The House of Shattered Wings

There was a man, standing by him—no, not a man, a dragon, with green skin and antlers at his temple, and a beard that fell in braids around the pearl under his chin. He looked for all the world like the images of Khong Tu in the temples, though he wore, not court clothes or scholar’s robes, but ceremonial armor. He was, quite unmistakably, dead, with the particular translucency of ghosts.

Philippe had had enough of ghosts, vengeful or not. “Look,” he said. “Wherever you came from—”

“I didn’t come from anywhere. I was always here. Or nearly always,” the man said. He reached out, and touched Philippe’s wrists—Philippe couldn’t shift himself out of the way in time. A cold, oppressive feeling stretched from the dragon’s fingers, until the pain had been numbed away. “You’ll forgive me. I’m not what I once was.”

“You’re—” Philippe looked again at the pearl, at the strength of its radiance; at the headdress with its nine five-clawed dragons. “Why couldn’t I see you before?”

The man smiled. “Being there doesn’t mean being obvious. There’s . . . value in remaining hidden.”

“You’re the Dragon King.”

“The Emperor of Great Virtue,” the king said, forlornly. “There’s an awfully long posthumous name, but I’ll spare you that. Why don’t you use Rong Nghiem Chung Thuy?”

No. One did not name the dead; especially not dead emperors. “Chung Thoai,” Philippe said, adroitly replacing syllables—it had been such a long time since he had to do this, his brain felt full of cotton. “If you wish.”

The king smiled. “Chung Thoai, then. And you’re Minh Khiet?”

“Does everyone here know my name?” Philippe asked, of no one in particular, and the king didn’t answer. There was no need to. “How about what I’m doing here? I’m not—” He stopped then, looking into the darkness. “I’m not dead yet, am I?” The boundaries between life and death were fluid, but surely he’d have known. Surely there would have been servants of the King of Hell coming with a mandate, to take his soul away?

Chung Thoai shook his head. “No, but you’re close. It’s as I said: it’s stronger than you. Whatever it is you have within you.”

A dead student’s revenge. A ghost’s last, angry thoughts; the ones that never dissipated. “I don’t want it, or need it,” Philippe said, acutely aware of how childish he sounded. But after all he’d been through, maintaining decorum wasn’t a priority.

“I know,” Chung Thoai said. “That’s why you’re here. Because my daughter thought I could . . . exorcise it.”

In all the tales, the Dragon King laid hands on the sick, on the deformed; brought them back to health, cleansed of the injuries evil spirits had caused. “And—?” Philippe asked.

The king’s gaze was grave. “As I said—it is stronger than you. Stronger than even I, I fear.”

*

UNDER the dais. That was where she needed to go—Madeleine resisted the temptation to send everything flying, since there would surely be awkward explanations to give afterward. She held at bay, effortlessly, the guards who tried to stop her, though the angel essence within her was faltering, unused to such demands. Her body would pay for it later, but she was used to it; inured almost.

Show me.

There was a passage, under the steps—hidden under three of the colorful tiles. She opened it with a gesture, and ran down—another set of steps, going downward into another vast cave, plunged in darkness.

At first, she thought the man lying on the stone slab was Philippe; but he was older, and too desiccated to be anything but ancient. She hadn’t thought she could be creeped out by a corpse, whether Fallen or human; but this body wasn’t either. A tightened, pinched face that was almost featureless; a skin of a green like algae; and curved, sharp claws reminiscent of a bird of prey—this was the fluid alienness of Ngoc Bich laid bare; every unfamiliarity heightened until it seemed she was staring at the withered corpse of a monster.

The Dragon King, the Emperor of Great Virtue. . . .

God, how she hated this place.

“Madeleine?”

There was a second slab, behind the first: judging by its location, it was under the second dais. Philippe lay on it; or rather, was nailed to it with spikes of coral. His face was ashen, and the shadows around him stretched farther than they should have. Madeleine approached warily, remembering the mark on Emmanuelle’s hand. “Give me one good reason why I should free you.”

“I’m not sure you should,” Philippe said. He said something else, in a language she didn’t recognize—Annamite?—it was clearly not addressed to her. She realized he was completely unaware of her presence.

The angel magic died abruptly, leaving her weak and shaking, desperately trying to remain standing. Behind her, running steps: the guards, no doubt, coming to drag her away.

“Wait.”

Ngoc Bich walked into her field of vision, followed by Isabelle, who looked ashen, too. “Is this how you treat your guests?” she asked.

Ngoc Bich ignored her, and turned to Philippe. “My apologies,” she said. “I thought you needed better healing.”