The House of Shattered Wings

There was a sound around them, like a hiss of snakes. Madeleine kept a wary eye on the ground, where the shadows were flowing like ink stains; curling and curving in a slow dance, forming circles with a dot in the center like the one in Emmanuelle’s palm. It was . . . almost beautiful, if one didn’t remember Oris; didn’t remember Samariel; didn’t remember the five corpses in the morgue. Had it hurt, when magic overflowed every cell of a mortal’s body? Or was it like angel essence, a slow, heady feeling of rising power, until all life had burned away?

“We have to get to the cathedral,” Madeleine said. “Morningstar . . .” She couldn’t voice the thought. He’d been gone for twenty years; what made her think she could find him, when the entire House had failed?

“Morningstar is gone. He won’t help you,” Philippe said, softly.

Isabelle looked at Madeleine for a while; then she shook her head. “No, but it’s no worse shelter than elsewhere,” she said. She was running already, moving toward the ruined arches of Notre-Dame.

Madeleine barely heard them. There was something . . . hypnotic about the circles, some half-remembered thing, perhaps an image she’d seen in Emmanuelle’s library? She watched them coalesce and vanish, watched the single dot like a thousand unblinking eyes. . . .

“Madeleine!” Philippe’s hands grasped her shoulders, and shook her. “Come on!”

They ran. After just two steps, Madeleine’s breath seared her lungs, and the desire to stop, to bend over, to cough out phlegm, was an almost unbearable, agonizing weight.

There was a hiss, like a knot of a thousand snakes; shapes that she couldn’t quite make out, at the edge of her field of vision; vague images of fangs, of huge wings like a drake’s, slowly beating like a dying heart; if she could only turn her head, she would see them clearly; would be able to name what was after them . . . No. She didn’t look back, or aside. She dared not. Like angel essence, this was a power that subsisted on the forbidden.

Had . . . to . . . run. Had to take in a searing breath, and another one—to put one foot before the other, time and time again. The courtyard wasn’t very large, but it felt as though it contained the entire city now—the postern never growing any nearer.

“This way,” Isabelle said, somewhere from the left. “Not the postern!”

Madeleine turned, almost blind. She could feel Philippe, dropping behind to check on her. “I’ll—be—fine,” she breathed through lungs that seemed to have collapsed; but he didn’t hear her. “A few more meters,” he said, softly. “Come on, Madeleine.”

“Come on, come on, come on.” It was a prayer now, each word stabbing the fabric of Heaven. A shadow loomed over them, solid and reassuring this time, the bulk of the ruined cathedral. There had been a side door, somewhere. . . .

No time for that. Isabelle had plunged into the ruins; they followed, weaving their way between two walls supporting the shards of stained-glass windows.

They stood, panting, just under the dais with the throne, the ruined altar only a hand span away. How much protection was it, really? Did God still look at unrepentant Fallen, at desecrated places? Except, of course, that the place had never been deconsecrated; it had simply fallen into ruin with the rest of the House. . . .

The shadows circled, under the benches, deeper pools of darkness; reaching out tendrils to touch the charred wood, spreading wings on the arches. The hiss was stronger; and behind it she could almost hear—words, a litany like an obscene chanted prayer.

Philippe had closed his eyes; his face had gone pale and slack, as if he were asleep; but in his outstretched hand a green light was growing stronger and stronger: faint traceries, like lines of power, came and went through the skin of his palm.

Madeleine took a deep, trembling breath, staring at their surroundings. The glass windows were dark and dull, their colors and brilliance drained away; the remnants of the ribbed vault weighed down on them, like the fingers of a giant hand pressing them down into dust. She forced herself to look away, opening the pendant at her throat. There was nothing in it but scraps of essence; a bare hint of a power that had once been strong. Like the cathedral, she thought, fighting the urge to retch.

If only they knew where Morningstar was—if only they could call on him—

But that was impossible. Why had she even suggested they go there? Give it up, Madeleine—no time for fancies or flights of the imagination. When this was done—if they survived, she’d have time to go back into the dragon kingdom—no matter how uncomfortable it was—she’d have time to ask Ngoc Bich what she knew. . . .

The shadows appeared reluctant to reach the dais. They circled it warily, tentatively sending tendrils to touch the steps; withdrawing as if burned. Perhaps they’d be safe.

And perhaps she was the messiah come again.

“They’re waiting,” Philippe said. He hadn’t opened his eyes. The light had now spread to both his hands; he held it against himself, cradling it like a child.

“For what?” Madeleine said; and wasn’t so sure she wanted to know. “What are you doing?”