The House of Shattered Wings

Asmodeus said nothing. Morningstar laughed; a sound so loud and primal it seemed to push back the walls. “I won’t force you to utter a word against him, don’t worry. Come,” he said again, and walked through the door—and, in the darkness that followed him, shadows gathered and flowed like liquid ink, a tantalizing, heart-stopping glimpse of wings extending to blot out the light. . . .

The scene faded, leaving Philippe in the cell once more, breathing hard. The shadows were gone; and the world had gone dull without Morningstar’s presence—everything was a touch darker, every sound oddly muted, every smell less sharp than it had been—as though he moved like a ghost through offerings not meant for him, tasting only the grit of the earth and the bitterness of ashes. He wanted—craved another vision, even though his head ached as though it would split in two. Another parcel of wisdom, of something, of anything that would make sense of what he was going through.

But he’d heard Morningstar, quite clearly.

Mortals.

A mortal’s memories. But that was impossible. Leander had been Morningstar’s last mortal student, and he was dead. Magic could prolong a life, he supposed; could heal some diseases, repair some muscles and strengthen some bones, but not to the centuries-long life span of a Fallen. Humans lived at most a hundred years, a hundred and ten? Nothing more than that.

But the memories were in the mirror; and the shadows were linked to them—he had seen them drawn to Samariel’s bedroom, had seen Morningstar’s ghost leaning against the bedpost, keeping watch over the body—the shadows were what the mirror had summoned. And the memories, quite unmistakably, belonged to one of Morningstar’s mortal students.

The shadows were a mortal’s revenge.

Who, and why? And how? The dead didn’t cast spells. They didn’t summon killing shadows, or seek revenge on those who had wronged them; or the world would be full of angry ghosts.

It was impossible. And yet . . .

And yet it changed nothing. It was tentative, useless knowledge—if he told Selene he had a connection to the shadows, she would toss him to Asmodeus without a second thought. He needed a person he could trust to investigate further, and there was a short supply of those at the moment. He was at the bottom of a cell, praying that Selene would find a use for him; a reason to protect him from Asmodeus—throwing in his lot with the House he’d so desperately tried to get away from.

He might have laughed, if the situation weren’t so serious—if he hadn’t remembered Asmodeus’s pure, incandescent rage, the desire to hurt someone, anyone connected with Samariel’s death.

Heaven help him—he was going to need the Jade Emperor’s own luck to survive the coming hours.





TWELVE


BARGAINS MADE IN ANGER

SELENE had cleared her desk. No more maps or papers to mar the smooth mahogany, or hide the gilded flowers of the border. Now one could clearly see the way they wrapped around the writing surface, the way they delicately followed the contours of the curved legs: the work of a master, lovingly kept and lovingly restored when necessary. It was a deliberate testament to Silverspires’ wealth; the clean desk the reflection of an uncluttered mind, one that made its priority to investigate the attack on Samariel.

If nothing else—she doubted it was working as well as she would like it to—it drew the attention. She could see Claire’s gaze focused on the desk, on Selene’s hands; wondering what could be read from them.

Not much, not anymore.

“You know why I’m here,” Claire said at last, crossing her arms over her chest. Her blue eyes were wide-open, ingenuous. Selene wasn’t fooled.

Claire had come accompanied by two of the ubiquitous children, and a bodyguard she had named as “Eric,” and treated with a suggestive familiarity. She wouldn’t be the first or the last head of House to sleep with a bodyguard.

Selene was wondering when Claire would get on with things. She had other preoccupations, like the matter of the shadows that had attacked Samariel and killed Oris and now threatened every dependent of the House; and how best to handle Asmodeus and his uncontrollable grief. And, so far, all Claire had done was repeat Asmodeus’s arguments—about reparations owed, and how Silverspires must be seen to care about Hawthorn’s loss, all things Selene had listened to until she choked on them.

“Do go on,” Selene said with a bright smile. “I’m listening.”

“I’m not . . . unsympathetic, of course,” Claire said, putting both hands on the table, their veined backs catching the light of the lone lamp in the room. “Lazarus has always been an ally of Silverspires.”