He didn’t look behind him. He didn’t dare to. But there was a shadow at his back, growing as he ran, dimming the light around him; and the hiss grew stronger and stronger.
At the ruined entrance of Notre-Dame, he took the steps two by two, and staggered into the nave—for a moment he stood, breathing hard, voicing the words of a familiar prayer, praying that consecrated ground would be enough to stop them—but he was Fallen, and already knew the answer to his prayers.
Light played on the ruins of benches, of statues, of arches; and the darkness slithered across them all, and this time he could see the full span of the wings as they unfolded—as black and as huge as the ones folklore lent to his kind. They were behind him; close enough to touch; close enough for him to feel the wind of their passage, if he dared to look back. . . .
He turned, and looked; and was lost.
SIX
REQUIEM FOR A FALLEN
MADELEINE took a deep breath and forced herself to look at Oris’s corpse.
He lay in the abandonment of Aragon’s hospital room, opened up from neck to pubis to the searching of scalpels and scrapers; the inner organs taken out, labeled and weighed by the nurses; the face bloodless and staring upward, with a faint tinge of blue under the eyes.
There was something . . . utterly final about Fallen corpses, some irretrievable loss of lightness, of grace—the skin going blotchier, the hair losing its luster, everything suddenly becoming squatter, heavier—the mortal world’s final act of catching up, its final embrace and good-bye, a Fall more definite and eternal than their original one. What lay on the cold metal table, under the ceiling of the Hôtel-Dieu, was Oris, but Oris stripped of everything that had made him such a joy to behold; and only God knew if there was a soul, or where it had gone.
She would never again reprove him for not knowing what to do; or discuss his latest translation from ancient Greek, and argue with him over whether Fallen were exempt of the original sin—half-amused, half-angry, discussing a theology she only had scant time for. She’d always had scant time for Oris—had always fought her annoyance at him, wishing he would stop asking her questions and just get on with things.
She had always had scant time for him, and now there was no time left. None at all; and he was forever gone; forever out of reach—not until the Resurrection and its breaking open of tombs, a thought that was as much dread as it was comfort, for what would God think of Fallen, there at the end of time?
Watch over him, she thought, to her uncaring, cruel God—the one whose existence she couldn’t deny, but in whom she had no faith. Please, watch over him.
Her fault. Her own fault, for not believing him, for reassuring him that his nighttime experience had been an illusion, that he need not worry about anything; for concealing his fears from Selene because she’d been afraid of being exposed as an angel-essence user.
Coward.
Selene was standing by her side, staring at the corpse; as usual, effortlessly elegant, effortlessly arrogant. Behind her, her bodyguards leaned against the wall of the room; and the nurses were folding used sheets and clearing a table; laying on a tray the scalpels Aragon had used, and everything that had touched Oris. One of them—Pauline, the big woman with the gentle touch—smiled at Madeleine apologetically.
Of course. Of course, the tray was for her, the alchemist of Silverspires. Not one drop of blood would be wasted; the way of life in all Houses, the only one she had ever known. Madeleine took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling of her hands—trying to make the blurred world swim back into focus.
Without warning, Pauline was by her side, laying a callused hand on her shoulder. “You all right?” she asked.
Madeleine shook her head, trying to swallow the salty taste in her mouth. “I’ll—be fine,” she said, and Pauline shook her head.
“Of course you won’t.” Pauline squeezed again—a little painfully, but not unkindly. “Come by the office later, if you want. We have strong stuff.” Alcohol, of course; Cointreau or chartreuse or pastis: a pleasant way to pass the time, but not what she wanted or needed. The ache for angel essence was enough to make her hands shake—she couldn’t afford that, not now. She took a deep breath, and stilled their trembling.
“Thanks,” Madeleine said.
Pauline smiled, and withdrew.
Behind her, Selene and Aragon were getting on; of course there was no time for something so trivial, so insignificant as grief. “He was found in the cathedral?” Selene asked Aragon.
