He held himself with that same stillness, that same arrogance now. “I was expecting you,” he said.
“Were you?” Asmodeus smiled: a mouthful of white, sharp teeth in a pain-filled grin. “Then you’ll have thought of what you were going to tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell. Samariel was like that when I found him.”
“Was he?” Asmodeus did not move. “And you have an explanation, no doubt, for why you were in his room at night.” He raised a hand. “Don’t tell me it was an assignation. I know full well what Samariel liked, and it’s not you.”
“I had business with Samariel. Private.” At this stage, disclosing his agreement with Samariel would only hurt him: Asmodeus would certainly not extend the protection of Hawthorn to the man he’d found with his dying lover; and to have the whole matter become public would merely make Selene give up on him for good. He needed Selene; she was possibly the only one who had any hope of bringing Asmodeus under control.
“There is no privacy, not anymore.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted—”
Rage flared in Asmodeus’s eyes, strong enough to make Philippe take a step back. “He lies boneless and dying. Don’t presume to tell me what he would and would not have wanted. Not that it matters. The living have secrets. The dead can have none, not if they are to be avenged.”
Philippe thought carefully. He didn’t have much that could deter the Fallen’s wrath, but he tried it all the same. “I don’t want to impede your vengeance. Our business has no bearing on his murder. I’ll swear it on the City.”
Asmodeus smiled. “You have a quick tongue. Take care; it’s easily removed. You’re Annamite, and mortal. An oath on the City means nothing to you.”
Means nothing? Isabelle had said the same thing—he felt the same words of the old oath rising through him, and pushed them down. There was no point: Asmodeus wouldn’t know what he was talking about. “I abide by my word,” Philippe said, drawing himself to his full height. It was all nonsense—here he was, vexed because some murderous bastard Fallen wouldn’t trust his word? That was hardly the priority.
Asmodeus came closer. As he walked, something gathered behind him—shadows, Philippe thought at first, his heart in his throat, shadows like the ones in the ballroom—darkness pooling from the walls of the place, all the despair and pain gathering into the shadow of huge wings; until Asmodeus stood close enough to touch him, and, as with Morningstar, the weight of his presence was strong enough to make Philippe’s knees tremble. “Yes,” Asmodeus said. “Fear me. I walked this earth before you were born, boy, and I’ve seen enough things to turn your blood to ice. I’ve done many of them, too, and I won’t hesitate before doing them to you. All of them, do you understand me?”
That—that wasn’t what he feared, but he couldn’t get the words past his frozen lips. Beyond Asmodeus, he could catch glimpses of movement; flashes of wings and fangs; of biting, rending sharpness; and his chest was so tight with the rising curse, his ribs were going to burst into splinters—
“Do you understand me?”
The eyes, behind their glasses, the mad, fiery gaze; the pressure of the curse against his mind . . . I was born long before you, Philippe thought, trembling. When you were still rebelling in Heaven, I had a family—father, mother, wife, children. I . . . ascended. I became Immortal. You’re nothing compared to me.
He had to believe that; to hold on to that thought—and not to dwell on where he was, in a cell under the earth with close to no recourse—he found the khi elements leaping into his hands, eager to do battle, though to reveal himself, now, here, was a double-edged weapon—there were no shortages of Fallen here, more than enough raw power to utterly extinguish him. . . .
“Asmodeus!”
Selene stood in the doorway, her eyes burning. Threads of magic spun around her, drawn from the House itself, like a hive surrounded by a hundred swarms of bees. “Get out. Now.”
“I was just getting started,” Asmodeus said. He turned to face her; the overwhelming aura lessened; and then died altogether, as the shadows around Asmodeus departed. Philippe took in a deep, shaking breath—fresh air, though was it going to last?
Because, after all, the curse wasn’t going to go away; not when it was so tightly tied to him.
“I know you weren’t far in front of me,” Selene said, grimly, to Asmodeus. “You left your goons at the door to stop me, and a further two in the corridor.”
“Oh dear. I do so hope they’re not harmed.” Asmodeus made it sound like a threat.
Selene did not smile, or move from her place on the threshold. “They slowed me down a bit. As did the other heads of Houses, as you intended.”
“Of course.” Asmodeus left Philippe’s side, and bowed to her, though there was no respect in the gesture.
“This is my House, Asmodeus,” Selene said. “You may mock it; you may think we’re degenerate and doomed to fail—”
“I didn’t say that.” Asmodeus’s smile was ironic.
