The House of Shattered Wings (14 page)

He sidled toward the buffet, helping himself to a mouthful of bland food. He missed fish sauce more than he'd thought possible, but here in Paris only an ersatz version of it was available, at a price so expensive he couldn't afford it anyway. There would be a dinner later, in the ballroom, where Selene had had huge round tables taken out of storage; draped with embroidered cloth and adorned with the best silverware of the House. The seating plan was on a wooden board at the other end of the room: separate tables for the children of course; and then a careful selection of groups that would not give offense to anyone, while still allowing fruitful exchanges. Not that he was interested at the moment; he'd find out soon enough where he was placed, and probably wouldn't enjoy the dinner any more than he'd enjoyed the cocktail party.

“You look . . . lost,” a familiar voice said in his ear.

Philippe looked up, to see Samariel.

He hadn't changed—he wore formal clothes in gray and silver with effortless elegance, and his face was creased in that wide, perpetual ironic smile. But, of course, Philippe wasn't supposed to have met him at all: he was meant to know him distantly perhaps, as one knew the heads of Houses, but that was all.

“I'm not used to this kind of event,” he said.

“Indeed.” Samariel inclined his head, gravely. “To be fair, most people here aren't. The last such conclave—”

“Was a disaster.”

Samariel's lips tightened. “Rather, yes,” he said. “You weren't there, I take it?”

“I was brought in . . . afterward,” Philippe said. When the war had gone badly, when the Houses had needed all the bodies they could spare, and had bled their colonies dry to provide soldiers for the slaughter.

Parasites, all of them; smiling and bowing in their lace clothes from another age; subsisting on blood. For this, Hoang had died, and Ai Linh, and Phuong, and the rest of his unit. The lot of them could go burn in the Christian Hell.

Except, of course, that it wouldn't bring back the dead, or free him from this captivity.

“Count yourself fortunate, then,” Samariel said. He laid a hand on Philippe's shoulder, casually sliding it down to his wrist; like the last time, his touch was as cool as frost, but there was warmth at its core, slowly rising, burning fire held in a fist of ice. “It's a shame, really. I was told the view from the Hôtel-Dieu was beautiful, but I was given a room in the Old Wing.”

“The Hôtel-Dieu is a hospital,” Philippe said, not sure where Samariel wanted to go.

“A ruin.” Samariel's voice was grave, but he said nothing more.

At length, Philippe spoke up, voicing only what was expected of him. “So, where did they put you up?”

Samariel's smile was wide and sharp, like broken mirrors. “The North Wing. At the end of the corridor on the ground floor, the first one on your right when you enter from the street.”

Philippe nodded. “Not such a great view. You should go out more: in Notre-Dame, or around the market plaza.”

“Oh, indeed.” Samariel's fingers rested, lightly, on Philippe's wrist, like the points of claws. “That's an idea. But at night, I think it best that I stay there, and enjoy what might happen in the House. Silverspires is . . . such an interesting place.” He smiled again, and withdrew his hand; and wandered away as if nothing had happened. But he'd been clear; too clear, in fact—Philippe turned around, unsure if anyone was watching. There was only the usual crowd. A middle-aged woman—Lazarus's alchemist, Anna, if he recalled correctly—was talking earnestly to a tall, red-haired Fallen from House Harrier, but neither of them appeared to have paid attention to him.

Where was Isabelle—? No, he didn't need to worry about her: her presence was a white-hot brand at the back of his neck, the same link that had drawn her to him when he met Samariel for the first time; the awareness that they were bound together even more tightly than he was bound to the House. He found himself walking through the crowd, until he reached a corner of the room; where she stood talking to Claire, a frown on her face.

Unfair. She was no match for Claire.

Claire was dressed in a low-cut black dress with golden flecks and the outline of a deer: a revealing confection that was meant for a much younger woman, but trust Claire to carry it off. She positively glowed—with a bit of Fallen magic, quite probably, and also with a sharp happiness that made him wary. All the heads of Houses looked like tigers who'd just caught prey—which boded ill for Silverspires.

