The House of Shattered Wings

Rage flared in Asmodeus’s eyes, strong enough to make Philippe take a step back. “He lies boneless and dying. Don’t presume to tell me what he would and would not have wanted. Not that it matters. The living have secrets. The dead can have none, not if they are to be avenged.”


Philippe thought carefully. He didn’t have much that could deter the Fallen’s wrath, but he tried it all the same. “I don’t want to impede your vengeance. Our business has no bearing on his murder. I’ll swear it on the City.”

Asmodeus smiled. “You have a quick tongue. Take care; it’s easily removed. You’re Annamite, and mortal. An oath on the City means nothing to you.”

Means nothing? Isabelle had said the same thing—he felt the same words of the old oath rising through him, and pushed them down. There was no point: Asmodeus wouldn’t know what he was talking about. “I abide by my word,” Philippe said, drawing himself to his full height. It was all nonsense—here he was, vexed because some murderous bastard Fallen wouldn’t trust his word? That was hardly the priority.

Asmodeus came closer. As he walked, something gathered behind him—shadows, Philippe thought at first, his heart in his throat, shadows like the ones in the ballroom—darkness pooling from the walls of the place, all the despair and pain gathering into the shadow of huge wings; until Asmodeus stood close enough to touch him, and, as with Morningstar, the weight of his presence was strong enough to make Philippe’s knees tremble. “Yes,” Asmodeus said. “Fear me. I walked this earth before you were born, boy, and I’ve seen enough things to turn your blood to ice. I’ve done many of them, too, and I won’t hesitate before doing them to you. All of them, do you understand me?”

That—that wasn’t what he feared, but he couldn’t get the words past his frozen lips. Beyond Asmodeus, he could catch glimpses of movement; flashes of wings and fangs; of biting, rending sharpness; and his chest was so tight with the rising curse, his ribs were going to burst into splinters—

“Do you understand me?”

The eyes, behind their glasses, the mad, fiery gaze; the pressure of the curse against his mind . . . I was born long before you, Philippe thought, trembling. When you were still rebelling in Heaven, I had a family—father, mother, wife, children. I . . . ascended. I became Immortal. You’re nothing compared to me.

He had to believe that; to hold on to that thought—and not to dwell on where he was, in a cell under the earth with close to no recourse—he found the khi elements leaping into his hands, eager to do battle, though to reveal himself, now, here, was a double-edged weapon—there were no shortages of Fallen here, more than enough raw power to utterly extinguish him. . . .

“Asmodeus!”

Selene stood in the doorway, her eyes burning. Threads of magic spun around her, drawn from the House itself, like a hive surrounded by a hundred swarms of bees. “Get out. Now.”

“I was just getting started,” Asmodeus said. He turned to face her; the overwhelming aura lessened; and then died altogether, as the shadows around Asmodeus departed. Philippe took in a deep, shaking breath—fresh air, though was it going to last?

Because, after all, the curse wasn’t going to go away; not when it was so tightly tied to him.

“I know you weren’t far in front of me,” Selene said, grimly, to Asmodeus. “You left your goons at the door to stop me, and a further two in the corridor.”

“Oh dear. I do so hope they’re not harmed.” Asmodeus made it sound like a threat.

Selene did not smile, or move from her place on the threshold. “They slowed me down a bit. As did the other heads of Houses, as you intended.”

“Of course.” Asmodeus left Philippe’s side, and bowed to her, though there was no respect in the gesture.

“This is my House, Asmodeus,” Selene said. “You may mock it; you may think we’re degenerate and doomed to fail—”

“I didn’t say that.” Asmodeus’s smile was ironic.

“No. You worked on it, very hard.” Selene raised a hand; and Asmodeus flinched: a fraction of a movement only, but clear enough that Philippe could see it. “As I said, this is still my House, and I’m still head of House. Philippe is under my protection, and I won’t give him up.”

Philippe had never thought he’d be glad to be claimed by a House. “Then consider this.” Asmodeus’s smile was cold. “You’re responsible for this. Even if you’re not the one who ordered the killings, you’ve still failed to protect your guests.”

“Guests? You knew what you were doing when you were coming here, Asmodeus. You wanted to invade us and humiliate us, by showing we were incapable of investigating our own troubles. You knew Silverspires was under attack, and you brought more people here! It’s hardly my fault if you got burned.”

“You—” Asmodeus’s face twisted, and for a moment Philippe thought he was going to lunge at Selene. He controlled himself with a visible effort; his voice, when he spoke, was cold and contemptuous. “I will demand reparations, Selene.”

“And you will have them.”