The House of Shattered Wings Read online

  With an effort, she shook off the past, and focused on the present.

  The crowd was colorful and variegated: delegations from other Houses; gang lords in leather, swaggering through the market with their entourages; and a host of grimier, poorer people who congregated in the food sections, haggling for basic necessities. There was not much danger in the crowd, as long as they remained together: the Great Market was a place of truce (which, of course, didn’t mean their purses were safe from opportunistic thieves). Children chased one another, laughing, under the wary eyes of their parents or their minders.

  As they stood before one of the stalls, waiting for Oris to complete a purchase of a small mother-of-pearl container, Philippe spoke up.

  “It was bigger during the war,” he said.

  “Wasn’t everything?” Madeleine said. She hadn’t been born when the city was devastated; those days, you pretty much had to be Fallen to have survived. Sixty years was long in human lifetimes, and most of those who had breathed in the air of Paris in the aftermath had not recovered well. But he wasn’t Fallen, and still he remembered. Odd.

  “They had entire stalls like these,” Philippe said, fingering a lacquered box with a pattern of flowers. “Exotic woods from the Orient, and incense, and all the rubber you could ever want, for manufacturing car tires for the front.” His voice was lightly ironic.

  “We still have those. But they’re mostly from our existing stock. More expensive,” Madeleine said, unsure of what to answer. He was a native, of course; he would disapprove of the empire, if there was still such a thing after the war—with communications and travel so difficult, the colonies had all but become independent kingdoms by now, with the French colonists still in charge. She . . . she didn’t like the idea of invading countries, but she was no fool: the empire had made them rich and powerful, and even its bare, pathetic remnants after the war brought them riches and standards of living far above those of the street gangs or other Houseless. Sometimes, you did what you had to, in order to survive.

  He gave no sign of noticing her hesitation: he nodded, gravely. “It was another age.”

  “And yet you’re still here,” Madeleine said.

  His face closed, as if a cloud had darkened it. “Through no fault of my own,” he said, bitterly, and wouldn’t speak up again.

  “Madeleine!” A voice made her look up as they approached the eastern area of the parvis.

  It was Claire, the head of House Lazarus; surrounded, as usual, by a gaggle of unruly children. Lazarus, among all the Houses, was the only one ruled by a human; Claire had been its head for thirty years, and Madeleine had known her for about half of that. She was small and plump, the image of a gray-haired, kindly grandmother; though of course one did not get to be the head of a House through kindness alone. Claire was ruthless, and many of her tactics would have put a Fallen to shame.

  “I see you’ve grown an entourage of your own,” Claire said, wryly. Her gaze took in Isabelle and Oris, and stopped at Philippe.

  “They belong to the House,” Madeleine said, acutely embarrassed.

  “You surprise me.” Claire smiled. “I never thought you would get Philippe to join a House of his own free will.”

  She knew him? Madeleine waited for him to protest; or to acknowledge the fact that he was bound to the House by far less than his free will, but he merely scowled at Claire. “There is a time to try everything, I guess,” he said, darkly. “How have you been, Lady Claire?”

  “Well enough,” Claire said. Without missing a beat, she caught a boy’s hand and held it away from the bracelet he was trying to grasp. “No touching, I said.”

  Madeleine made a mental note to talk to Claire away from Philippe, or to tell Selene to do so. There was even more to the young man they didn’t know, it seemed. “We had Philippe for a while,” Claire said. “A long time ago, though, and we couldn’t hold him.”

  Philippe wasn’t meeting her gaze; though now that Madeleine thought of it, he seldom met anyone’s gaze but Isabelle’s. “None of your fault,” he said at last, inclining his head in a practiced gesture. “You know that.”

  “Of course.” Claire shook her head, as if to clear away a persistent thought; and her gaze focused on Isabelle. “You haven’t been here long,” she said.

  Isabelle hesitated, clearly reluctant to say much of anything. Madeleine stepped in. “She’s too young for the advanced inquisition, Claire. Or for your power plays with Silverspires.”

  “Power plays?” Claire smiled again. “I don’t play them much, as you well know.”

  No, Madeleine thought. But when you do play them, you leave us all in the dust. She did not relish the idea that Silverspires was bound to find itself on the opposite camp of House Lazarus one day. Claire might be human, but that merely meant she was ten times the strategist that most Fallen were; and ten times as ruthless when it came to downing her enemies. “If I were playing such games, though . . .” Claire’s face was thoughtful. “If I were playing, I would congratulate you on sheltering so young a Fallen, who will do honor to her House.”

  “A weapon, you mean.” Philippe’s hiss of anger was all too audible, even in the din of merchants offering their wares.

  “I see you haven’t changed,” Claire said. “Ideals will betray you in the end. You should know this.”

  Philippe said nothing—perhaps he’d finally understood that all Claire did was to goad him, in the hopes of getting information. “You didn’t stop me simply to exchange pleasantries,” Madeleine said, going for the blunt approach.

  Claire’s pale blue eyes focused on her. “Did I?” But in the end, as Madeleine had known all along, she couldn’t resist. “If you see Selene, you might want to suggest she show an interest in doings outside the House.”