He shouldn't have cared; not about a House that kept him prisoner, a House that he'd agreed to betray. But if Silverspires fell it would be like House Draken all over again: running away in the darkness and clutching his wounds, hunting in the blackened streets of Paris for food and magic and knowing that the Houses held all of it. “Lady Claire,” he said, bowing.

Claire smiled. “Why, Philippe. How . . . uncharacteristic of you to interfere in another House's affairs.”

Still angry at him, then; but he wasn't surprised.

Isabelle relaxed a fraction when he appeared, although she threw him a sharp glance that told him she hadn't forgotten about her threat to inform Selene. The three days she'd given him had passed; he'd waited, fearfully, for Selene to turn up at the door of his room, but nothing had happened. Perhaps she already had told Selene; but if that had been the case, why was he still at liberty, and not imprisoned somewhere under the House?

“I was asking Isabelle about happenings in Silverspires,” Claire said.

Isabelle looked ill at ease—Philippe could guess the sort of sharp, pointed questions Claire would make, trying to see what Selene was thinking; where she could gain the advantage. And he wasn't sure how much Isabelle knew—how much Emmanuelle and the others had told her.

“I see,” he said. “I didn't know it was such an interesting topic.”

“Oh, Philippe. Everyone is talking about Silverspires tonight. And with good reason.” Claire smiled, that self-deprecating expression that made her look like a harmless old lady. It didn't fool Philippe for one moment. “Wondering what Selene will have thought of to entertain us.” Her gaze wandered through the room, encompassing the faded peonies on the wallpaper; the dull color of the mahogany tables. She didn't need to say what was on her mind.

“People died,” Isabelle said sharply. “It's not entertainment.”

Claire smiled. “Of course not. Death is a serious matter.”

Philippe doubted that she meant it. “What do you want, Claire?”

Claire's gaze narrowed. “You've changed, Philippe. I never thought you'd be quite so . . . domesticated. What do you owe Silverspires?”

“A roof over his head. Protection,” Isabelle said, in a low but firm voice.

“Gratitude?” Claire laughed. “That's for the young and the naive. You'll learn better in time, I expect.”

Isabelle, pale and flustered, looked as though she was going to say something.
Don't,
Philippe thought. He sought her gaze; locked with it.
Go away,
he mouthed. At least he was used to fencing with Claire.

Thankfully, she took the hint. “I . . . have business elsewhere,” she said, and retreated through the crowd—Philippe saw Emmanuelle swoop from the conversation she was in and steer her toward the buffet. Good.

Now it was just him and Claire, and Claire was smiling widely. “Your pet, Philippe? You didn't use to be . . . so altruistic.”

She'd asked him to join the House, seeing him as an asset worth having; even without knowing about his powers, she had seen a sharp, keen mind and the skills that had enabled him to survive on the streets for months. Like Selene, she'd seen him as a puzzle to be cracked; and as with Selene, he had refused her. She had never forgiven him. “She's my friend,” Philippe said.

“You didn't used to have friends, either. Or should I say you were very bad with other people's overtures?” Claire said. “So powerful, and yet so young and frightened. By the time she masters her own powers, they'll have diminished so much she won't be much use. Perhaps that's the world's way of making sure Fallen don't rule us all.”

“You mean, more than they do now? What part of the city do they not run? Lazarus?” It was unwise to bait her, but he couldn't help it.

“Lazarus is their equal,” Claire said. “If anyone is under siege—not, of course, that you'll care; you never have—it's you, Philippe.”

He was going to say something—something smart, something biting—when he looked at her hands—wrinkled and pale, loaded with expensive rings—and the darkness rose within him—a flash of something that tightened in his flesh, until he was staring at Claire's hands again—some of the same rings, but clearly the hands of a younger woman. She was holding the mirror; the polished pool of obsidian they'd found under the throne, except that the paper around it was brand-new, the ink still glistening in the light of a lamp Philippe couldn't see . . .

