Madeleine's laboratory, gluing a panel of glass to the inside of a mirror frame, her face furrowed in concentration. Earlier, she had looked preoccupied and uneasy, working the fingers of her good hand into the hollow of her crippled one, as she always did when worried—though she'd shaken her head when Madeleine had asked her what was wrong. Not trusting enough—Madeleine, remembering Oris, fought an urge to ask her again, but it was useless. She couldn't pry words out of Isabelle, not if the Fallen didn't want to talk.

Madeleine turned her attention back to the vials, where Selene had stored a few breaths: not much magic, but enough to get someone out of trouble, if need be. She would need to seal those carefully, stoppering them with primed wax so the breath didn't escape.

A sound brought her out of her reverie: a knock at the door. Madeleine opened it, to find Selene, Aragon and Emmanuelle on her doorstep.
What—?

Selene was as impassive as ever, cool and composed and revealing nothing of her thoughts. But Emmanuelle's face was ashen, her hands shaking.

“What is it?” Madeleine asked. Something grave, no doubt, to bring the three of them to her laboratory at this hour of the night. Thank God she hadn't taken angel essence; she wasn't sure she could disguise its effects from Selene's sharp gaze; though she felt the lack of it keenly, her mind shriveled and small in a moment when she could have used all of her wits.

Selene's gaze moved past her, to rest on Isabelle. “I thought I'd find you here,” she said. “Your dedication is commendable.”

Supercilious and entitled, as always. “We all do our duties,” Madeleine said, dryly. Some of them better than others—it was a frightful thought, but what had Selene achieved, beyond opening them up to Hawthorn again—to reduce the safe House Morningstar had been so proud of to a tottering wreck? She quenched the thought before it could betray her, but the anger wouldn't leave her. “What do you want?”

Selene completely ignored her. “I need your help,” she said to Isabelle.

Isabelle looked startled. “My help? But I don't—”

“Don't underestimate your powers, child.” Selene crossed the room and gently removed the mirror from Isabelle's hands. “Listen to me, but don't ask questions. There isn't much time. Samariel is dead. Asmodeus has vanished, and so has Philippe. I need to find them, but it's a large House and we can't afford to search every room.”

Isabelle, as Selene had asked, did not speak up. Her face drained of color, in what seemed an eternity to Madeleine; but when she spoke, Selene was still waiting. “What do you need?”

“Your help. You're still tied to Philippe, aren't you? There's a bond between the two of you, one I don't quite understand.”

Isabelle flushed. “It doesn't quite work like that. I can't locate him, precisely. I just get images, and feelings, and only at certain times, when my mind isn't busy with other things. . . .”

“Please, child. There isn't much time.”

Isabelle closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she seemed to have aged—her cheeks hollowed out, her hands shaking. “He's in pain,” she said. “So much pain, dear God, how can he bear it all?”

Selene grimaced. “That's not very helpful,” she said; but Madeleine, who was more observant, was there to catch Isabelle as she swayed and fell. Her body had gone rigid.

“His pain,” Madeleine said through gritted teeth. “That's all she's getting from him.” She didn't even bother to hide her contempt from Selene. Isabelle was convulsing in her arms—her body arching backward while her skin turned deathly pale, the weight of her almost catching Madeleine off balance.

“I know.” Selene's voice was cool. How could she keep her head, in a situation like this? “But I need her. Asmodeus is an old hand, and he'll have obscured his location. I don't have the time or the resources to search every room in the House.” She came to take Isabelle's hand, her dark brow furrowed in thought. “Isabelle, I need you to focus. I can help you, but only if you let me.”

Magic blazed through her: a light from beneath the skin that cast every bone in sharp relief, a feeling of warmth drawn from the entire House, so strong it made Madeleine tremble. She ached for that power to go through her instead of Isabelle, to fill the emptiness within her, to wash away the rot in her lungs.

“Isabelle.”

