In Morningstar’s Shadow

Dominion of the Fallen stories

Aliette de Bodard

Nine Dragons River

Published by Nine Dragons River 2015

Cover art © 2015 Tade Thompson

Cover layout Rhiannon Rasmussen-Silverstein

Copyright © 2015 by Aliette de Bodard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

Contents

1. The Face of Heaven

2. Paid Debts

3. What Has to Be Done

Afterword

Bonus: Chapter 1 of The House of Shattered Wings

More Info and Free Ebook Offer

About the Author

The Face of Heaven

House Silverspires, Ile de la Cité 1917, during the Great Houses War

If one was dedicated, and silent, and watchful, one could learn to see angels again.

Elisabeth had remained in her small attic for more than three years–sitting under the wooden rafters with the dust of things that were no longer used; stretching down to lie at night between two towering heaps of boxes, enclosed and reassured by their solidity. Footmen brought her meals and took them away; and sometimes dependents of the House came, to make small talk, though most got uncomfortable and left, running out of words as if some spring within them had been exhausted. They seldom came back a second time. Elizabeth didn't mind.

Out there was nothing. Out there was death and dust; the distant sound of battle, the turmoil of spells hurled between dwindling armies; the war that was tearing Paris apart, pulling down buildings, covering everything in ash and dust until the sun was a distant memory. Out there was–no, Elisabeth would not think of the bones and decaying flesh–not of sightless eyes in the gravel of the Jardins du Luxembourg–of lifeless flesh, cooling down past any ability to heal–

She would not. She rose and went to the telescope, pulling open the window. It was night, and the sound of the fighting was distant; receding from Ile de la Cité–towards Solférino or Samothrace, more minor Houses in the hierarchy of the city. Morningstar would have said she was safe; that she was in his House; in Silverspires, the oldest one, the most powerful; and that the war wouldn't touch her. Elisabeth–who had stood on the gravel with her hands bloodied and torn, and watched her old life vanish– knew it was a lie.

Above her, the sky was dark–no moon, no stars anymore, the pall of spell-residue drowning out everything. Once, there had been an astronomer–the previous owner of the telescope, the angel-watcher, old Arsène. He'd died in one of the earlier skirmishes, and never been replaced; for who would look to the skies to find newborn Fallen, at a time when nothing could be seen?

Elisabeth knew otherwise. Kneeling by the telescope, she unwrapped the small mother-of-pearl box she'd brought with her–feeling the heat of power trembling in the air: a Fallen's nail-clipping set in amber and sealed within the box, a source of magic for any witch strong enough to use it. Elisabeth wasn't a good witch; but one didn't need to be very good.

Power slid down into her stomach like burning honey–thick and turgid and scorching her insides like a thousand fires, leaving a trail of pain down her throat as if she'd swallowed the sun. She stood, for a moment–sated and brittle, and feeling as though the least of her gestures would irretrievably shatter the world–and then bent down again, to look through the eyepiece.

Everything shone, now–the sky a mass of moving lights that might have been moons, that might have been stars–and above the rooftops of the House was the shadow of buildings, blurred vertical shapes that seemed to go on and on forever–and a sound, a music that was so beautiful it tore her heart into bloody shreds–were they here, too, Marie-Aimée and Françoise, in the City of Heaven–in that endless dance of lights, that beautiful and terrible music–were they at peace, without pain?

If Elisabeth closed her eyes, she would see her children again–Marie-Aimée running towards her younger sister, in the instant before the spell shattered her legs–Françoise screaming, a thin and reedy and almost unreal, a fraction of a second before she was engulfed–before Elisabeth ran, her hands plunging into the maelstrom, trying to grasp something, anything–a hand, a finger-bone, a mote of dust–the spell, flaying her skin as it expanded–and then contracted again, leaving only two small, pathetic bodies in a puddle of blood–and Elisabeth, shaking, trying to voice something, anything that wouldn't be a scream towards Heaven...

She watched the lights now; tried to discern a pattern to their rhythms; something that would unlock their secrets; that would tell her when one would fall towards Earth–that fiery descent when an angel became a Fallen: still ageless, still immortal and effortlessly graceful; but forever exiled, their wings torn away, their magic turning dark and angry and bitter.