What?

Another memory—another vision of the past? Had Claire handled the mirror at some point? She was mortal—no more than sixty, seventy years old, and the hands he'd seen weren't those of a young woman.

“You've been here before,” Philippe said, slowly, carefully—the vision with the mirror wavering, fading—replaced by something else, a haze that seemed to descend over the room, a thin layer where everything was pristine, everything cast in light . . .

With all his strength, he willed the vision to go away—he couldn't afford to let Claire see him distracted, to let her even guess at the enormity of what he was carrying with him.

“Of course I have been here before,” Claire said. “Heads of Houses do visit other Houses.” Her voice was low, condescending; but she held his gaze—wondering what was happening.

“The cathedral,” Philippe whispered, trying to ignore the way the entire room seemed to shift.

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. . . .

“What of it?” Claire shrugged. “It's a lovely place. Well, it used to be—like so many things, it's fallen into disarray since the war. Selene should clean her House.”

“Of what?” Philippe asked.

Claire shook her head. “Of the rot at its heart.”

“I don't know what you mean,” he spat, but he did know. His gaze moved, to encompass the guests on the floor; the little knots of elegant conversation; the sea of colorful dresses and swallow-tailed coats; the expectant faces those of predators awaiting the right time to pounce, everyone gossiping and making careful approaches, trying to see who stood where.

In his vision, the peonies on the wall were a vivid pink, a color so pure it almost hurt the eyes; the smell wasn't that of humidity and mold, but the sharp one of new paint; and people in old-fashioned clothes mingled by a buffet much as this one—save that the room was brightly lit, and that he who cast such light was standing by the buffet, raising a jeweled glass to study the wine contained within, with the effortless grace and contained power that made him the center of attention. . . .

No, not now. Not. Now.

Philippe closed his eyes. When he opened them again the vision had receded, though a hint of Morningstar's presence still hung over the room—a reflected, shadowy glory that only drove home how shabby everything had become. Claire was right; they had diminished so much.

Good. They were his enemies, and he wouldn't allow himself to forget for even one moment.

Claire was gone, and he was alone in a slowly widening circle of people. Before anyone could engage him in more inane conversation, he moved toward the buffet, grabbing a cocktail piece at random: something with shrimp imported all the way from Brest or Guérande—the price of this alone would ruin Silverspires more surely than the rival Houses.

Philippe was about to head over to the seating plan when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something creeping across one of the room's huge mirrors. When he turned, there was nothing. Puzzled, he took a few steps; and again something noiselessly slid past, this time in the facets of the empty crystal glasses. Nothing again when he turned; though this time, when he moved again, he was ready for it.

He didn't catch anything—just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, of something flowing like darkest ink, something large and shadowy that spread wings as sharp as knives—and a sense of pressure against his throat, an irrational fear that clogged his chest with shards of ice. What—?

He'd seen this before—a shadow, passing across the sun; the impression of huge wings over the ruins of the Préfecture—a memory of Samariel lifting his head to stare at the sky, as though it contained more than gray overcast. . . .

That day, Oris had died.

Forcing himself to breathe, he moved across the room, bumping into people in his eagerness to keep an eye on mirrors and glass. Every time he moved, the darkness seemed to flow across the room, in empty wineglasses, in mirrors, in spectacles, in diamond pendants and polished silver fob watches; but it disappeared as soon as he tried to focus on it. It was real—rising, searching, sniffing the air like a blind, monstrous worm—something that made the room seem smaller, its air a miasma worse than the polluted clouds near the Seine; something looking for a way in . . .

He came to with a start. He was staring at the seating plan, his hand frozen over Selene's name—she was at the largest table with the other heads of Houses, of course, but that wasn't what mattered. Cautiously, he craned his neck to the left and then to the right: nothing but the glitter of light on wineglasses. The darkness was gone, as if it had never been.

But it would be back.