“No. You worked on it, very hard.” Selene raised a hand; and Asmodeus flinched: a fraction of a movement only, but clear enough that Philippe could see it. “As I said, this is still my House, and I’m still head of House. Philippe is under my protection, and I won’t give him up.”
Philippe had never thought he’d be glad to be claimed by a House. “Then consider this.” Asmodeus’s smile was cold. “You’re responsible for this. Even if you’re not the one who ordered the killings, you’ve still failed to protect your guests.”
“Guests? You knew what you were doing when you were coming here, Asmodeus. You wanted to invade us and humiliate us, by showing we were incapable of investigating our own troubles. You knew Silverspires was under attack, and you brought more people here! It’s hardly my fault if you got burned.”
“You—” Asmodeus’s face twisted, and for a moment Philippe thought he was going to lunge at Selene. He controlled himself with a visible effort; his voice, when he spoke, was cold and contemptuous. “I will demand reparations, Selene.”
“And you will have them.”
“Will I?” Asmodeus pointed to Philippe, who still hadn’t moved from his place by the wall.
Selene didn’t move. “He had nothing to do with it.” But her voice lacked the force of conviction, and Asmodeus must have felt that. Or perhaps he would have reacted the same way regardless of what Selene said.
“Possibly yes, possibly not. But you know how reparations work, Selene. Eye for eye. Blood for blood.”
“You quote the Bible now?” Philippe asked. He couldn’t help himself: he should have been more afraid, since it was his fate they were debating. But they were passing him around like some magical parcel—weighing and dissecting and selling him like coffee or rubber or anything else they owned.
Asmodeus did not even turn. “You will be silent.” And then, to Selene: “You know what I want.”
Selene nodded, but her gaze was wary. She didn’t protest Philippe’s innocence again. Her dress rippled in the wind from the corridor as she bent her head left and right. “Reparations usually involve the guilty party, Asmodeus.”
Asmodeus smiled. “That would be you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And so do you. Reparations are a gesture of goodwill, Selene. If you do not meet my demands—well, I and the other heads of Houses have to ask ourselves how sorry you are, exactly, about the attack on Samariel.”
Selene’s hands had clenched into fists, but she didn’t move. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll think on it. In the meantime, you will leave me access to Philippe.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of impeding you. As you say, it’s still your House.” He left, without turning back, but the irony of his words hung in the air long after he had gone.
“Sorry,” Philippe said to Selene.
“Not as sorry as you’ll be if
Asmodeus gets his way,” Selene snapped. She came into the room, bringing the smell of expensive perfume with her: patchouli and a hint of some other scent he couldn’t identify, a breath from an entirely different world.
Philippe took a deep breath, and spoke, trying to put everything he had into a casual lie. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”
Selene did not answer. She was watching him, scrutinizing him from all angles. On show again; a freak; a man for sale. “My spell is almost gone,” she said sharply.
Philippe bit back a curse. Of course she’d know how her own work had fared. “And I’m still here.”
“That’s not the question.” Selene watched him for a while; and then she sighed. “I can’t read you, Philippe, or whatever your real name is.”
Gone. Dead in the war, like so many things. “I tried to break the spell on my own,” Philippe said. “But it didn’t work.”
“Of course it wouldn’t,” Selene said. She glanced at the door, where Asmodeus’s two guards still waited. Of course she wouldn’t admit that Philippe was more than he seemed, not in front of them.
“I think—” Philippe shook his head, and went for the lie nearest to the truth. “Something happened in Samariel’s bedroom. Something that undid it, but I don’t know what. It was like nothing I’d ever seen.”
Selene’s gaze rested on him; he couldn’t read her expression, much as she couldn’t read him. Then she started weaving magic, frowning—a cool cocoon that wrapped around them both, magnifying sounds until all he could hear was the sound of his own breath. “There. This should keep Asmodeus from listening in.”
“You—”
Her face was hard; almost alien in its bleakness. “I saw you and Samariel together at the banquet. You will tell me everything that happened from that moment onward.”
* * *
LATER, after she was gone, Philippe lay back against the wall, winded. He wasn’t sure whether his highly censored version of what had happened had passed muster with her: the tale he’d woven, of Samariel’s being intrigued by him, had been barely plausible. In her normal state she probably wouldn’t have swallowed a word of it. But she was preoccupied, and so was he. The only thing she’d been interested in was the shadows; she’d made him describe them several times; and bit her lips thoughtfully, as if comparing them with something else. An eyewitness to Oris’s death? He had obliged, because it seemed to be his only chance to get out of the cell.