  “What things do you think she would not have seen?” Madeleine said, keeping her voice low and pleasant.

  Claire’s face darkened, and she hesitated for a while. “As I said, I don’t play your little power games. I’m not Harrier or Hawthorn, or Silverspires, indeed. But there is word, in the city, of something abroad.”

  “Something?” Madeleine couldn’t help the bark of laughter. “There’s always something abroad in Paris. It’s not like it’s a safe place.” She couldn’t help remembering the shadow; the touch on her thoughts, the fist tightening in her innards as the wings unfolded, always just out of sight, always just out of reach—until they weren’t.

  “Something that kills,” Claire said darkly. “Something that leaves multiple bite marks on its victims and takes their blood.”

  “Fallen blood is power,” Philippe said. He kept his gaze away from Isabelle, but Madeleine saw the way the young Fallen flinched. “But not much power.”

  “Did I say the victims were Fallen?” Claire shook her head.

  Oh, of course. Word would have spread much faster, if there had been Fallen dead. “What are you suggesting?” Madeleine asked.

  “I don’t know. I never said I had the answer. But I would suggest you tread even more carefully than usual at night.” Claire’s face was utterly serious; and there was a hint of something in her eyes—fear?

  Claire went on, with a tight smile. “The victims are human. Five of them, none who would be missed—low in gang hierarchies, grimy and ill-fed, too insignificant to be worth a House’s regard.” There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. Among other things, Lazarus ran charity kitchens, hospitals, and hostels, where, regardless of your allegiance or your past, you would be made welcome for a few nights.

  “Which gangs?” Philippe asked sharply.

  Claire gave him an appraising look. “None of the Red Mambas, though I would guess your . . . friends will be worried as well.”

  “Those deaths don’t really concern the House,” Madeleine said, though she didn’t know, not really. It was dark out there, in the devastated streets of the city; and if one crazy p
erson had got into his head to play serial killer, she wasn’t really sure what Silverspires could have to do with it. “I’ll tell Selene, but you know I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “No, of course not.” Claire inclined her head. “But it’ll be something. Good-bye.”

  It was only after she and her entourage had gone, when Isabelle looked up and asked, “But surely she could tell Lady Selene herself?” that Madeleine thought back on what Claire had said. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t like it. There’s a sting in here somewhere for Silverspires, but I don’t know what it is yet.”

  “She wanted something out of us,” Philippe said. “And I’m not sure if she didn’t get it.”

  “How do you know her?” Madeleine asked.

  Philippe looked straight at her; and suddenly she understood why he rarely met people’s gazes, because there was something disturbingly intense about him, a coiled strength that made her feel as though her ribs were being compressed against her lungs, as though some icy hand were squeezing her heart. “I was in one of her hospitals for a while,” Philippe said at last. “Not for long, and not with an entirely satisfactory resolution, but that’s another story.”

  And that seemed to be the end of it; his gaze, boring into her, dared her to question him further; she had no desire to do so.

  They were all uncannily silent as they walked through the rest of the market; even though Oris, who hadn’t said anything in Claire’s presence, attempted to maintain a one-sided patter, oblivious to the yawning maw of heavy silence that his words fell into. Isabelle was the only one seemingly unaffected by it, staring wide-eyed at the bead necklaces and crystal bracelets on the stalls they walked by.

  What had Claire wanted? Information? She’d sounded as though she believed Selene would have information on the dead humans—but surely that was a trivial affair, some madman in a mad city; unfortunate, but surely not worth mentioning?

  Except that Claire seldom mentioned things just for the pleasure of it; and she certainly wouldn’t have bothered to lean so much on it if she’d thought it insignificant. Madeleine would have to find someone in Lazarus; perhaps Aragon had contacts there who’d know what was going on.

  Lost in her thoughts, she almost bumped into Philippe—who had come to a dead stop at an intersection on the edge of the market, mere meters from the ruined entrance of Notre-Dame. “What—” she asked; and then saw the procession.

  It was coming up Pont-au-Double, the small cast-iron bridge that stopped at the edge of the parvis. There were a good twenty people with the gray-and-silver uniform of House Hawthorn, the same one Madeleine had once worn. They walked slowly, leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world, as though they weren’t standing close to the river, close enough for a spinning arm of water to snatch them over the parapet, or for a toothy creature to rise and attack them. Few people in Paris were mad enough to linger near the Seine, nowadays; only God knew what kind of power the accretion of war magic had released in the blackened waters.

  Madeleine’s gaze, sweeping over the procession, caught a glimpse of familiar faces: Sare the alchemist; Samariel, ever as achingly young and innocent; Pierre-François, older and grayer but still every bit the consummate bodyguard—she remembered that night, when the noise had erupted, and he had simply reached for a knife and a gun, and rushed out of the room without any further words.

  And, at their head . . .

  He hadn’t changed, not one bit; but of course Fallen seldom did. He was tall and thin, with horn-rimmed, rectangular glasses—his particular affectation, since all Fallen had perfect eyesight—his hair dark, save for a touch of gray at the temples; his hands with the thin, long fingers of a pianist, even though the instruments he played on did not make music—unless one counted cries of pain and ecstasy as music, as Madeleine knew he did.

