The House of Shattered Wings

Whatever Selene had said, he wasn’t one of her dependents. She’d never give up one of Silverspires’ men or Fallen, even to save the House; but he was the alien, the one who’d tasted Isabelle’s blood; the convenient sacrifice that would buy her way out of the diplomatic tangle she was stuck in. He recognized the signs of it all too well. If push came to shove . . .

She hadn’t renewed the spell, either. He’d thought it carelessness on her part, though she’d never been careless before. Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t go far from where he was. Or perhaps she foresaw that she’d have to take him away from the grounds of Silverspires quite soon, and that it wasn’t worth recasting the spell only to have to undo it again. He didn’t want to dwell on that; so he snapped the last threads himself, reaching out to the fire and metal in the khi currents to form blades that would cut through anything. Now he could run, if there was an opening.

Not that he believed there would be one.

He must have slept, at some point; sliding noiselessly into dark, fearful dreams shot through with shadows sliding across mirrors.

When he woke up, woozy-headed, he saw Morningstar.

The Fallen was standing in the center of the room, which was no longer an empty cell: there was a table with . . . something strapped on it, something that moved and wheezed and moaned, something he couldn’t afford to think of as human anymore. Morningstar’s face was cold, emotionless, as he reached for a knife. He’d come for Philippe—but no, Morningstar wasn’t looking in his direction. “Tell me again,” Morningstar said to the table. “All of it.”

Another vision from the past. Another memory. His head ached: he couldn’t be sure if it was the dreams or the awful presence that filled the room. He’d thought Asmodeus was bad, but he’d forgotten how . . . overwhelming Morningstar was, how the mere sight of him hefting a blade could trigger a mixture of fear and awe—how he could hunger for the magic to turn his way, to acknowledge him in any way, even if it was simply to flay him alive—he would revel in the exquisite sensation of pain, in the surge of power that promised he could be anything, do anything. . . .

A noise at the door; and Asmodeus stood there, escorted by two guards in Silverspires’ colors.

He was younger, his swallow-tailed coat hanging awkwardly on his frame; though his eyes were still as cold and hard as pebbles, polished to a sheen by the rush of living in the mortal world. “Lord Uphir is waiting for you upstairs, my lord.”

Morningstar was bent over his work, and didn’t answer at first. He nodded to something Philippe couldn’t hear, and then looked up. “Apologies. Important House business. Asmodeus, is it?”

Asmodeus bowed. “Yes, my lord.” There was something, some of the same underlying energy he had now, the same harsh, unyielding core that suggested he wasn’t going to call anyone “my lord” for long.

“Give me a moment,” Morningstar said. And, then, turning to where Philippe crouched—the magic turning, focusing on him with the intensity of a naked fire—he said, “Do you see?”

Philippe didn’t answer, but Morningstar shook his head. “That Fallen on the table plotted to overthrow my rule. We can’t have that here. You must understand. We’re only strong when we’re united. Any strife among us is an opening for our enemies. I don’t like this”—a bare smile that seemed to illuminate the entire cell—“but it has to be done. Cancers must be excised from the flesh.” And, reaching out, he bent over the table once again. “As promised,” he said, and the blade flashed down, and there was an end to the piteous cries.

Morningstar dropped the knife on top of the table. He moved toward the door, flexing his back. The enormous serrated wings moved with him, catching the light; every part of him exuding a peculiar sharpness, like blades forged by a master. “Come,” he said.

“My lord—” Asmodeus was still looking in Philippe’s direction. “Lord Uphir—” He took in a deep breath. “He wants to see you alone.”

“He’s never objected to the presence of my students before.” Morningstar turned back for a second, puzzled. Philippe braced himself against the pain that spiked through his eyeballs, even as he welcomed it. “Oh. Your lord is a fool, kinsman—do you know that? Mortals are more than the equal of Fallen.”

Kinsman. It was a rather peculiar way to refer to another Fallen; as if they were all brothers under the skin—something not even humans had managed.