He’d mentioned he suspected Claire; though he wouldn’t very well explain the vision he’d had of her with the mirror without explaining what the mirror was—and of course he hadn’t mentioned the curse or the memories: he wasn’t crazy enough to admit to that.
Whatever Selene had said, he wasn’t one of her dependents. She’d never give up one of Silverspires’ men or Fallen, even to save the House; but he was the alien, the one who’d tasted Isabelle’s blood; the convenient sacrifice that would buy her way out of the diplomatic tangle she was stuck in. He recognized the signs of it all too well. If push came to shove . . .
She hadn’t renewed the spell, either. He’d thought it carelessness on her part, though she’d never been careless before. Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t go far from where he was. Or perhaps she foresaw that she’d have to take him away from the grounds of Silverspires quite soon, and that it wasn’t worth recasting the spell only to have to undo it again. He didn’t want to dwell on that; so he snapped the last threads himself, reaching out to the fire and metal in the khi currents to form blades that would cut through anything. Now he could run, if there was an opening.
Not that he believed there would be one.
He must have slept, at some point; sliding noiselessly into dark, fearful dreams shot through with shadows sliding across mirrors.
When he woke up, woozy-headed, he saw Morningstar.
The Fallen was standing in the center of the room, which was no longer an empty cell: there was a table with . . . something strapped on it, something that moved and wheezed and moaned, something he couldn’t afford to think of as human anymore. Morningstar’s face was cold, emotionless, as he reached for a knife. He’d come for Philippe—but no, Morningstar wasn’t looking in his direction. “Tell me again,” Morningstar said to the table. “All of it.”
Another vision from the past. Another memory. His head ached: he couldn’t be sure if it was the dreams or the awful presence that filled the room. He’d thought Asmodeus was bad, but he’d forgotten how . . . overwhelming Morningstar was, how the mere sight of him hefting a blade could trigger a mixture of fear and awe—how he could hunger for the magic to turn his way, to acknowledge him in any way, even if it was simply to flay him alive—he would revel in the exquisite sensation of pain, in the surge of power that promised he could be anything, do anything. . . .
A noise at the door; and Asmodeus stood there, escorted by two guards in Silverspires’ colors.
He was younger, his swallow-tailed coat hanging awkwardly on his frame; though his eyes were still as cold and hard as pebbles, polished to a sheen by the rush of living in the mortal world. “Lord Uphir is waiting for you upstairs, my lord.”
Morningstar was bent over his work, and didn’t answer at first. He nodded to something Philippe couldn’t hear, and then looked up. “Apologies. Important House business. Asmodeus, is it?”
Asmodeus bowed. “Yes, my lord.” There was something, some of the same underlying energy he had now, the same harsh, unyielding core that suggested he wasn’t going to call anyone “my lord” for long.
“Give me a moment,” Morningstar said. And, then, turning to where Philippe crouched—the magic turning, focusing on him with the intensity of a naked fire—he said, “Do you see?”
Philippe didn’t answer, but Morningstar shook his head. “That Fallen on the table plotted to overthrow my rule. We can’t have that here. You must understand. We’re only strong when we’re united. Any strife among us is an opening for our enemies. I don’t like this”—a bare smile that seemed to illuminate the entire cell—“but it has to be done. Cancers must be excised from the flesh.” And, reaching out, he bent over the table once again. “As promised,” he said, and the blade flashed down, and there was an end to the piteous cries.
Morningstar dropped the knife on top of the table. He moved toward the door, flexing his back. The enormous serrated wings moved with him, catching the light; every part of him exuding a peculiar sharpness, like blades forged by a master. “Come,” he said.
“My lord—” Asmodeus was still looking in Philippe’s direction. “Lord Uphir—” He took in a deep breath. “He wants to see you alone.”
“He’s never objected to the presence of my students before.” Morningstar turned back for a second, puzzled. Philippe braced himself against the pain that spiked through his eyeballs, even as he welcomed it. “Oh. Your lord is a fool, kinsman—do you know that? Mortals are more than the equal of Fallen.”
Kinsman. It was a rather peculiar way to refer to another Fallen; as if they were all brothers under the skin—something not even humans had managed.
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 o
f 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.
The House of Shattered Wings Page 19