  “Who is he?” Isabelle asked in a whisper, and it was Oris who answered her, with the barest hint of pity in his voice.

  “Asmodeus. Head of House Hawthorn.”

  He hadn’t changed. He still leaned on the same ivory cane with the ease of a gentleman who had no need for it; still had the same sharp, pointed smile of predators, the one he’d worn in the House—how could Uphir not see it, not feel the naked ambition burning that would one day depose him? How could Elphon not have seen it—not suspected anything, until the thugs’ swords slid home into his chest and blood spouted over her—a split second before they sent Madeleine to her knees, struggling to breathe through the pain of shattered ribs?

  Asmodeus’s entourage had almost cleared the bridge: they had finished negotiating with the guards at the booth that guarded Pont-au-Double. He saw her then, bowed gravely, without a trace of irony, and turned right into the heart of the food market. Madeleine was surprised to realize her fingers had clenched into fists.

  Breathe. She had to breathe. He had seen her, and turned away. She had nothing to fear from him: it was just her memories of that time that wouldn’t be banished. He had no interest in her, no grudge: she had been among the lowliest of the low in Hawthorn, and he must have been barely aware that she existed. And then, with a feeling of dread that pulled her bowels into knots, she remembered that he did know who she was. Else why would he have bowed to her?

  Surely he—

  Her gaze, roaming through the market—somewhere, anywhere she wouldn’t have to look at him again—fell on the rear of the procession, where three of the escort had stopped for a moment while one of them readjusted the straps on a large basket; which, judging from the movements from inside, probably contained some large, live animal. The first two were the kind of pale, faded women Asmodeus enjoyed having around; the third one, head bent over the basket, was a brown-haired man. . . .

  No.

  There was something—something in the tilt of his head, something in the bearing of his body . . .

  And, having finished with his work, he raised his head, and she saw.

  He, too, hadn’t changed much: he was perhaps younger, less hardened, with the particular mix of innocence and agelessness of newly manifested Fallen. But the face—she would have known that anywhere.

  Elphon. Oh God, Elphon.

  It was impossible. Elphon was dead. She had seen him die; had felt his heart stutter and stop, seen the radiance fade from his translucent skin until there was nothing left but dead meat. Then, weeping, she had started the long crawl that would lead her to Silverspires and Morningstar’s arms.

  Surely it was another Fallen; surely . . .

  He rose, precariously balancing the basket against his waist, and smiled at his two companions, in a way that was engraved into her memory.

  No. That wasn’t possible. The dead did not walk the earth again; not even dead Fallen.

  “Wait here,” she said to the others, and elbowed her way through the crowd of Pont-au-Double, struggling to reach the little group before they moved away from her. By the time she caught up with them in front of a fowler’s stall, her ruined lungs were protesting; and, at the worst possible moment—when she stood in front of them—a bout of coughing racked her body and left her, wrung, to stand in their path.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  They looked at her, puzzled. The older woman pinched her lips as if noting the unkempt state of Madeleine’s dress, or her hoarse voice, or both. “You’re the alchemist for Silverspires?” the woman said at last. “What can we do for you?”

  “Can I speak to your friend?” Madeleine asked, pointing to the Fallen who looked like Elphon.

  The woman shrugged. “If you want. Elphon?”

  Madeleine’s heart skipped a beat; seemed to remain suspended in her chest in an agony of stillness. But when Elphon looked up, there was nothing but mild interest in his eyes. “Good morning,” Elphon said, looking at her with puzzlement. “What can I do for you?”

  Show some hint of recognition. Something, anything t
hat would explain why he was there—why he still bore the same name, still behaved the same, but he didn’t recognize her. “How long have you been in Hawthorn?”

  Elphon shrugged; and even that gesture was heartbreakingly familiar, a dim but treasured memory from the depths of the past. “A few months,” he said. “Lord Asmodeus found me near Les Halles.”

  A few months? That was impossible. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” Elphon’s voice was mild, but it was clear he was wondering about her sanity. So was Madeleine. This conversation could in no way be described as sane. “Are you trying to recruit me to Silverspires? I assure you I’m already spoken for.”

  “No, of course not,” Madeleine said, feeling the blush start somewhere in her cheeks and climb, burning, to her forehead. “I wouldn’t dare. It’s just . . . I knew someone very much like you, once.”

  “Some Fallen look very much alike to mortals,” Elphon said, with a tight smile. He hefted his basket, and made to rejoin his companions. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . Lord Asmodeus will be expecting us, and he has little patience for tardiness.”

  “I have no doubt.” Asmodeus had little patience for anything. He’d chafed enough, in what he viewed as an inferior position in Hawthorn; had waited just long enough to be certain of his coup. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Madeleine said. “It seems I was mistaken.”

  Elphon bowed—low, old-fashioned, the same bow he’d used to make to her, all those years ago, half in mockery, half in earnest. “There’s no harm in it. Good-bye, my lady.”

  She watched him retreat, the basket shifting with each movement of his body. Whatever he said, it was him. It had to be him; another Fallen, especially a young one, could have mimicked his appearance for a while, but not the gestures. Not the expressions.