“Arms spread, clothes torn,” Aragon said, curtly. He removed his gloves and surgical mask; the magic that had been surging through him flickered and died, leaving the room a little less warm, a little less oppressive.
It was a small audience for an autopsy: Emmanuelle and Selene were there; and Madeleine, of course. Oris had been her apprentice, her responsibility.
“What did he die of?” Madeleine asked.
Aragon stood ramrod straight, putting her, incongruously, in mind of a soldier reporting to his commander. “Difficult to say. There’s nothing wrong with him, per se. The major organs are intact—everything is clean, or at least as clean as it can be for a Fallen of his age.”
“But he’s dead,” Emmanuelle said, from her place by the door. Her face was set in stone; her skin pale; her hands clenched in front of her, so tight blood had fled her fingertips. It was her, years ago, who had welcomed Oris into the House; who had seen him grow from a naive Fallen into an infuriating apprentice alchemist.
“Yes,” Aragon said. “He is dead.”
“And the pinpricks?” Selene asked. There were dozens on his arms, spaced in some frenzied, obscene pattern, dizzying in its complexity. Needle pinpricks? Except that they were too large for that—each a small, perfect circle of blood that had barely had time to smudge.
“They didn’t kill him,” Aragon said. “They’re too small, and the blood is clean.”
“What are they?” Selene asked.
“They look like snakebites,” Aragon said. “That is, if there were a venomless snake that could reach to man height to strike repeatedly. It’s certainly not a behavior I’ve seen in animals. It could also be a weapon of near that shape, though that raises the question of why it’d be used.”
Snakebites. Bite marks. Claire’s warning. The five deaths.
“Animals can be controlled by spells,” Madeleine said, softly; still struggling with the fact that this was happening. That Claire had been right. She should have passed Claire’s warning on to Selene, but there had been no time; no time at all before Oris died.
“No doubt,” Aragon said. “There is no trace of magic on the wounds whatsoever, though. And, in any case, that’s not the culprit. It’s almost as if . . .” He paused, shaking his head.
“Go on,” Selene said.
“Fallen are an impossibility,” Aragon said. “Bones that fragile can’t support the body, even if we weigh less than humans. And no back muscle, no matter how strong, would have powered wings; and yet Morningstar wielded his metal wings like a weapon. But—”
“But we have magic.” Emmanuelle’s voice had the sharp intensity of a dagger slipping between ribs.
“Precisely. Magic, in a very real sense, is what keeps us alive. It’s never been proved, of course, but I suspect that lack of magic is what eventually kills us, the Fallen equivalent to dying of old age.”
“And?” Madeleine asked.
“It’s as if he ran out of magic all of a sudden—and his body went into deadly shock,” Aragon said.
“Anaphylactic shock?” Emmanuelle asked.
“Something like that, yes, except that something was taken away rather than added.” Aragon made a grimace; he hated using layman approximations. “And the magic is back now—it’s a perfectly normal Fallen corpse. So it makes no sense.”
“Why not?” Selene asked. “I trust you. If you thin
k that’s the explanation . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Aragon said. “But there is no spell that has this effect. By their very nature, spells bring magic. They don’t cut it off.”
“Perhaps we don’t know everything about magic yet,” Emmanuelle said, gently.
Or perhaps they weren’t asking the right person. Claire’s dead had been humans, not Fallen, but the similarities were enough to be more than a coincidence.
“He’s not the first,” Madeleine said.
“The first?” Selene’s smooth face creased in puzzlement.
“Claire said—” Madeleine started, swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth—“Claire said there had been other victims.”
“Claire of Lazarus?” Selene’s voice was harsh. “You didn’t tell me you had met her.”
Madeleine shrank back from the cold anger, scrambling for excuses that seemed to have disintegrated. “There was no time—”
“There is always time.” Selene pursed her lips, as if deliberating punishment. “You should have—”
“Selene.” Emmanuelle’s voice was gentle. “You can’t change what’s past.”
