The House of Shattered Wings

Selene didn’t. And didn’t like it much, either. “Do tell.”


Isabelle shrugged. “I learned a few things, that’s all.”

From Philippe and his mysterious magic, which made no sense to Emmanuelle? Or from whatever had happened when she and Madeleine left the House, whatever conflagration had left Madeleine on a sickbed, Philippe missing, and Isabelle secretive and withdrawn?

“I don’t think you should—” Selene said, but Isabelle had already put both hands on Morningstar’s temples. “No!”

Neither her cry nor Emmanuelle’s came soon enough. Light blazed, a radiance like the heart of the sun, so strong she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, Isabelle stood in a circle of charred parquet; and Morningstar was stock-still, his face the color of bleached paper, his blue eyes as vacant as those of a corpse. Selene’s arm completed the movement it had started, and pried Isabelle’s hands from Morningstar: they were warm, quivering as if with fever. “Morningstar? Morningstar?”

His eyes swung to look at her, but life didn’t come back into them. What had Isabelle done? How could she, heedless of everything, go blazing in, eager to number him once more among the dead? “If you have harmed him . . . ,” Selene said to Isabelle, who only shook her head.

At length, Morningstar drew a deep, shuddering breath. Selene could almost hear his chest inflating, could almost trace every ounce of color coming back to his skin, every smidgeon of red flushing his cheeks. “Selene,” he said. His eyes had unclouded; but they were still clear, guileless.

“Do you—” She forced herself to breathe through the obstruction in her throat. “Do you remember anything?”

“Images,” Morningstar said, after a pause. “Memories, things that make no sense.” He closed his eyes, opened them again—there was something in his face that hadn’t been there before, a slightly harsher set to the boyish features. “No,” he said. “I don’t remember much that would be of use. Sorry.”

Selene shook her head. “Forget it.” She’d hoped, against all hope . . . But no, miracles didn’t come to Fallen, not so easily. “We’ll need to take another look at our options.” She’d sent messengers to Minimes, one of her traditional allies; though she doubted anyone would come. Draken, Hell’s Toll, Aiguillon—when these had fallen during the war, not a single House would have lifted a finger to help them. In the world of Houses, being vulnerable was merely a reason for people to abandon you, like rats fleeing a sinking ship—no, she had to be fair there. Had Minimes fallen so low, she would have looked the other way. Allies didn’t mean friends. “And the tree?”

Emmanuelle’s voice was grim. “I have no idea about the tree. Selene?”

“Yes?” Selene asked. “You’re going to make a suggestion I won’t like.”

“You know me too well,” Emmanuelle said.

“Of course.”

Emmanuelle took a deep breath. “You should ask Philippe.”

No. “Philippe is the one who got us here. Did you forget that?”

“No,” Emmanuelle said, but she had forgotten. She’d forgotten those agonizing hours when she lay with labored breathing—when Selene wasn’t sure if she’d lose her or the House first, when she’d only had Aragon’s reports to track the progress of the infection. She’d forgotten, and forgiven. Emmanuelle had always been too nice.

And Selene wasn’t. “He brought the Furies here, Emmanuelle. And he was the one who disturbed the crypt, which got this—this mess started.” She wanted to say something other than “mess,” some stronger word that would encompass the fear that gnawed at her entrails like a carrion eater, that would take her, unaware, in a moment when she’d felt herself safe, when she’d forgotten, for a bare minute, that the House was collapsing around them.

“Be fair. Asmodeus and Claire are equally responsible for this mess. And he was also the one who helped us figure out the identity of Nightingale. He has a connection to her—he could find her grave, if moved to it. Or give us another way to go around her.”

Selene looked at the mass of roots that blocked the corridor—that spread through open doors, tearing holes through furniture, lifting wallpaper like snakes—was something moving, in the darkness? Branches and roots; and something deeper and darker, crouching behind it all like a spider in the center of a web? “We should head back to my office,” she said. “But you know I can’t countenance this.”

Morningstar had moved; was leaning against one of the walls—he reached out, absentmindedly, as a root attempted to wrap itself around his wrist—and snapped it cleanly in two. The neighboring roots shuddered as if stung, and fell still; almost as though they’d decided he wasn’t worth the trouble.

Something had changed. He was . . . stronger than he had been. But still not strong enough.