But, caught within the intricate, heartbreaking beauty of their dance–as always–she forgot to think; and merely stood there, open-mouthed–remembering Marie-Aimée and her gap-toothed smile, Françoise and her painstakingly mended doll, the one she'd called "Lion" because it had once a mane of golden hair–heedless of the other children's mockeries that the name wasn't a girl's one–the doll was gone now, but she wouldn't think about that–think, instead, on Françoise's hunger for books, on Marie-Aimée's obstinate climbing of sofas and chairs as if to flee from an oncoming flood–happier days, shot through with that music, the sound of hundreds, of thousands of voices raised in song–of such pure, incandescent happiness that she almost couldn't bear it–where was justice, where was fairness, in a world where Elisabeth could reach such beauty, and yet her children were forever gone?

She came to with a start. Night had well and truly fallen; the House lay silent; and the power within her had sunk low, like embers in a fireplace–everything was oddly distorted; oddly plain; oddly commonplace: tatters of an overcrowded life, the distant sound of the war's thunder. She looked through the telescope, and saw nothing but darkness spread across the sky; and no light or stars that she could follow.

Footsteps on the stairs: her evening meal, no doubt–coming late as always, after the House's increasingly threadbare feasts were over, and the kitchens could send her warmed leftovers. She didn't feel hungry–and not ill either; just full, as if the angel magic had been what she'd fed on. But it would have been churlish to refuse the meal. "Over here," she said, when the footsteps faltered–they'd sent her one of the new boys again, to do the jobs no one wanted. "At the back."

The footsteps stopped; but even before they did she knew that something was wrong.

There was light–not the quiet radiance of sunlight underwater; but that of a wildfire, casting shadows like monsters on the walls; and a growing pressure in the air, a sense of something huge and fearful–a desire to throw herself on the ground, to kneel and beg for mercy–or to stand up, to be seized and forever reshaped by the magic churning in the air; groomed and honed to be a beloved treasure, a beloved weapon–to be taken, just as Marie-Aimée and Françoise had been taken....

Shivering, nauseous, Elisabeth caught herself halfway to the floor, and turned her collapse into a formal bow. "My lord," she whispered.

In front of her, Morningstar smiled. "Elisabeth. I wondered how you were faring, up here with only the birds for company." He was tall, impossibly so–fair-haired, his hair so pale it seemed as though he was crowned with light–and at his back were the two serrated wings that he always wore in the House: the metal weapons, forged especially for him, that acted as a reminder that he was first, and strongest among all the Fallen in Paris.

"My lord," she said, stubbornly. "It's kind of you to come here." He was head of House Silverspires; he must have had dozens, hundreds of more important things to do, even late at night.

Morningstar smiled again; and she fought the urge to smile in return; to let a flood of unadulterated joy take her until she could barely think or move on her own volition. First Fallen–the oldest; the most thoughtlessly, carelessly powerful. "They tell me you still watch the skies."

"My lord."

"No one has been able to predict a Fall in years." Morningstar's voice was soft. "New Fallen are born and die in the darkness before we can even reach them."

Newborn Fallen–so close to the City they'd been exiled from, so close to the presence of God–radiated a power that would scorch everything. They were also incapable of using such a power; young and naive and bewildered, infants in a place which had no place for helplessness–which was why Houses fought to be able to reach them, to save them before they were lost either to death; or worse, to other Houses.

"I can see them," Elisabeth said, at last. If she kept her gaze fixed on the floor; if she didn't move, didn't breathe, it wouldn't be so bad. "Dancing in the night."

"The angels?" Morningstar's voice was soft, tinged with the barest hint of bitterness. It was said that, alone of all Fallen, he remembered the City of Heaven; remembered what had brought him down to Earth–the source of his undiminished power, they said; though it might simply be that he was beyond most Fallen as a Fallen was beyond mortals.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. He moved past her, to stand before the telescope; bent, the wings scraping the boxes, leaving deep gouges in the dust-covered wood. "Just darkness," he said.

"You need–" Elisabeth spread her hands, unsure of how to explain. "Magic. And patience. " He had magic–so much it was all she could do to breathe; to move in his presence. "You need to see," she said, at last.

"Will you show me?"

At first, Elisabeth wasn't sure what he was asking; and then she saw the outstretched hand, in which power swirled like a storm; the same spells that had taken Marie-Aimée, that had taken Françoise. "I can't–" she started, shivering; but did she have a choice, really? He was head of her House; and though Silverspires stood by its own, he could still take her apart if he so chose.

Morningstar laughed; something low and primal that seemed to vibrate in her ribs–wrapping itself around her like a blazing fist around her heart. "So afraid of power? If you don't seize hold of what life gives you, you'll remain all your life in your attic."

