The House of Shattered Wings

“You surprise me.” Claire smiled. “I never thought you would get Philippe to join a House of his own free will.”


She knew him? Madeleine waited for him to protest; or to acknowledge the fact that he was bound to the House by far less than his free will, but he merely scowled at Claire. “There is a time to try everything, I guess,” he said, darkly. “How have you been, Lady Claire?”

“Well enough,” Claire said. Without missing a beat, she caught a boy’s hand and held it away from the bracelet he was trying to grasp. “No touching, I said.”

Madeleine made a mental note to talk to Claire away from Philippe, or to tell Selene to do so. There was even more to the young man they didn’t know, it seemed. “We had Philippe for a while,” Claire said. “A long time ago, though, and we couldn’t hold him.”

Philippe wasn’t meeting her gaze; though now that Madeleine thought of it, he seldom met anyone’s gaze but Isabelle’s. “None of your fault,” he said at last, inclining his head in a practiced gesture. “You know that.”

“Of course.” Claire shook her head, as if to clear away a persistent thought; and her gaze focused on Isabelle. “You haven’t been here long,” she said.

Isabelle hesitated, clearly reluctant to say much of anything. Madeleine stepped in. “She’s too young for the advanced inquisition, Claire. Or for your power plays with Silverspires.”

“Power plays?” Claire smiled again. “I don’t play them much, as you well know.”

No, Madeleine thought. But when you do play them, you leave us all in the dust. She did not relish the idea that Silverspires was bound to find itself on the opposite camp of House Lazarus one day. Claire might be human, but that merely meant she was ten times the strategist that most Fallen were; and ten times as ruthless when it came to downing her enemies. “If I were playing such games, though . . .” Claire’s face was thoughtful. “If I were playing, I would congratulate you on sheltering so young a Fallen, who will do honor to her House.”

“A weapon, you mean.” Philippe’s hiss of anger was all too audible, even in the din of merchants offering their wares.

“I see you haven’t changed,” Claire said. “Ideals will betray you in the end. You should know this.”

Philippe said nothing—perhaps he’d finally understood that all Claire did was to goad him, in the hopes of getting information. “You didn’t stop me simply to exchange pleasantries,” Madeleine said, going for the blunt approach.

Claire’s pale blue eyes focused on her. “Did I?” But in the end, as Madeleine had known all along, she couldn’t resist. “If you see Selene, you might want to suggest she show an interest in doings outside the House.”

“What things do you think she would not have seen?” Madeleine said, keeping her voice low and pleasant.

Claire’s face darkened, and she hesitated for a while. “As I said, I don’t play your little power games. I’m not Harrier or Hawthorn, or Silverspires, indeed. But there is word, in the city, of something abroad.”

“Something?” Madeleine couldn’t help the bark of laughter. “There’s always something abroad in Paris. It’s not like it’s a safe place.” She couldn’t help remembering the shadow; the touch on her thoughts, the fist tightening in her innards as the wings unfolded, always just out of sight, always just out of reach—until they weren’t.

“Something that kills,” Claire said darkly. “Something that leaves multiple bite marks on its victims and takes their blood.”

“Fallen blood is power,” Philippe said. He kept his gaze away from Isabelle, but Madeleine saw the way the young Fallen flinched. “But not much power.”

“Did I say the victims were Fallen?” Claire shook her head.

Oh, of course. Word would have spread much faster, if there had been Fallen dead. “What are you suggesting?” Madeleine asked.

“I don’t know. I never said I had the answer. But I would suggest you tread even more carefully than usual at night.” Claire’s face was utterly serious; and there was a hint of something in her eyes—fear?

Claire went on, with a tight smile. “The victims are human. Five of them, none who would be missed—low in gang hierarchies, grimy and ill-fed, too insignificant to be worth a House’s regard.” There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. Among other things, Lazarus ran charity kitchens, hospitals, and hostels, where, regardless of your allegiance or your past, you would be made welcome for a few nights.

“Which gangs?” Philippe asked sharply.

Claire gave him an appraising look. “None of the Red Mambas, though I would guess your . . . friends will be worried as well.”