The House of Shattered Wings

“We’re still the biggest threat to Lazarus.”


Or rather, they were, but not for much longer. Not after this.

“You’re not considering—”

“I am,” Selene said. The food tasted horrible, drained of all sharpness. Had Laure forgotten the salt, or was she too tired to properly taste it? “It would get Asmodeus off my back.” It wouldn’t solve the murders—at least she didn’t think it would, didn’t think Philippe was responsible for them; but everyone would pack up and leave, and she’d get some much-needed peace and a chance to protect her own people, without members of the delegations crawling in every corridor and every room.

“It’s wrong,” Emmanuelle said. “You know what Asmodeus is going to do to him.”

“He’s not one of my dependents.” She’d seen something, in that cell; as Asmodeus turned toward her, framed by the magic he’d summoned; she’d have sworn she’d caught a glimpse of something else; of something dark and chillingly fluid—shadows like the ones Philippe and Madeleine had mentioned, or merely her own imagination overacting?

But, if Philippe wasn’t the killer—and he couldn’t be, because if he’d had that kind of power he’d already be free—then what were the shadows doing in his cell?

Emmanuelle said, “He’s only here because you imprisoned him. Even if he were guilty—which he’s not—it’s a horrible way to die.”

There were no good ways to die, though. Selene set her fork down, ignoring the look Emmanuelle shot her—no, she hadn’t eaten enough; she would catch up later. “It would save us so much trouble, though, wouldn’t it?” She didn’t need to look up to see Emmanuelle’s horrified gaze. But, as she said, she was considering it. Morningstar had, more than once, advised her to be more ruthless; and certainly he had always been ready to sacrifice whatever was necessary for the House. That had included his own dependents, sometimes.

But Selene wasn’t like that, surely?

Still . . . still, if she gave Asmodeus what he wanted, the House wouldn’t be the poorer for it. In fact, it might earn her Hawthorn’s goodwill, at least for a few months, and that was something in short supply at the moment. And it would certainly placate the heads of the other Houses; effortlessly show her as a ruler not to be crossed—and not as one of Morningstar’s youngest students, desperate to fill the gaping void her mentor had left in the heart of the House. And it wasn’t as though Philippe was innocent; whatever he was hiding from her, it wasn’t for the good of the House. He hated Silverspires as much as all the other Houses; more, perhaps, since she had imprisoned him. “He is resourceful,” she said aloud. “He might even escape.”

“You know he won’t,” Emmanuelle said. “And even if he did, be honest: it would change nothing. You would still have given him up. That’s the guilt you would bear. It doesn’t depend on how well he survives. It’s all about what you did or didn’t do.”

What she did or didn’t do. Yes, that was what it boiled down to, in the end. To her conscience; Fallen shouldn’t have had one, especially heads of Houses, and yet . . .

“You’re right,” she said at last. “I can’t.” Sheer foolishness, Morningstar whispered in her mind. How will you ever be a good leader for Silverspires, Selene?

She didn’t have an answer for him. She’d never had one. She’d loved and respected him, but had always known that, ultimately, he had been disappointed in her, just as he had been disappointed in all of his students: Hyacinth too unambitious, Seraphina too needy, Oris too fearful, Nightingale too careless, Leander too disobedient; and Selene, of course, too squeamish. If he’d lived longer, he would have turned from her, as he’d turned from each of his students. She didn’t hate him for it: he’d been a force of nature, and every one of them had been bound to fall short; to shrivel next to his forceful presence—to crack like flawed porcelain in the oven.

“We have to find something to give Asmodeus,” she said. “I can’t leave this hanging—”

A knock on the door; Father Javier, bowing. “Excuse me,” he said, but Aragon pushed him aside. “Selene,” he said. “You have to come down now.”

One look at his face was enough for Selene. “Samariel?”

“He’s dead,” Aragon said. “I need you down there with the corpse, to help with the last rites—”

“No, you don’t,” Selene said sharply; and got up, pushing back her chair. “Where is Asmodeus?”

“I left him with the body,” Aragon said. He looked puzzled. “Left him time to . . . compose himself. I expect he’ll be waiting for you. Why?”