The House of Shattered Wings

Selene reached out, drawing for a suspended moment the scraps of magic the House could spare, from Madeleine’s deserted laboratory to the wards of the school; from the hospital wing where Emmanuelle fitfully slept, to the ruins of the cathedral and the shattered throne; from the dusty corridors and disused ballrooms to this place, here, now, where she and Javier and her escort stood, breathless and skeptical and praying that it would work, that it would still work. . . .

The chipped stone of the wall gradually went blank, as if a hand had reached out, melted it to liquid, and smoothed out every single imperfection from it. Light spread from its center, slowly, gradually: a soft, sloshing radiance like that of a newborn Fallen, until every wine bottle seemed to hold captured starlight; and a slow, comforting heartbeat traveled up Selene’s hands; the reassurance she’d craved for, with no hint of faltering or of weaknesses.

The wards still held, then. The House still held.

Javier must have seen her face. “Selene—”

“It’s going to be fine,” she said, slowly exhaling. She withdrew her hands from the wall; but the light and the heartbeat persisted for a while yet, balm to her soul. She might have failed everything else, but not that. Never that. They still stood strong. “The wards are intact.”

“Thank God,” Javier said. Such fervor in his voice; had he found his faith again, then? “We’re still safe.”

Selene thought of the sour smell of bergamot in a disused room, and of the ghost plants that she couldn’t touch, or tear out. “Yes,” she said, “we’re still safe.”

And tried to ignore the small, fearful voice in her mind: the one that knew all about lies, and the things they denied until it was too late, and all the masks and the faces beneath them had crumbled into dust.

*

NO one spoke as they walked back to the House. Madeleine kept an eye out for anyone; though Asmodeus would have left with everyone by then, surely? She hoped so; because if he found them, he would take his revenge; and it was quite unlikely he’d bother with minimizing loss of life, especially since it looked as though they were all in it with Philippe.

Which they might well be. She wasn’t sure if she believed him; if he was merely, as he said, a victim of something he’d accidentally released into the House; or if it was part of a longer game he was playing with all of them. But if he could help Emmanuelle; if he could shed some light on what was happening . . .

“You heard what Ngoc Bich said,” she said to Isabelle, as they walked toward the postern. “Morningstar wanted a powerful spell to protect the House against something.”

“It was twenty years ago. I can’t imagine—”

“It was a threat large enough that Morningstar had to look for help,” Madeleine said. “It could be unrelated to the shadows, but it would be one hell of a coincidence.”

And he’d disappeared shortly after coming back from the dragon kingdom. So either he was imprisoned somewhere; or he was dead—and, either way, it had to be linked to the spell. If they could find him—if they could get his help . . .

What was it Ngoc Bich had said? A beseeching. An offering of himself as a burned sacrifice . . .

A cold wind rose across the ruined gardens, bringing with it a sharp, familiar tang. It took Madeleine an agonizingly long moment to realize it was the animal smell of fresh blood. The clouds over them had darkened, as if a storm were coming; the sun still shone, but its light was weak and sickly: that of a winter’s day, with no power to warm or comfort.

“Madeleine.” Philippe’s voice was low, urgent.

“I can see.”

“No, you can’t. They’re here.” The fear in his voice was bad; what could he be scared of, when he’d seemed to shrug off whatever Asmodeus had done to him?

“We have to find shelter.”

“There’s no shelter that will hold against them,” Philippe said.

They came out of the ground; great splashes of shadow that seemed to move just below the charred earth—circling them, like wolves—large shapes flowing across the walls of the cathedral, extending huge leathery wings.

Was this what Oris had seen, before he died?

A burned sacrifice. Forever delivered from darkness.

Burned offerings.

A prayer.

He was offering a prayer to God—and where else would you pray to God, but in a church?

“The cathedral,” Madeleine said.

Morningstar wasn’t in the cathedral—not in the razed church that had been searched, again and again and with growing despair, in the past twenty years. But . . .

“The cathedral didn’t help Oris.” Philippe’s voice was bleak.

“No, that’s where they came from.” Isabelle rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, staring speculatively at the faint light emanating from her hands.

If they could find Morningstar, or the refuge he’d hoped for, or the spell he’d cast—something, anything . . .