Isabelle's eyes opened. The brown iris had disappeared: they were white through and through, the color and harshness of seagulls' feathers; and shining with the same unearthly radiance as Selene. “Pain,” she whispered, and said nothing else for a while. Her hands were clenched, her fingers held at an angle that seemed almost impossible—another trick of Fallen anatomy? Selene's grip on her remained tight.

Gradually, Isabelle's hands unclenched; and brown crept back into her eyes. She sucked in a deep breath, wincing. “It's an old room,” she said. “With big armchairs and a low table, and that wallpaper with the little white flowers on beige.”

Emmanuelle spoke up, her voice as dry and rasping as Madeleine on her worst days. “The East Wing. Behind the cathedral. Only place where we still have that old wallpaper.”

“Only seventy or so rooms to search then,” Selene said, dryly. “Can you remember nothing else?”

Isabelle shook her head. “I'm sorry. I wish I could help more.” Her mouth opened, and closed, as if she'd just remembered something she wasn't supposed to say.

“What is it?” Selene asked.

“I'm not sure,” Isabelle said. “But I think I smelled the river?”

“Ground floor.” Emmanuelle's voice shook. She kept it steady only through a visible effort of will. “Is that good enough?”

Selene's face was grim. “It'll have to be. I'm gathering search parties.” She looked at Isabelle; and at Madeleine, who was still hovering nearby. “That includes both of you.”

Isabelle tugged at Madeleine's hand as they went out. She still looked awful, her eyes ringed with gray, her skin as pale as the corpses Madeleine had seen in the morgue; and her hands twitching in movements not entirely controlled. “You're still in contact with him,” Madeleine said.

Isabelle grimaced. “It's like I said. He's always at the periphery of my thoughts, but now that I've focused on him, he's . . . hard to ignore. But he won't last long, Madeleine. Not under this kind of strain. No one can.”

Madeleine could imagine, all too well, what kind of strain they were talking about—this was Asmodeus, after all, and he had learned from the best. Her own skin felt cold, but she kept her voice level as she answered Isabelle. “I'm sure we'll be in time,” she said, and did not even flinch as she uttered the lie.

Mother of God, look over him, please.
She didn't like Philippe much; but no one deserved to go through this, no matter what they might or might not have done.

*   *   *

THERE
was . . . pain. There were fingers that would not flex; ribs that hurt every time he tried to suck in a burning breath, and a wet, gurgling sound that didn't augur well for the state of his lungs—pierced, maybe? What could Aragon put back together, given enough magic? Perhaps not even that—perhaps it was too late, just as it had been too late for the poor student Morningstar had betrayed and left to rot—their agony running red-hot through them like molten lead—the battered legs, the dislocated shoulders, the myriad exquisite cuts as their jailers tried to make them admit to secrets their master had never given them—the babble that ran out of their mouth, mingled with blood and drool. A few lucid, cold thoughts here and there, though he wasn't sure if they belonged to him. Or to the sharp, implacable will that had waited decades for its revenge.

Given away. Bartered away to broker a fragile peace between the House of Silverspires and the House of Hawthorn—a peace that would not last anyway, for a few years later the Great War would come and destroy everything Morningstar had ever hoped for.

Good.

All you hold dear will be shattered; all that you built will fall into dust; all that you gathered will be borne away by the storm. . . .

The voice, running over and over in his mind; no longer a human voice, but something darker, rasping and coughing and breathing a smell of brine, as if the old stories of the Christian Hell were true . . .

A door slamming open, in a world far, far away. Emmanuelle's horrified expression, her eyes two pits of darkness in the muddy-milk paleness of her face. “Philippe—”

“Untie him. Now.” Selene's voice, cold and cutting. “I won't ask twice.”

She—she hadn't sold him to Asmodeus? She—he started to say he didn't understand, but his swollen tongue wouldn't obey him.

Asmodeus, rising, turning—the words all blurred together, too low to be made out; but Selene's reply was sharp and clear, like broken glass. “I think you've done enough, Asmodeus. Are you happy now? I should think this is proper compensation, insofar as you're concerned—and I would highly suggest you leave us alone now. You're this close to going too far.”

And Asmodeus's face turning again—his eyes as hard as beetle's shell, but the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward, in horror, in disapproval; he wasn't sure.

