The House of Shattered Wings

*

AFTER Isabelle and Philippe had left to go shopping, Oris headed back, slowly, to Pont-au-Double. Isabelle and Philippe would be fine: it was a market, and the worst that could happen to them was getting fleeced by traders, or pickpocketed by children. Oris, meanwhile, wanted to catch Madeleine at Pont-au-Double when she was done with whatever mysterious errand had brought her back into the arms of House Hawthorn—he didn’t know, not exactly, what the circumstances of her leaving had been, but he’d caught enough glimpses of her face darkening whenever Hawthorn was mentioned—and, of course, of the scars on her ribs and hip, which told their own story.

People dismissed Oris as a wallflower, but it wasn’t because he never spoke up that he didn’t see things. He’d seen, for instance, the light in Madeleine’s eyes at night, which made them seem almost insectile; the way her long, graying hair had grown dull and lusterless, her round, pleasant face sharp and hollow. He had heard her cough; listened to the way her voice had grown subtly hoarser over the past few months. Aragon should have seen it, if he wasn’t too busy with too many patients—Oris wasn’t Aragon, but he could still make his own predictions. She had a year, perhaps; a little less, a little more.

And the thought of that was a cold, cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach, more disturbing than the thought of his own end or the end of the House. He shouldn’t have cared so much; but she cared, too. She tried to do her best by him, even though he couldn’t rise to her expectations.

He’d prayed, of course; but her face had continued to subtly grow thinner, her skin sallower; and the bouts of coughing came stronger and more often. Perhaps God didn’t acknowledge the prayers of Fallen; having cast them from His presence, perhaps He’d forgotten all about them. Perhaps the more extreme priests were right, and redemption was a gift reserved for humans. He didn’t know. He’d continued to go to Father Javier’s masses, because he couldn’t bring himself to believe in that kind of angry, hate-filled God—because his faith was all he had left, and he clung to it as if to a raft in a stormy sea.

He was halfway back to Pont-au-Double when the light dimmed. Puzzled, he looked up, but the sky was the same light gray overcast as it had been a moment ago. Surely . . .

And then, on one of the stalls in front of him—which sold boxes and large, flat mirrors for imprisoning Fallen breath—he saw a flash of the darkness, of something huge and winged crossing the glass for a heartbeat.

No.

That first time, that horrible night of turning left and right and seeing it—always barely out of reach, always oozing in some corner of his field of vision—that had been an illusion. Madeleine had found nothing in the House; and nothing more had happened. It was . . .

Across the polished surface of the largest lacquered box, the darkness passed again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

No one else seemed to have seen it. The crowd was slowly dispersing, except for a few hangers-on haggling for a bargain as the market came to a close and merchants had to unload their stock. They met his eyes with idle curiosity, and then turned back to what they were doing.

Oris turned, but there was nothing behind him. But, as he turned back, there was a flash of movement; something barely perceptible against the colored background.

There.

He ran.

He made for the safety of the House, his heart hammering against his chest—and, in every stall that he passed, the darkness flashed, and lingered for a moment, spreading huge black wings; and he could hear a persistent hiss—he’d thought it was some kind of gas spreading, but after a while he realized it was the hiss of dozens of snakes, which he couldn’t see anywhere.

He didn’t look behind him. He didn’t dare to. But there was a shadow at his back, growing as he ran, dimming the light around him; and the hiss grew stronger and stronger.

At the ruined entrance of Notre-Dame, he took the steps two by two, and staggered into the nave—for a moment he stood, breathing hard, voicing the words of a familiar prayer, praying that consecrated ground would be enough to stop them—but he was Fallen, and already knew the answer to his prayers.

Light played on the ruins of benches, of statues, of arches; and the darkness slithered across them all, and this time he could see the full span of the wings as they unfolded—as black and as huge as the ones folklore lent to his kind. They were behind him; close enough to touch; close enough for him to feel the wind of their passage, if he dared to look back. . . .

He turned, and looked; and was lost.





SIX


REQUIEM FOR A FALLEN