There were worse things, she wanted to say, but the words shrivelled in her throat; were pushed down by the sound of his laughter–even Marie-Aimée and Françoise seemed so far away, their faces pale and featureless compared to the fire pressing against her. "Come," Morningstar said; and, reaching out, she took his hand, and let him draw her closer to the telescope.

There was.... light; fire; pain. The world shrunk–became Morningstar's face; the chilling blue of his eyes, which was the blue of the Heavens in summer, in a season Paris didn't, couldn't remember in the endless years of the war–became the shadow of wings, sharp and cutting, the essence of blades–everything was sharp, with a smell she couldn't place, a sour thing that reminded her of churches left unopened for too long, mould and incense and the remnants of dust. There was a high-pitched, keening sound; and she realised it was coming out of her own lungs, that she was struggling to remain upright, to gather muscles that seemed to have been turned to jelly...

"Ride it," Morningstar whispered; and his voice tore at her ears like knives. "Ride it!"

She couldn't–she couldn't–it was his hand, pulling her down, his fingers as sharp as claws; his arms, encircling her, guiding her until she was looking through the eyepiece–until the blue, and the wings, and the smell of incense, faded–and she was looking, once more, at the heartbreaking lights of the sky. Except that–except that they still pulled at her, with a longing that was bitter, almost angry–a deep-seated, inexorable knowledge that, for her, there would be no return. Was this what Morningstar felt about Heaven? Was this his knowledge–his own fall from grace, the irrevocable loss of faith that had hurled him downwards?

"I–" Elisabeth struggled to speak, but he still held her.

"Show me."

And, on the edge of the lights, one flickered and darkened; and its flight slowed down, no longer as effortlessly graceful–a surge of something then, within her, a mixture of satisfaction and sadness; and a sorrow so great it finally broke her, and she was on her knees with tears running down her cheeks; and then darkness rose, and swallowed her whole, just as that one light started to bank downwards...

When she came to, Elisabeth was lying on the floor. Morningstar lounged, like a sated cat, against one of the boxes–his wings had torn a hole through it, and she could see mothballed clothes, fine silk with elaborate patterns, cut through by the blades. "What–happened?" she whispered, shivering; trying to summon something, anything; a remnant of dignity–an image that wouldn't be that lone light, detaching itself from the primal dance and inexorably growing closer to them. "Was it–"

"Real?" Morningstar shrugged. "As real as it ever will be, for your kind." His voice was low; bitter. "You cannot comprehend what we lost."

No, she didn't–but he couldn't comprehend what she had lost, either. Fallen were immortal, ageless; and sterile. She slowly pulled herself upright. Her skin felt cold; as if ice had coalesced on it for days on end; and even hugging herself didn't improve anything. "There is going to be a Fall," she said.

"In three days," Morningstar said. "July 17th. Around nine, or ten in the evening. I don't know where exactly; somewhere in the Southwest. Probably near the House of Hawthorn."

"We–we have to help."

"Of course. That was the point, wasn't it?" He smiled, but there was no amusement in that smile. His eyes had changed; they'd been hard before, but there was a sheen in them–a crack in the brilliant sapphire, a brittleness she hadn't seen. What had happened?

They could–they could tell where the Fallen would be born. They could find them–help them–even in the middle of the war. "It changes everything."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Morningstar said. He rose, dragging his wings behind him. "I will not do this again, I think. My apologies."

He–he hadn't seen what she had seen, Elisabeth knew, with cold, growing certainty. Of course Heaven wasn't an endless dance of lights; wasn't such a simplistic, easily understood thing. Of course... Of course she couldn't know, couldn't possibly have his memories; or whatever he had left from his Fall.

"I–I'm sorry," she said; feeling small, and foolish.

"Don't be." Morningstar's voice was almost gentle. "It turns out, after all, that there are some things better left alone." He bowed to her, gravely; and moved towards the stairways leading out of the attic, the wings at his back catching the light like honed blades. "That some prices are too high to pay. Good night, Elisabeth."

After he left, Elisabeth remained, for a while, staring at the telescope; seeing again the endless dance; her own illusion of Heaven–one that didn't hold Marie-Aimée or Françoise, or any of the people lost in the war–again and again, that light flickering, that lone descent.

She would find a way to do it again–with one of Morningstar's nail-clippings; with his trapped breath; with another, more willing Fallen, or whatever it took to summon the magic again.