He had to . . .

Needed to . . .

“Let him go,” Isabelle said, and the sound of her voice—and the power blazing from her—was enough to drag him back to sanity for a moment. For a moment—a single, suspended heartbeat—he was himself again, in a body that kept twisting and twitching in pain—but then he was calling the
khi
currents from the roiling, writhing mass in the room—and fire leaped into his hands, circling his wrists—incinerating the rope and blasting through Asmodeus's weakening protections.

From his armchair, Morningstar smiled, and raised a crystal glass as a salute—a glass in which shadows slid and merged and waited for their opportunity to leap. . . .

He was up, and tottering across the room, leaning against the doorjamb before either Selene or any of the Fallen could touch him. “Philippe!” Emmanuelle said, but she'd never had the power to hold him. She must have reached out for him, because he felt her touch on his skin—something reared, deep within him—a head, darting forward, a bite, and Emmanuelle falling back with an incoherent scream.

No. No.
But he couldn't hold on to anything. All his thoughts seemed to be as fractured as the glass in Morningstar's hands.

Fire in his hands, fire in his veins—the sound of his heart, madly beating against his broken ribs—the strength of water around him, drawn in a protective circle—and he ran on legs that should have been jelly, losing himself in the bowels of the House, letting Emmanuelle's and Selene's voices fade to wordless whispers.
Away.
He had to get away from this room; from Asmodeus, from Morningstar, from whoever was behind this—from the House that had given away its own students, that kept betraying its dependents, over and over again. . . .

Away.

*   *   *

MADELEINE,
out of breath, with the beginning of a cough in her wasted lungs, cleared her corner of the corridor, and saw—

No.

No.

Asmodeus, in the middle of an old-fashioned drawing room, as elegant and dapper as always—his long-fingered gloves dark with the cloying smell of fresh blood. He held a handkerchief between the tip of his index and his thumb, carefully wiping his horn-rimmed glasses clear of any stain. The animal smell of blood, the sharp, sickening tang of it, rose so strong everything seemed to be coated with it, like an abattoir; or the kitchens, the night Elphon had died. . . .

Blood. Fear.
No. Don't be a fool.
It had nothing to do with her, or with Elphon. Nothing. She took a deep, shaking breath; forced herself to look at him. He was speaking, wearily, to Selene—giving the impression of an adult indulging a small child. “I have no idea where he went. I notice you didn't make much of an effort to follow him, either.”

Selene didn't flinch. “He'll turn up.” Beside her was Emmanuelle—the archivist's face pale—and Isabelle, who looked as though she'd descended all the way into Hell. “We have to find him,” she said. “He's hurt.”

Who—? Philippe. The blood—the blood was his, not hers, not Elphon's. . . .

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow, looked at Selene with an eloquent expression. “Do you always raise them this dumb?” he asked. “Such pure and magnificent innocence.” He pinched the temples of his glasses between index and thumb, and put them back on his face. The handkerchief, stained with two bloody fingerprints in a corner, remained in his hands. “Trust me, child,” he said to Isabelle. “If you don't grow up, others will make you grow up, and it will be a far less pleasant experience.”

Heart beating madly, Madeleine turned to leave the room as quietly as she'd entered it; but Asmodeus's gaze turned in her direction. “Ah, Madeleine. Do come in.”

Her voice seemed to have deserted her, and so had her will. She should bow and make her excuses, go back to the safety of her laboratory. Instead, she found herself moving farther into the room, as jerkily as a puppet on strings—coming to stand by Isabelle in a futile attempt to protect her, with the monster in the center of the room smiling widely all the while.

“You've got your audience,” Selene said. “Are you satisfied?”

Asmodeus's eyes were hard. “Satisfied? No, if you must know. I would have liked to kill him myself.”

Emmanuelle took in a deep, painful breath. “He wasn't—”

“You saw him.” Asmodeus's voice was curt. “You saw what was around him. Will you look me in the eye and tell me that had nothing to do with Samariel? Such angry magic . . .”