The House of Shattered Wings

“And whose toy are you?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow, but didn’t flinch. “Samariel’s, once. Hawthorn’s, once and now and always.” His voice was toneless; Samariel’s name barely inflected. Had he taken another lover? It didn’t sound as though he had. Perhaps in his own, twisted way, he had genuinely cared for the other Fallen; enough to still grieve. But she couldn’t afford to think of him that way.

“And the city’s?” Isabelle asked, softly. “Do you even know why Silverspires is falling?”

“I suspect,” he said. “But it is of no matter.”

“Of no matter.” Madeleine laughed, bitterly. “Morningstar’s little schemes, as you call them, involved Hawthorn. She died in Hawthorn, didn’t she? Morningstar’s betrayed apprentice, to pay the price of a treaty. Whose hand struck the blow?”

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow. “Before my time, I’m afraid. Uphir’s, perhaps. But I would not have shied from it. I told Selene as much already: House business is not for the squeamish. If you have no heart for it, then do not rise so high.”

How could he—how could he sit there and say this to her face, knowing what he had done? “That’s not my point,” Madeleine said softly. “You should ask yourself what will happen should Silverspires fall. Do you think vengeance will stop at our doors?”

“No longer your doors. You keep forgetting you’re no longer part of Silverspires,” Asmodeus said; but it was reflex. At length, he took his glasses, and carefully wiped them clean. “I should think we are adequately protected; and while the points you make are valid, I don’t find them quite compelling enough, I’m afraid.” He turned again toward Isabelle; smiled: a thin line that had nothing of amusement in it. “I would suggest you leave, and return to your House, while there is still a House to save.”

Isabelle bit her lip. “I see,” she said. She rose, making her way toward the door—Madeleine’s heart sinking with every step she took, watching the only miracle that would have freed her from Hawthorn leaving. At the door, Isabelle turned, slowly, and stared at Madeleine. There was a light in her eyes: something ancient and fey, and wholly unlike the Fallen Madeleine remembered. “Asmodeus?”

Asmodeus looked up, mildly curious; but then something hardened in his face, and he stared at her; the light from her body glinted on the rim and arms of his glasses. “Yes?”

“Uphir was a fool, and so are you. You remember a day long gone by, don’t you?”

“Do tell,” Asmodeus said, softly; but he no longer looked flippant or sardonic. What had been so frightening about Isabelle’s words?

“Do you truly wish to antagonize me, kinsman?”

Madeleine had never heard anyone call Asmodeus “kinsman,” especially not with that derisive familiarity. For a moment she thought Asmodeus was going to strike Isabelle down where she stood, that he’d find a knife or some magic and drive it all the way into her heart; but that didn’t happen. He sat stock-still, staring at Isabelle. At length, he said, “So you set yourself up as his heir, do you? That’s a dangerous position to occupy.”

Isabelle stood, framed in the doorway, limned in an old, terrible light that haloed her dark hair, and drew the shadows of great wings over her shoulders—surely . . . Surely that was impossible. “I don’t set myself up as anything, save that which I already am. But you would do well to remember that I have survived this far.”

“Indeed.” There was cutting irony in Asmodeus’s voice. “Very little of it being my doing, I should say.” He looked at Madeleine again. “I won’t release her, and you know it as well as I do. It’s high time Hawthorn got back what is due to it. But let’s talk.”

“There is no talk.” Isabelle’s face was serene, otherworldly so. They were going to fight. Here, now, in this room, in the heart of Asmodeus’s and Hawthorn’s power.

Madeleine, struggling for breath, found only a memory of what Asmodeus had said, tumbling over and over in the emptiness of her mind like a dust ball adrift in a storm. “Call it a loan,” she whispered.

“Of twenty more years? I think not.”

“A day. A week. What would satisfy you, Asmodeus? I will return. As you pointed out—I have no House of my own anymore.”