A FALLEN'S LAST BREATH

LATER,
after the formal dinner was over, they had coffee and biscuits; and then, in groups of twos and threes, everyone headed for bed. The conclave proper—the assembly between the various delegations, where everyone would scrutinize the inner workings of Silverspires—would not start until the following morning. This was merely its opening salvo; that tense moment before battle was joined, when everyone checked the bullets in their guns and the readiness of their spells, knowing they would see use before long. Philippe was not a dependent of the House, and not privy to whatever had brought them all here; but what he'd gleaned from conversations was that it was serious business, and that several dependents might be taken aside for questioning by the other Houses. He didn't envy them the company of a dozen overarrogant Fallen and magicians, all trying to ferret out the secrets of the House.

Philippe and Emmanuelle walked Isabelle back to her room—then Emmanuelle left, and Isabelle smiled. “You're not going to sneak away like a thief, are you?”

Philippe shook his head. He was tired, and the shadows slid across the back of his mind like woken snakes—demons take propriety and ritual, he couldn't decently refuse her.

He found himself cradling a cup of tea while Isabelle hunted for biscuits through the drawers of her huge desk. One would expect her room to be cold, devoid of ornaments; but in reality it was like Madeleine's laboratory: a mess of papers on every available surface, pictures at angles on the walls, covering one another in their eagerness to decorate the room—everything from pictures of Notre-Dame before the war, to a more modern print she must have got from Javier's photographic darkroom (which must have taken a fair amount of seduction, because supplies were rare and expensive, and Javier didn't give his photographs to just anyone).

“You didn't need to walk me back,” Isabelle said.

Shadows. Darkness. Morningstar's burning gaze in the facets of crystal glasses. “I did.”

“I'm not a child!”

But she was—and thank Heaven for that. She was everything the House couldn't corrupt, gangly and ill at ease, as impulsive and disorganized as Madeleine—perhaps not quite the same as she'd been when they first arrived there, but close enough that he could remember a time before Silverspires, before the imprisonment that chafed at him. Speaking of which . . . “It's been over three days, and you haven't spoken to Selene.”

Her eyes were bright, feverish in her shadowed face. “I will. Believe me. When the conclave is over and she can listen to other things than the intrigues of Houses. What do you think you're doing?”

“I told you. Looking for a way out.” Philippe shivered. It was going nowhere: their conversation the same as it had been before, in the library. “Can we leave it at that? You disapprove, and I don't. There is nothing to be gained here.” He shivered. And, because he couldn't quite ignore his conscience, he added, “You should be careful. There are . . . things in the darkness here.”

Things that wanted them dead, or maimed—opened up like Oris, a smear of bloodied entrails on the pavement of the cathedral. Something was going to happen.
Tonight.
Where did that utter certainty come from? The shadow within him, the one that had leaped from the mirror? Was he part of it, too?

No. He was still his own self. In spite of the visions, in spite of Morningstar's enticements—in spite of Selene's chains—he still knew what he needed to do, and he still knew enough to be scared of the shadows.

Isabelle shrugged. “There are always things. Old Houses cast shadows, that's all. You're worrying over nothing.”

But he knew he wasn't. “Isabelle?”

“Yes?” She had risen—dismissing him and his worries, her cup forgotten on the table.

“Stay in your room tonight, please.”

Her gaze hardened. “Because you're planning something you'd rather I didn't see, like your meeting with Samariel at the market?”

“No! I swear it, Isabelle. I don't mean you harm, or Silverspires. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight. Well, that's something to live by, isn't it? What will you swear on? The City? You don't believe in it.” Her voice was angry, sarcastic—with shades of the unthinking arrogance of House Fallen, of their unshakable belief in their own superiority.

The old oath was on his lips before he could stop himself, its music familiar, as comforting as a poem learned by rote. “I swear by the flesh of the father who sired me, by the blood of the mother who bore me. By the Immortals in the mountains, and Quan Am, who listens to our ten thousand cries for salvation. . . .”