Because she had to help newborn Fallen; because the House needed them for its own survival. And because, one day, she would see what Morningstar had seen; would gaze upon the City of Heaven, and all her cares and sorrows would be lifted from her until it would feel as though she, too, were flying among the stars, in a world where neither death nor war held sway.

Paid Debts

Houseless areas near Galeries Lafayette, 1925

Imadan wasn't a fool, ordinarily. He knew the rules and the strictures of post-war Paris; he knew all the dangers that should be avoided. Never approach the Seine, never linger on a bridge or bend over a parapet–avoid the ruined areas like The Halles or The Grands Magasins, where the accumulation of spells had turned mindless and deadly–and, above all, never ever be caught alone, after dark, in the streets.

How did the proverb go, again? Fallen beyond a House's walls, stripped bones when night's blade falls.

And yet... and yet, here he was, a long way from the safety of House Silverspires–watching the dust-covered sky turn dark red with sunset, and wondering how he had come there.

It had been a simple errand; a run to House Hawthorn in the Southwest; a pleasant welcome by Lord Uphir's dependents and his contact there, Iaris; and a meal that had gone on far too long into the afternoon–until Imadan was faced with a choice between spending the night in another House, or return to Silverspires and pray that he was back before sunset. There was no real choice: Hawhtorn was enemy territory. Even though he was a dependent of Silverspires, and his murder would have required an accounting–there were ways and means to damage someone without killing; or to cast spells that would compel obedience. No, Imadan wasn't willing to take that risk; except that he didn't know what they'd put in the wine or in the meat, because he couldn't seem to find his way back; and had simply stumbled, drunk, until it all wore off and he stood in the midst of a street he barely recognised.

It was a small one, behind the ruined Galeries Lafayette–the remnants of the department's store dome shone with the last of the light, and everything seemed silent, utterly deserted.

Imadan wasn't fooled. He called up magic–held up, just a scrap of it, a fraction strong enough to see the silhouettes in the growing darkness; and the glint of reflected starlight on the blades.

There was nothing much about nightfall; no lessening of his magic, or granting of powers to the Houseless–merely deserted streets without witnesses or hope of help; and of course, the cover of darkness under which to move. Imadan held on to his spell; and moved slowly, smoothly. The Grands Magasins were north of Silverspires and Ile de la Cité; and the Houseless had little to no magic: magical practitioners with any talent only had to approach a House to become a dependent. Close by was House Lazarus, but, if it was a choice between Lazarus and the Houseless gangs he would take his chances with the gangs, any day. Better be killed and taken apart for the magic in his flesh and bones, than captured alive and used against his House.

He had to move south–towards Opéra Garnier and the distant House of Samothrace, veering left to turn towards Ile de la Cité–close to one hour of walking, past the ruins of Palais-Royal and the Louvre; of les Halles and Hôtel de Ville–an almost unheard-of feat.

Watch over me, he thought. He didn't believe in God; or, more accurately, in God's mercy, especially applied to Fallen; but he was going to need all the luck in the world to survive the night.

As he moved along rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, crossing Boulevard Haussmann, he saw the first shadows–running with the ease of those who had to fight for every scrap of food–he used a burst of magic to lend some strength to his tired muscles, and to start going faster. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of his own breath; and the shadows, easily keeping up with him–getting closer and closer, a pack of hounds harrying a wounded deer.

Running running–ahead, the dark mass of the Opéra, shimmering with the spells that had turned its walls black–and a few lights in small hovels, people shutting windows on his passage–of course, they wouldn't be willing to take risks for him, the House-bound, the intruder... What a fool he'd been, to let Hawthorn distract him; perhaps Iaris's hospitality had even been deliberate, meant to make him dawdle–Lord Uphir played a long, ruthless game, as befitted any head of House. One fewer dependent for Silverspires, a murder that couldn't be traced to them, couldn't require formal reparations...

The patter of feet on all side–people, pulling themselves from the darkness, thin silhouettes with dark, shining eyes, the Houseless, the angry–too many of them for him to take on. Nevertheless... he sent a spell towards the nearest silhouette: its clothes burst into flames, and it screamed, a thin, wailing sound like the cry of a dying child. Imadan had no pity; it was him or them. He simply released spells as he ran; people stumbled and fell and screamed, and the acrid smell of charred flesh filled the night.

Still they were after him.

Too many. Too many, and they were not deterred by the sight of their comrades dying. That was... not good. He was winding down–he'd never been among the strongest in the House, and the race and the use of spells were exhausting him; every muscle protesting in agony.