By Selene’s sharp gaze, she clearly wished she could. Madeleine had never set herself against her, had never been overly concerned with the future of the House; but standing by Oris’s corpse, she became aware, uncomfortably so, of how little she and Selene had in common. She’d loved—no, love wasn’t the word; one couldn’t love that kind of person—she’d respected Morningstar, who could be kind; who had carried her all the way into the House when she lay wounded and dying. But to Selene he had passed nothing of his random bouts of gentleness; of his amused humor. Merely the arrogance, the overweening pride of all Fallen.
“You will tell me everything Claire told you.” Selene’s voice was clipped, precise.
When Madeleine was done with her halting tale, Selene remained staring at the corpse; though her gaze was distant, and Madeleine doubted she saw Oris at all, except as one of her possessions. “They weren’t Fallen,” she said. “So that can hardly be the explanation. Nevertheless, it is something that should be explored.” She pursed her lips. “Javier is busy with something else, but I’ll ask Alcestis—”
“Alcestis isn’t concerned with this,” Madeleine said, sharply.
“Alcestis doesn’t need to be personally concerned with this to be efficient,” Selene said.
“I could do it,” Madeleine said. “Oris was my apprentice.”
“Indeed,” Selene said. She didn’t need to speak up; her gaze said, all too clearly, that she wouldn’t trust Madeleine. “But you’ll be busy training your new apprentice.”
“Who?” Madeleine asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Selene said. “Possibly young Isabelle.”
She hadn’t bothered to ask for Madeleine’s opinion; or for anything from her but thoughtless obedience.
Emmanuelle spoke up. “Madeleine could—”
“No,” Selene said. “Madeleine will act as this House’s alchemist, and strip the corpse, and wait for further orders. There is no way”—her eyes were cold—“I will let a witch untrained in House politics walk into Lazarus. The potential for diplomatic incidents is too high.”
“You could have some trust,” Madeleine said, stiffly, but it was pointless. Selene had already made her decision; and it probably meant Madeleine would be stuck with Isabelle, too. Not that she had anything against Isabelle, but it was the imposition of her that galled.
Madeleine bowed her head. “Fine. I’ll strip the corpse.” She’d known this was coming, of course. First and foremost, she was House Silverspires’ alchemist, and it was the duty of an alchemist to see that no fragment of Fallen magic was lost. “And I will await further orders.”
Selene appeared not to notice the terrible irony in her words; she was apparently deep in thought, possibly planning the next step in her relations with House Lazarus. “Come,” she said to Emmanuelle. “There is no time to be wasted.”
Aragon and the nurses followed them out of the room—Pauline lingering for a moment, making a gesture that reminded Madeleine the drinks were still waiting for her in the nurses’ office, cold comfort for after she was done.
And now, she was alone with Oris.
Strip the corpse. Such casual words, for such a routine thing, for part of her trade—she thought of knives taking flesh apart, of hair saved in small boxes, of bones scraped clean and burned in the incinerator—of her work, now so sickeningly empty of meaning. Later, she’d go back to her room and get high on angel essence; feel the surge of power within her, strong enough to obliterate grief.
But for now, there was only the cold: the merciless clarity rising from her wrung-out lungs; the sharp, biting awareness that she could trust no one but herself.
It had been her fault, from end to end. And she might be dying, she might be weak and incompetent in House politics, as Selene had said; but she knew exactly where her responsibility lay.
She would go to see Claire at House Lazarus, and get what she needed to make sure that Oris was avenged.
* * *
IN the end, as he’d known he’d have to, Philippe crept back into the cathedral—because it was the only way he would understand what was going on in the House, and fulfill his deal with Samariel.
The place was as bad as ever; the magic swirling within strong enough to make him itch all over. If anything, it seemed to have gotten worse since Oris’s death, though that was absurd. There’d been nothing but the usual Fallen magic on Oris’s corpse, and that would have been recovered; the body scraped clean by Madeleine until hardly a trace remained. Unlike former Immortals—who lived long but died, in the end, the same as any mortals, rejoining the eternal cycle of rebirths and reincarnations—Fallen never left much of anything on Earth.