Isabelle's face twisted, in what might have been a sneer, in what might have been a peal of laughter—his fists clenched then, ready to meet contempt with equal contempt. But then she grew grave again. “I was going to say that nobody talks like this, anymore, but . . . it means something to you, doesn't it? Or used to.”

Her gaze rested on him; he met it, steadily, feeling himself grow light-headed—the world slowly heightened into swaths of yellow light, as if he'd been meditating again, on the knife's edge of hunger and thirst. “Back when I was mortal . . . it was an unbreakable oath.”

“Back when you were mortal.” Her voice was quiet. “Don't you ever miss it?”

So many of her questions were about what he'd had; what he missed—not, he knew, out of a desire to hurt him, but because she was afraid—deathly so—of losing what she did have. She sought . . . reassurance that she could survive beyond that loss.

“Do I miss mortality?” He'd never thought about it. It had been so long; centuries ago in another land. “Not so much, no. You forget, when you're Immortal. I remember my body getting old, my fear of death, but it's like they happened to someone else.”

“So your kind are cruel, too.”

“What do you mean?” He hadn't expected that remark, either.

“Your kind doesn't remember what it is, to be fragile and lost.” Isabelle rose to fill her cup again; the harsh, earthy smell of tea filled the room, so unlike the delicate fragrance he remembered. “And neither do Fallen.”

“Or House-bound,” Philippe said, finally. “When you've never been hungry, or naked; or never had to run for your life, you think that warmth, and safety, and power, are due to you. That anyone who doesn't have them doesn't deserve them.” That was how Houses ruled; the source of their ease, their arrogance. “It's different in Annam—the Court of the Jade Emperor doesn't mingle with mortals. They don't seek to rule over them.” He knew what she would say: that it might well be true, but that they still thought themselves better than mortals; and he wasn't sure what he'd answer her.

But she didn't say anything. She drained her cup, and stared at it for a while. “I don't have a choice. As Madeleine said—it's either this, or be taken apart in the streets. Even my power won't protect me.” There was a hunger in her eyes he found disquieting; a hint she would seize anything that would help her.

“It's not all about power,” Philippe said.

Her gaze rested on him; dark and expressionless. “Isn't it?”

She couldn't know—she couldn't know what he'd promised Samariel, to break free of the House's hold on him; to be his own man again. She said she'd warn Selene, but she really had no idea what was going on. She couldn't—no matter how strong their shared link was within her.

“I need to go,” he said, rising, gulping down the rest of his tea—the strong, bitter taste making his stomach heave as he all but ran away from her. “Stay in your room, please.” And, when she didn't answer, “There is something in the House. I think it's what killed Oris. Please. I just want you to be safe. This is the truth. Make of it what you want.”

In his room, he tried to read, but the words in his book kept blurring, frustratingly out of reach—becoming Isabelle's sharp gaze, the growing seriousness of her expression.
“You mean it, don't you? Every word of it.”

Of course he'd meant it. And of course it changed nothing. She was free, and he wasn't. She was going to remain inside her room, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, and he . . .

He had an assignation—that might as well be an order—from Samariel.

He couldn't focus. He hadn't learned anything since his first interview with Samariel—drafted into moving tables, washing cloths, preparing dishes in the kitchens. All he knew was that one of Morningstar's apprentices had left a curse on the House; that he had somehow become part of it, carrying memories that might be crucial to understanding it. But that wasn't something he could tell Samariel; there was no hold over Silverspires, no way to understand what was going on, when and under what rules it would strike—if it would strike at all, since so far its only effect looked to be the taking over of his memory.

He ought to stay in: to follow his own advice to Isabelle, and his own growing sense that something was wrong. He had been right: it wasn't a night to be out. He should make his excuses to Samariel, and walk the safe path.

But he couldn't.

He got up and wrapped himself in one of the heavy woolen cloaks Emmanuelle had given him—not only because the House was freezing at night, but also because it might prevent someone from recognizing him.

