The House of Shattered Wings

Within the earth. Underground.

All churches had crypts, and how come she’d never heard of one in Notre-Dame?

Madeleine closed her eyes, and called up power; scrounged every scrap of it from the rawness of her lungs, from the fragility of her bones—it coalesced within her, drop after drop, her limbs growing cold and heavy with its withdrawal.

The shadow was peeling itself free of the stone floor; unfurling wings large enough to darken the sun.

It was now, or never.

“Morningstar. Show me,” she whispered; and cast everything she had—not at the Fury, but at the throne on its dais—thinking of the darkness under the earth, the musty smell of the grave—willing the cathedral to give up its secrets. . . .

A thin line of light snaked from where she stood, zigzagging across the stone like a flame dancing on the edge of a paper. It passed from her outstretched hands into the throne; and then expanded outward, blossoming into a huge incandescent flower. There was a blinding light; an explosion that sent her, retching, toward the floor—as the sound of tumbling stones filled her ears.

“Madeleine?” Isabelle pulled her up—there were other hands, Philippe’s, propping her up. “We have to move.”

“The . . . Fury . . .” Every word seemed to leave a trail of blood in her mouth.

“Stunned, but not for long,” Isabelle said. “We have to go.”

Where? She tried to ask; but then there was no need.

Behind the dais—where there had once been graven tombstones covered in rubble, with faded litanies beseeching God to have mercy on sinners—there was now a huge, open space gaping like the maw of a monster; and within that darkness, the glimmer of steps, leading down into the bowels of the House.

*

IT was damp, and quiet; too quiet, like the day, ages ago, when he had crawled into the ancestral chapel and had stood before the altar, feeling the weight of the dead, of his death, like a yoke on his shoulders. There was little light, but the khi current of wood he had called up was enough to walk without stumbling. It wasn’t the darkness of the flowing shadows, though; but rather what was left when the sun turned its face away from the world, with not a hint of fangs or claws or snakes, and only a peaceful, almost contemplative silence.

Madeleine was a sagging weight between Philippe and Isabelle, her breath going fainter and fainter as time passed; her weight a hindrance. He feared they’d both let go, and she’d tumble down the stairs to Heaven knew where.

“They haven’t followed us,” Isabelle said, beside him.

Philippe shook his head. He’d half expected to see ghosts again, but even Morningstar wasn’t there. It was eerily unexpected. The khi currents there weren’t faded as they were in the rest of the House; they gently lapped at one another in a never-ending circle; and there was a vague sense of magic, nothing major. Just . . . silence. Waiting, though he couldn’t have told what for. “They won’t come. Not here.”

Isabelle took in a sharp breath, but did not ask him how he knew. “But they’ll be waiting outside, won’t they?”

“Of course.”

“Why are they trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know,” Philippe said. He pushed his shoulder upward, to readjust Madeleine’s weight. “I’m just the vessel, and probably even less than that.”

“But you knew what it was.”

“No, Madeleine did.”

There was silence, at those words. “Yes. She did.”

A further silence. He needed to speak up: it was now or never. “Thank you,” he said.

Isabelle turned, surprised. “Why?”

“For coming for me.”

“You mistake me.” Isabelle’s voice was cold, but her hands shook. “I came because Emmanuelle needed you. Because it was the only way.”

“You’re not a good liar,” Philippe said, before he could stop himself. There was no answer from her; not the explosion he had half dreaded. “You could have come on different terms. Selene gave me up, didn’t she? She thought I was dead. She thought I was guilty.”

“I don’t care about what Selene thinks.” Isabelle’s voice was low and fierce. “I know you wouldn’t—”

Wouldn’t he? He wasn’t sure. If it was the way forward; if it could open the way to Annam . . . He was honest enough to know he would do whatever was necessary. “I don’t have your scruples,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if she still had any.

“No.” Isabelle laughed, shortly and without joy. “You don’t. You’re fortunate.”

She was Fallen, and she would pull away from him eventually; she would take her cues from Selene and the House. And yet . . .