The House of Shattered Wings

He didn’t catch anything—just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, of something flowing like darkest ink, something large and shadowy that spread wings as sharp as knives—and a sense of pressure against his throat, an irrational fear that clogged his chest with shards of ice. What—?

He’d seen this before—a shadow, passing across the sun; the impression of huge wings over the ruins of the Préfecture—a memory of Samariel lifting his head to stare at the sky, as though it contained more than gray overcast. . . .

That day, Oris had died.

Forcing himself to breathe, he moved across the room, bumping into people in his eagerness to keep an eye on mirrors and glass. Every time he moved, the darkness seemed to flow across the room, in empty wineglasses, in mirrors, in spectacles, in diamond pendants and polished silver fob watches; but it disappeared as soon as he tried to focus on it. It was real—rising, searching, sniffing the air like a blind, monstrous worm—something that made the room seem smaller, its air a miasma worse than the polluted clouds near the Seine; something looking for a way in . . .

He came to with a start. He was staring at the seating plan, his hand frozen over Selene’s name—she was at the largest table with the other heads of Houses, of course, but that wasn’t what mattered. Cautiously, he craned his neck to the left and then to the right: nothing but the glitter of light on wineglasses. The darkness was gone, as if it had never been.

But it would be back.





NINE


A FALLEN’S LAST BREATH

LATER, after the formal dinner was over, they had coffee and biscuits; and then, in groups of twos and threes, everyone headed for bed. The conclave proper—the assembly between the various delegations, where everyone would scrutinize the inner workings of Silverspires—would not start until the following morning. This was merely its opening salvo; that tense moment before battle was joined, when everyone checked the bullets in their guns and the readiness of their spells, knowing they would see use before long. Philippe was not a dependent of the House, and not privy to whatever had brought them all here; but what he’d gleaned from conversations was that it was serious business, and that several dependents might be taken aside for questioning by the other Houses. He didn’t envy them the company of a dozen overarrogant Fallen and magicians, all trying to ferret out the secrets of the House.

Philippe and Emmanuelle walked Isabelle back to her room—then Emmanuelle left, and Isabelle smiled. “You’re not going to sneak away like a thief, are you?”

Philippe shook his head. He was tired, and the shadows slid across the back of his mind like woken snakes—demons take propriety and ritual, he couldn’t decently refuse her.

He found himself cradling a cup of tea while Isabelle hunted for biscuits through the drawers of her huge desk. One would expect her room to be cold, devoid of ornaments; but in reality it was like Madeleine’s laboratory: a mess of papers on every available surface, pictures at angles on the walls, covering one another in their eagerness to decorate the room—everything from pictures of Notre-Dame before the war, to a more modern print she must have got from Javier’s photographic darkroom (which must have taken a fair amount of seduction, because supplies were rare and expensive, and Javier didn’t give his photographs to just anyone).

“You didn’t need to walk me back,” Isabelle said.

Shadows. Darkness. Morningstar’s burning gaze in the facets of crystal glasses. “I did.”

“I’m not a child!”

But she was—and thank Heaven for that. She was everything the House couldn’t corrupt, gangly and ill at ease, as impulsive and disorganized as Madeleine—perhaps not quite the same as she’d been when they first arrived there, but close enough that he could remember a time before Silverspires, before the imprisonment that chafed at him. Speaking of which . . . “It’s been over three days, and you haven’t spoken to Selene.”

Her eyes were bright, feverish in her shadowed face. “I will. Believe me. When the conclave is over and she can listen to other things than the intrigues of Houses. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I told you. Looking for a way out.” Philippe shivered. It was going nowhere: their conversation the same as it had been before, in the library. “Can we leave it at that? You disapprove, and I don’t. There is nothing to be gained here.” He shivered. And, because he couldn’t quite ignore his conscience, he added, “You should be careful. There are . . . things in the darkness here.”

Things that wanted them dead, or maimed—opened up like Oris, a smear of bloodied entrails on the pavement of the cathedral. Something was going to happen. Tonight. Where did that utter certainty come from? The shadow within him, the one that had leaped from the mirror? Was he part of it, too?

No. He was still his own self. In spite of the visions, in spite of Morningstar’s enticements—in spite of Selene’s chains—he still knew what he needed to do, and he still knew enough to be scared of the shadows.