The House of Shattered Wings

“Why?” Emmanuelle asked. She did not move from the chair. He suspected she could not; that it was the only thing keeping her upright at the moment.

“They told me—” He took a deep, deep breath, cursing Silverspires and its ancient, irrelevant intrigues, struggled for words that should have come easily to him. “They told me you were dying. I—I thought I could help. Seeing that I was the one responsible for it.”

“But you’re not, are you.” It wasn’t a question; and her gaze had the sharpness of broken glass.

Not a question he was ready to answer; and he couldn’t quite stop glancing at the door, worried Asmodeus would walk in, with that easy, dangerous smile. . . .

His hands had tightened into fists again; again he was surprised that they didn’t hurt. “Let me have a look at it,” he said. “And then we can talk. Please?”

Emmanuelle shrugged. “If you want.”

He knelt before her, touched her skin. The raised area was surrounded by a circle of dried skin like lizard scales. There was a little magic under his fingers; a little of the same sense of oppressiveness he remembered from the shadows’ presence—it leaped when he touched it, reawakening the same feeling within his chest—for a moment shadows wavered and danced on the edge of his field of vision; for a moment he waited with his heart in his throat, but there was nothing more; it was all fading fast. . . .

They were gone. The Furies were gone.

He moved to the secondary rings; they were all but reabsorbed back into the skin. “You’re healing.” He could be done with this; find the source of the darkness and—then what? Face it as he’d faced Morningstar’s bones?

He had no idea what to do.

“So Aragon says. I could do with less fatigue,” Emmanuelle said. She smiled, tightly. “Now you should leave the House.”

“Ha.”

“Selene has expressed interest in our staying,” Isabelle said, behind him.

“Madeleine?” Philippe asked.

“They’ve sent for Aragon, but at this hour he’s not in the House anymore,” Isabelle said. “They’ll see if Gerard or Eric . . .”

Emmanuelle was not to be deterred from the earlier thread of conversation. “So you’re a ‘guest’ of the House once more.”

Never. “Not if I can help it,” Philippe said, more sharply than he had intended.

“You’re not bound.” Emmanuelle shrugged. “I would advise you to slip out the door—I’m sure you can,” she said, to the too-quick denial she must have seen on his face.

Philippe had not moved; was still kneeling, holding her hand. It would mean leaving with the darkness still inside him; it would mean leaving Isabelle—but he couldn’t hope to remain here, not with Selene aware of his presence. He needed . . . he needed to be free. “At least let me have not come for nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What—”

He called fire then, and wood, and gently entwined them on her skin. They were weak and faded, nothing like the khi currents he’d played with in Annam, but still, there was a memory of the strength of the House. Still, it was enough.

On Emmanuelle’s hand, the rings faded away one by one; last to go was the central one, its blackened outline shifting to dark red, and then to inflamed brown; and then gracefully merging with Emmanuelle’s dark skin.

She was looking at him, mouth slightly open. “No Fallen magic—”

No Fallen magic could heal that fast, that easily; or not without costs. But his magic was different—just as Ngoc Bich’s magic was different, and thank Heaven for that, or he’d still have been a broken body in a bed, awaiting the death that would extinguish his pain. “Party tricks,” Philippe said, gently; rising, and releasing her hand to fall, limp, at her side. The color was back in her cheeks; her breath came in fast bursts, as if she were bracing herself for flight; and she could have fled, too; with that infusion of strength she could easily have risen from her chair and walked without shaking.

But she didn’t. Instead, she watched him, warily. At length, she spoke in the silence of the room. “What threatens the House?” She didn’t ask what he was, or what he could do; merely took it all on faith. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. He was sorry he had wounded her, accidental as it was. She was House, true; but she was graceful about it; generous to a fault, even to those who weren’t dependents.

See, there were positive sides to a House.