The House of Shattered Wings

Isabelle shrugged. “There are always things. Old Houses cast shadows, that’s all. You’re worrying over nothing.”


But he knew he wasn’t. “Isabelle?”

“Yes?” She had risen—dismissing him and his worries, her cup forgotten on the table.

“Stay in your room tonight, please.”

Her gaze hardened. “Because you’re planning something you’d rather I didn’t see, like your meeting with Samariel at the market?”

“No! I swear it, Isabelle. I don’t mean you harm, or Silverspires. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight. Well, that’s something to live by, isn’t it? What will you swear on? The City? You don’t believe in it.” Her voice was angry, sarcastic—with shades of the unthinking arrogance of House Fallen, of their unshakable belief in their own superiority.

The old oath was on his lips before he could stop himself, its music familiar, as comforting as a poem learned by rote. “I swear by the flesh of the father who sired me, by the blood of the mother who bore me. By the Immortals in the mountains, and Quan Am, who listens to our ten thousand cries for salvation. . . .”

Isabelle’s face twisted, in what might have been a sneer, in what might have been a peal of laughter—his fists clenched then, ready to meet contempt with equal contempt. But then she grew grave again. “I was going to say that nobody talks like this, anymore, but . . . it means something to you, doesn’t it? Or used to.”

Her gaze rested on him; he met it, steadily, feeling himself grow light-headed—the world slowly heightened into swaths of yellow light, as if he’d been meditating again, on the knife’s edge of hunger and thirst. “Back when I was mortal . . . it was an unbreakable oath.”

“Back when you were mortal.” Her voice was quiet. “Don’t you ever miss it?”

So many of her questions were about what he’d had; what he missed—not, he knew, out of a desire to hurt him, but because she was afraid—deathly so—of losing what she did have. She sought . . . reassurance that she could survive beyond that loss.

“Do I miss mortality?” He’d never thought about it. It had been so long; centuries ago in another land. “Not so much, no. You forget, when you’re Immortal. I remember my body getting old, my fear of death, but it’s like they happened to someone else.”

“So your kind are cruel, too.”

“What do you mean?” He hadn’t expected that remark, either.

“Your kind doesn’t remember what it is, to be fragile and lost.” Isabelle rose to fill her cup again; the harsh, earthy smell of tea filled the room, so unlike the delicate fragrance he remembered. “And neither do Fallen.”

“Or House-bound,” Philippe said, finally. “When you’ve never been hungry, or naked; or never had to run for your life, you think that warmth, and safety, and power, are due to you. That anyone who doesn’t have them doesn’t deserve them.” That was how Houses ruled; the source of their ease, their arrogance. “It’s different in Annam—the Court of the Jade Emperor doesn’t mingle with mortals. They don’t seek to rule over them.” He knew what she would say: that it might well be true, but that they still thought themselves better than mortals; and he wasn’t sure what he’d answer her.

But she didn’t say anything. She drained her cup, and stared at it for a while. “I don’t have a choice. As Madeleine said—it’s either this, or be taken apart in the streets. Even my power won’t protect me.” There was a hunger in her eyes he found disquieting; a hint she would seize anything that would help her.

“It’s not all about power,” Philippe said.

Her gaze rested on him; dark and expressionless. “Isn’t it?”

She couldn’t know—she couldn’t know what he’d promised Samariel, to break free of the House’s hold on him; to be his own man again. She said she’d warn Selene, but she really had no idea what was going on. She couldn’t—no matter how strong their shared link was within her.

“I need to go,” he said, rising, gulping down the rest of his tea—the strong, bitter taste making his stomach heave as he all but ran away from her. “Stay in your room, please.” And, when she didn’t answer, “There is something in the House. I think it’s what killed Oris. Please. I just want you to be safe. This is the truth. Make of it what you want.”

In his room, he tried to read, but the words in his book kept blurring, frustratingly out of reach—becoming Isabelle’s sharp gaze, the growing seriousness of her expression. “You mean it, don’t you? Every word of it.”

Of course he’d meant it. And of course it changed nothing. She was free, and he wasn’t. She was going to remain inside her room, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, and he . . .