The House of Shattered Wings

It wasn’t only the khi currents, though; there was something inside him, too; something dark and angry, raging at the prosperity of the House, at the worship of Morningstar. If he closed his eyes, he would feel it roiling within him like trapped crows—a storm of claws and sharp beaks, and darkness at its heart; a hint of the shadows that had killed Samariel.

He was linked to the curse, to the memories, and—whether because of the cells or because of the recent murder—it was rising, threatening to drown Philippe in visions of the past.

He needed to stay awake. He needed to—he needed to meditate, as he used to do in Annam, back when he’d ascended. But what he’d told Isabelle was true: it was so far away in the past it felt like something that belonged to someone else.

He leaned against the wall, the harshness of bare stone against his back; and tried to feel optimistic about the future. It didn’t work. Asmodeus’s face had been terrible to behold, and Philippe was pretty sure that even Samariel’s recovery—an unlikely thing, the stuff of miracles and desperate wishes—would not assuage his anger. Asmodeus hadn’t had him brought here for his own good.

Funny. He hadn’t thought he’d be so worried to be free of Selene’s oversight, but he would have chosen Selene over Asmodeus, any day.

Her spell was almost gone by now: the few threads tying him to Ile de la Cité were spun thin, like fragile silk. A simple tug would snap them. He had what he wanted, except that now it was useless. He lay against the wall, and considered his options. With khi currents this strong, he could weave magic, but there was no spell that would shatter the doors of the cells. Whoever had designed them had reinforced them with enough layers of magic to be impervious, and Asmodeus’s guards had added a few spells of their own to make sure he didn’t escape. He could call for help, but he had no doubt the outraged Father Javier had gone straight to Selene after Asmodeus’s men had seized him from his bedchamber. That left . . .

If he focused a little—no need for much drawing of khi currents, or for anything save the lightest of breaths—he could feel Isabelle, somewhere above him; worried, fearful. But why draw her into this? She’d be no match for either Selene or Asmodeus. No, if there was anyone he wanted to call for, it would have been Aragon or possibly Emmanuelle, or even Selene, but that supposed he had a plan.

He had none.

The door opened. Philippe rose, flowing into a stance akin to a fighter’s. He was not surprised to see Asmodeus walk in, followed by two beefy humans in the uniform of Hawthorn.

The last time he’d seen Samariel’s lover, he had been wild, and disheveled, and with the fires of some western Hell burning in his eyes. Now he was cool, composed, the eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses studying him dispassionately. But Philippe wasn’t fooled. The fires were still there; merely hidden under a thin layer of courtesy, like the almonds at the core of dragées: bitterness under the thinnest coat of colored sugar.

Once, Philippe had been one of the Jade Emperor’s emissaries, carrying edicts with his official seal to the mortal spheres; he had even gone deep into a dragon kingdom, carrying the execution order of its underwater king; staring past generals with crab pincers and soldiers with fish tails with no hint of fright. He remembered the Dragon King—in human shape, his yellow robes billowing in the waves of his anger; each shake of his antlered head making the palace of coral and jade shake; the pearl under the king’s chin, growing darker and darker, the hint of an approaching storm. Through it all, Philippe hadn’t moved, had simply repeated Heaven’s will—the time and place of the king’s death and the righteous mortal who had been appointed executioner—all of it with the cool arrogance of one under heavenly orders.

He held himself with that same stillness, that same arrogance now. “I was expecting you,” he said.

“Were you?” Asmodeus smiled: a mouthful of white, sharp teeth in a pain-filled grin. “Then you’ll have thought of what you were going to tell me.”

“There is nothing to tell. Samariel was like that when I found him.”

“Was he?” Asmodeus did not move. “And you have an explanation, no doubt, for why you were in his room at night.” He raised a hand. “Don’t tell me it was an assignation. I know full well what Samariel liked, and it’s not you.”

“I had business with Samariel. Private.” At this stage, disclosing his agreement with Samariel would only hurt him: Asmodeus would certainly not extend the protection of Hawthorn to the man he’d found with his dying lover; and to have the whole matter become public would merely make Selene give up on him for good. He needed Selene; she was possibly the only one who had any hope of bringing Asmodeus under control.

“There is no privacy, not anymore.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted—”