At this hour, the corridors in his wing of the House were deserted; though, as he came nearer to the apartments for the other Houses, he heard muffled conversations behind closed doorways: this part of the House, at least, didn't sleep.

But, as he walked through the corridors, the shadow rose again—questing, sniffing the air for its prey. He quickened his pace, throwing glances left and right, hoping to catch it; but darkness slid across the walls, spreading wings; and the air became unbearably clammy and moist, tightening in his lungs until he could hardly breathe. He started running then; though of course there was no outpacing it.

*   *   *

MADELEINE
couldn't sleep. She'd spent most of the reception behind one of the room's pillars, talking to Aragon and praying that Asmodeus would not turn his head her way; and had only blurred memories of the dinner. She'd seen him and Elphon from afar; had seen Elphon, sitting by his master's side, in the place of a favored bodyguard; had seen him laugh at some jest of Asmodeus's, as though nothing was wrong.

How could he?

It wasn't hard, to get down from her bedroom; not hard, to let her hands roam into the drawers she kept locked; not hard to inhale angel essence and feel its fire expand into the hollow of her belly.

She closed her eyes, and let the power wash over her: the tingling sensation in her fingers; the sharp taste on her tongue; the sensation that she could cast any spell, pay any price demanded by magic; that the world lay at her feet, hers for the taking.

Was this what it felt like, to be Fallen? To know that anything you did or said was saturated with that magic—magic that would kill a man, reduce him to the bloated husks she'd seen in Claire's morgue—the harbingers of her own fate, when her lungs finally gave out. Not that she cared. All that mattered was feeling safe, now, forever.

Safe. That was what Morningstar had said, when she first met him, bowing low to her, unfailingly courteous even though she was just a minor dependent of Hawthorn.
“I hope you enjoy what you see here.”
And when she remained silent, too awestruck by his presence to speak, he'd smiled. “This is the first and greatest of Houses, Lady Madeleine. The safest place in Paris.”

At the time, she'd thought it courtesy, nothing more; had doubted whether he would even remember her name. But, nevertheless, for some reason she couldn't quite place, the words had stuck with her; to be remembered when, shuddering, struggling to breathe through the pain of shattered ribs, she'd dragged herself out of Hawthorn, and into the deserted streets—toward Silverspires and the impossible hope of salvation. Wounded, bleeding, she had crawled rather than walked—every gesture sending a fresh wave of agony in her chest—and she had known, even then, that she wouldn't make it; even before the world began to waver and fold itself into darkness. She had known that death was the only possible end of the journey.

She'd heard the footsteps, then; slow and measured; had felt the presence that seemed to distort everything with its warmth; had felt him bend down, picking her up in his arms, and starting to walk. Then all was darkness, until she'd woken up in the Hôtel-Dieu with Aragon's face looming over her; and started the long, painful apprenticeship that saw her rise from mediocre kitchenhand to apprentice alchemist, and later mistress of the laboratory.

That night, that lambent, bloody night, was the last time anyone had seen Morningstar; and she herself the last person he had met. After he had left her on the hospital's doorstep, unseen, he had taken his sword and his wings, and walked out of the House he had founded; and never come back. He was dead; had to be, and Selene had to know more than she let on—why else would she rule Silverspires in her own name?

A knock at the door made her look up. Startled, she got up, feeling the pain of her old wounds.

“Madeleine, Madeleine!”

Isabelle was on the doorstep, staring at her with familiar fear in her eyes. “There's something out there, Madeleine. Something bad. And Philippe isn't in his room . . . I think—I think it's what killed Oris and the others.”

Once, she'd have gone out with a lamp, speaking reassuring words until Isabelle went back to sleep. But now she knew the darkness had never really vanished, that, like a snake in high grasses, it bided its time until it struck. “Come in,” she said, and closed and locked the door.

Madeleine cleared one of the chairs of the paraphernalia on it. “I wasn't expecting anyone tonight,” she said.