The House of Shattered Wings

Easy enough, when you weren’t the one being sacrificed. On the other hand, Claire was right. Even if by some miracle she changed her mind and supported Silverspires—and why would she?—that still left the other heads of Houses. “Mmm,” Selene said. “I’m not quite sure why you, of all people, indulge Asmodeus. Hawthorn is on the rise.”


Claire shrugged. “You might say we have found . . . common interests. And Silverspires hasn’t fallen so far, has it? You still have many things to call your own; and Asmodeus hates that. Though, to be fair, he would seek to destroy any House, if they did this to Samariel. It’s no longer strategic; it’s personal. And that’s why he won’t back down.”

“But it’s not personal for you,” Selene said. She hesitated—she didn’t care for Claire—but there was an opening, and she took it. “In the long run, is this the best thing for your House?”

“In the long run?” Claire smiled, and lifted her hands, so that Selene could see the wrinkled, dotted skin. “There’s not much long run for me, Selene. We both know it. Magic doesn’t work miracles, and no one lives forever.”

Mortals, especially: they grew up in a blur of speed and bloomed like flowers, expending in a few meager years all the energy Fallen put into centuries. Selene had seen so many of them come and go, in the years she’d been with the House. An infusion of enough angel power could prolong life, but beyond a couple of centuries the human body seemed to decay on its own, as if hitting some limit that had been there all along. The work of God, perhaps: they were, after all, His subjects, and Selene was the last one who would deny His presence; or rather the hollow, dull pain of His continued absence. “You still ought to think of the future,” Selene said. She looked at the children; at Eric the bodyguard, who stared stubbornly ahead and refused to meet her gaze. “Of what you will leave behind.”

The future. The House she had been entrusted with—Morningstar would have wished to see it prosper, but the best she could hope for, in the current situation, was simply to survive. But of course she was the student, the apprentice; and never truly the master.

“Maybe so,” Claire said. “Let me be blunt, then: what could you offer that would convince me to side with you?”

Magic, spells, angel toll; all these flashed through Selene’s mind, and were swiftly discarded. Asmodeus could offer the same. If there had been any of Morningstar’s magical objects left, she would have put them in the balance; but Morningstar had been stingy in sharing his power, and she had exhausted her meager source of artifacts.

“My goodwill,” Selene said. “And certain . . . techniques that Morningstar passed on to me, which you will not find elsewhere.”

Claire pursed her lips. “I’ll think about it.” She rose from her chair and bowed to Selene. “You’d do well to think on what I’ve said to you, too.”

“Oh, I will,” Selene said, not bothering to disguise the irony from her voice as Claire and her escort left the room.

Then there was blessed silence—no Father Javier introducing further heads of Houses in her office, no emergency that required her immediate presence—nothing except a faint tinkle of bells as Emmanuelle drew back the curtain and stepped into the room.

“I heard her,” she said. She carried a tray with dinner for both of them: veal blanquette with rice, the carrots peeking through the milky-white sauce; and a simple dessert of oven-baked apples with cream.

Selene stifled a bitter laugh. “Did you turn chef of Silverspires when I wasn’t looking?”

Emmanuelle didn’t rise to the aggressiveness in her voice. “Laure brought it up herself, as a matter of fact—she’s worried, though of course she won’t breathe a word of it. You need to eat. You’ve been running yourself ragged. It’s not because you’re Fallen that you lack limits.”

“I know where my limits are,” Selene said. I don’t need a nursemaid, she started to say, but then she saw the anxiety on Emmanuelle’s face. “I’m fine, truly. Thank you for the meal. And sorry for being a horrid killjoy.”

Emmanuelle shrugged. “It’s a stressful time. Here.” She grimaced. “We shouldn’t be eating at your desk. It’s hardly proper.”

Selene sighed. Emmanuelle, like Aragon, was always concerned with appearances, propriety, and all the niceties Selene used as loose guidelines or as weapons. “Let’s move to the dining room, then.”

The “dining room” was a small corner of the bedroom with a round table, two chairs, and a tablecloth of white embroidered linen that Emmanuelle changed every other week. Today, the embroideries were birds with their young: colorful feathers against the pure white of the cloth. Selene sat down, and took an absentminded bite of her food.

“Do you think she’ll accept your offer?” Emmanuelle asked.

Selene shook her head. “No. She won’t. She’s prevaricating, but in the end she’ll see that it’s not worth her while.”

“All that you said about Hawthorn—”

“Is true,” Selene said. “But they’re not that powerful, not yet.”

“I don’t get the feeling we’re particularly powerful, either,” Emmanuelle said, dryly.