Nevertheless, Philippe gave the blood-spattered stone floor at the entrance a wide berth, before walking closer to the throne.
It stood limned in sunlight, its edges the warm, golden color fit for an emperor; and somehow, even timeworn, even broken, it loomed over the entire cathedral, made his breath catch in his throat—as if, for a moment, a moment only, he had stepped back in time and stood in the cathedral of his visions, and Morningstar still sat in the throne with the easy arrogance of one to whom everything had been given—power, magic, the rule of a House that was the first and largest in the city, destined to stand forever tall and unbroken.
He crept rather than walked, fighting a desire to abase himself; to crawl on the floor as if he were in the presence of Buddha or the Jade Emperor; and when he reached the throne, and touched it, the warmth leaped up his arm like an electric shock, leaving a tingling like that of blood flowing back into emptied veins.
The mirror and the parchment were still where he’d left them, tucked under the throne. He took them out, and laid them in the sunlight.
What could he make of them?
The mirror was a simple affair, engraved with the crest of House Silverspires. He’d seen the same in Madeleine’s bag, and a dozen others like it on the stalls of the marketplace. Reaching out, cautiously, to the khi currents in the area, Philippe found them only the thinnest thread of water curled around the glass: a confirmation that whatever was inside now lay dormant or dead. There was the hint of another thread, too; a bare trace of wood and its attendant anger: a shadow of something that had once been much stronger, a watered-down image of a flame with none of its heat or vibrancy.
He didn’t practice Fallen magic, but he’d learned enough about it; because he had to, because it was a matter of his survival. It had been a powerful spell, held together by a trigger, and it had completely disappeared—drained, all of it, straight into him when he’d touched the mirror; and perhaps elsewhere, if he’d only been the conduit for it.
It had summoned something, something that was loose in the House. He couldn’t take the spe
ll apart or intuit what it might do, but he could try to trace it back to its source.
He reached out, and cautiously traced the threads. They might be small and innocuous, but the shards of something this powerful could still be potent. There was . . . sorrow, and the roiling anger of a just cause. . . .
Revenge, then. Someone, somewhere, had had a grudge against Morningstar, or against the House.
Philippe touched the mirror again, following the khi currents. They had decayed so much he’d have been hard-pressed to put an age to them, but such decay was the work of years, decades, which meant an old spell. A Fallen, perhaps—to whom the years would be as nothing—or a human who was old by now, with the satisfaction that his vengeance would come to pass. They had left the mirror here, hidden away—never thinking that Morningstar would never come back, that the throne would gather dust and never be touched, and that their spell would only be triggered years and years after it had been put together.
He tugged at the thread of wood, gently unspooling it from around the mirror: loop after loop of thin, shimmering green light that hung on his hands, with a sharp touch like a spring breeze. Then, breathing slowly, carefully—inhale, exhale, inhale, whispering a mantra from bygone times—he withdrew his awareness from his body, and let the thread carry him where it willed.
For a while, he hung suspended in time and space; back to a serenity he’d thought lost, doing nothing but letting the world wash over him, every sensation diminishing until he was once more in that quiet, timeless place where his enlightenment took root.
Gradually—and he wasn’t sure why, or how, or when—it all went away, a slow slide from featureless bliss into something stronger, darker; shadows lengthening over the House, until he stood in a room lined with bookshelves, the only furniture of which was a red plush armchair.
Morningstar sat in the chair. Or rather, lounged in it like a sated tiger, his wings shadowing the sharpness of his face. His pale eyes raking Philippe from top to bottom. “So good of you to come. Shall we start, then?” He inclined his head, and between his spread hands magic whirled and danced, a storm of power that pressed against the bookshelves, stifled the air of the room—cut off Philippe’s breath until it was all he could do to stand.
The House of Shattered Wings Page 10