The House of Shattered Wings

There was a sound around them; a huge tightening of something, so hard that the walls audibly cracked. “What was that?” Madeleine asked.

“Something that has no right to happen,” Isabelle said coldly. “Come on, it’s this way.”

The cathedral had changed. Instead of pillars, a host of fluted trunks; and an impassable canopy of branches and leaves masking the view of the Heavens. Here there were few or no cuts from Morningstar’s wings; but also enough space for them to wend their way through the maze of roots and trunks and green leaves. The smell of a tropical jungle became overpowering: loamy earth and the peculiar sharpness that comes after the rain. Madeleine’s hands tightened around the box; should she inhale its contents? No, she wasn’t going to give Asmodeus that satisfaction.

Over the altar was the largest trunk of them all, covering seemingly everything from the throne to the entrance to the crypt. But Madeleine had no time to take it in, because the trunk was halfway open; and someone stood there, bending over a body.

The body was Morningstar’s. Even though she hadn’t seen him since he came back to life, there was no mistaking the fair hair, or the serrated wings that the other person was busy removing from him.

In front of her, Isabelle’s light grew harsh. “Stop!”

The other rose, taking the wings with her; dropped them, as if they were fundamentally distasteful. “You fool,” she whispered, and her voice carried under the vault. “Did you really think they would serve you, in the end?”

Then she turned, and looked at Isabelle.

She was small, and thin; her hair a dull, mousy brown; her eyes wide in the delicate oval of her face, with the same familiar harshness to her features that Madeleine had seen in Isabelle and Selene. She wore a simple white shift, reminiscent of the robe of altar boys; leaves were still caught around the collar, and scattered twigs clung to the hem above her bare feet.

“That is unexpected,” she said. She walked downstairs, leaving Morningstar behind her. Her gaze raked Isabelle and her from top to bottom, leaving Madeleine with the distinct impression they’d been found wanting. “Is this what the House sends to defend itself? You’re too late.”

“Nightingale,” Madeleine whispered, and the woman smiled.

“I’d thought it would be someone I would remember.”

I don’t, Madeleine thought. I wasn’t even there when you died. I—damn it, can’t the dead remain where they are, safely away from us?

“You have no right.” Isabelle walked toward her; stopped, in a perfect triangle with her, Morningstar’s body and Nightingale.

Nightingale’s gaze swung toward her. “Right? You do know what he did, don’t you? I would hate to think his House produced someone so naive.”

Isabelle drew herself to her full height. “It’s not his House any longer.”

“It’s Selene’s.” Nightingale’s gaze moved, rested on Madeleine. “Don’t look so surprised. I don’t come into this world like a blameless fool. I’m no Fallen.”

No, that she patently was not. How much did she know? Was it through the Furies, through Philippe, or something else entirely? She had been born of the House’s magic: their own sword, turned against them; Morningstar’s own sins, brought back full circle; and she would not be stopped.

Except . . . Behind her, to the right, lay the discarded wings; and Isabelle had claimed her right to inherit Morningstar’s mantle. If anyone could stop her . . .

Madeleine took a step forward, her heart hammering against her chest. Before she could think on what she was doing, she raised the box to her face; and, opening it in one swift movement, inhaled its entire contents.

It was like inhaling liquid fire: an irrepressible feeling of suffocation that rose in her, sending her to her knees, struggling to breathe—even as warmth exploded in her chest, spread to her arms and legs—and climbed upward, a stab like a spike driven into her brain, whiting out her vision for a bare moment.

When she opened her eyes again, Nightingale had moved; was standing almost over her. Madeleine pushed herself upward, stood. Nightingale watched her, unmoving. “So you set yourself to fight me, then?”

No, no, no. She wasn’t that much of a fool. Isabelle had to understand, had to get the message. “Someone has to stand against you. I wish it wasn’t me, but there is no one else.” Each word she spoke hurt, lodged against her tongue and palate like serrated blades, like flame butterflies. If she moved too fast, or spoke too soon, she was going to burst; so much power within her, so much raw potential. Once, she would have felt safe, away from Asmodeus, but now she had Hawthorn at the back of her thoughts; and she stood in the destroyed heart of Silverspires, facing a dead woman come back to life. There was no safety left to her.