The House of Shattered Wings

Demons take Selene, she was thorough, and powerful. But then again, what had he expected of a Fallen; of one of the ruling elite of the city?

He lay on the bed, shaking, and stared at the ceiling until the wooden carvings seemed to dissolve into blurry water. He might not escape this time. He was her prisoner until her goodwill ran out; her victim after that. She had made it clear she would kill him for what he’d done in the Galeries Lafayette. It was . . . frightening, a prospect for which he had no name; as if he were back in the regiment during the war, prodded and poked until he ran with the rest under mortar fire, under a hail of bullets, in the midst of spells that could drain the breath out of him.

He’d survived that; but it had been sheer luck, and nothing else. Heaven no longer looked upon him with favor, as he knew all too well. He was not Fallen, but he might as well be; exiled from the Imperial Court of Immortals, and unable to speak with his own kind; his kin long since dead, the only remnants of his blood descendants who worshipped at a distant altar.

He might not survive this. But did it matter? There was no way forward, no return to the Imperial Court. He was trapped in Paris, all the paths back to Annam closed to him—and now worse than this, trapped in a House as a prisoner.

Sometimes, on the edge of sleep, he would dream of when he had first ascended, and turned from mortal to Immortal. He was back in the cave where he had fasted, a thousand years ago—shivering with hunger, hanging on the knife’s edge of unconsciousness as he meditated—and there was a sound like the bell toll of a pagoda resonating in his bones; and the shadow of cloud-encrusted buildings and of a vast courtyard, materializing a hand span away from him; and the Jade Emperor awaiting him on the throne, congratulating him for overcoming his banishment . . .

Such a wishful, childish dream. There was no truth in it, not a single gram. He was stuck in France, in Silverspires; and no amount of meditation would make the Imperial Court’s power stretch to foreign shores.

The door opened. Philippe was on his feet, drawing on the few scattered hints of khi currents in the room, before he saw that it was Isabelle.

“Oh,” he said. “Hello.” After the interview with Selene, he’d walked away, back to the room he’d been assigned. The last thing he’d wanted was to talk to her—his brief apology was all he felt like extending to her. He fully intended to stay away from Selene’s prize; and he didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d done to her. But it was a small room, and there was only one exit, in front of which she stood.

She looked at him for a while, speculatively. Her brown eyes were still halfway translucent, the irises dilated and washed out, as if some of the light he’d seen resided still in her. “I thought I would find you here. We need to talk.”

“I’m not sure we do.”

Isabelle smiled. There was something primal and innocent about the look, something that seemed to set the whole room alight—but then again, she knew the power of that smile, and she was using it. Fallen all over, that curious mixture of na?veté and guile. She raised her hand; the one that was missing the two fingers, the ones he and Ninon had cut off. Demons take him, he wasn’t one to shirk away from responsibilities.

“I owe you that: apology for inflicting that wound,” Philippe said. “But nothing else. Can we leave it at that?” He sat on the bed; which wasn’t much, but was the farthest he could get from her.

“Do you think I can? Breath and blood and bone”—she sounded as though she was quoting an old children’s rhyme—“all linked in the same circle. Can’t you feel it?” To Philippe’s horror, she bent her hand toward the parquet floor in a graceful gesture, letting him see the two threads of luminous magic that started from the stumps of her fingers and stretched through the air, straight toward his face—no, straight toward his mouth, which was suddenly filled with the same sweet, electrifying taste of Fallen blood, a memory from his nightmares.

“I can’t do more than apologize.” Philippe swallowed, trying to banish the taste in his mouth. Never get tangled with Fallen—a lesson he’d learned, over and over. Why hadn’t he listened to it? “I’ll apologize again, if that’s what you want to hear, but it won’t change anything. . . .”

“Can’t you feel it?” Isabelle asked, again; and suddenly she was no longer ageless or terrifying, but merely a young, scared girl.