It would be worse if they caught him.

On and on and on; running running, the breath burning in his lungs, his calves seizing up with cramps; casting spells that now did nothing more than make them stumble and curse. On and on and on–there had to be some shelter, some safety he could reach–something, anything...

There was someone, waiting for him on the plaza before the Opéra, a lonely silhouette, their arms crossed on their chest–a sight so incongruous that Imadan almost stopped, but he wasn't such a fool–he pushed on.

Or tried to.

Something caught him at ankle level, and sent him sprawling on the debris-strewn ground–struggling to rise–struggling to breathe against air that seemed to have turned to tar. Footsteps, getting closer and closer; and Imadan was on his knees, and then pulling himself upright, just as a punch sent him sprawling again, with the sharp taste of blood in his mouth.

"Not looking so fine now, are we?"

His tormentor was an Annamite youth–a colonial who couldn't have been more than twenty, thirty years old, his skin glistening with sweat, his eyes lit up with an odd fire–not borrowed magic, but something else, something darker, deeper, something Imadan could almost name....

The others were gathering too–turning from faceless shadows into thin, malnourished youths with the smiles of predators. "Kill him, Philippe," a dark-haired girl said.

Imadan pulled himself upright. The flow of blood had stopped; the pain in his cheek sinking to a bearable whisper. "You have no idea what you're doing," he said.

Philippe's face pulled into an inscrutable smile, like that of an Asian idol in a temple; but he said nothing.

Anger, Imadan realised. That was the fire in Philippe's eyes, an anger so strong it seemed to burn within him–he wasn't saying anything because he wanted no part of this, but because anger had choked all words within him. He would kill Imadan without blinking–what was he waiting for? Orders from his leader?

Imadan tested the magic within him–the distant connection to the House in Silverspires; to the broken throne of Morningstar in Notre-Dame; and the even more distant one, to a City in Heaven he had no memory of–it was a hard stone within him, with no trace of warmth; a dying ember. He was weak, and trembling; and could barely summon enough strength to stand; his legs felt light under him, fragile bones, built for flight and held together by magic. But he had to–

Had to do something, or they would carve him where he stood.

The other youth, the girl who'd already spoken, said, "We're not stupid. Angel breath and angel flesh; and angel essence, and all that can be taken–" it sounded like a children's litany, whispered over and over–except that it was his breath, his flesh they'd take–his body they'd cut apart for magic–and there was nothing for people like him, only a promise of Heaven so faint it might as well be a mirage.

"The House can reward you–" Imadan said–because he had to try, because he was at their mercy and had no other choice.

The girl cuffed him–sending him, again, to the ground. "We know the value of your rewards, you sterile bastard. Get him," she said, to two of the other youths–her hands came up with a serrated knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light, and the youths moved.

Now. Or never.

As they pulled in towards him, Imadan gathered magic; all he had within him, every ounce of power he could scrounge–from taxed muscles to burning lungs, from aching, fragile bones to quivering fingers–and sent it all upwards, in one brilliant flash of radiance that tore at the night sky like fingers of lightning–sent them reeling, screaming at the pain in their eyes. Then, bunching his legs under him, Imadan started running–his lungs were cold now, feeling drained of air; and he was slow, so slow–pushing the blinded youths out of his way; and the slack, slight shape of the boy Philippe down to the ground with savage joy–and onwards, towards the distant safety of rue de l'Opéra.

No, not the large streets. He was winded, and tired; and he felt as though they'd beaten him to a bloody pulp even though they'd barely touched him. But they would run faster than him, when their vision came back in a few minutes. He needed...

He needed to hide.

Ahead was a smaller street, branching off from the crossroads–the sidewalk's stones bulging, here and there, with the remnants of God knew what spells. He forced himself forward–expecting, at any moment, to hear the sound of pursuit, the screams of rage and the calls for revenge. So far, nothing, but he didn't have long left.

Something, there had to be something. But there were only buildings with barred windows, and lit rooms all closed and locked against him–doors that wouldn't open, glimpses of faces turned away from him, nothing that would save him. He needed–he needed–

Ahead of him, like salvation, the square light of a half-open door; and the pinched face of a woman staring back at him. "Please," Imadan said, abandoning dignity and caution; and all but collapsing against the door.

The woman stared at Imadan: a youth with short-cropped hair, already hardened and appearing older than she was. "Why?"

"I'll repay you," Imadan whispered. He could hear the footsteps, already; could imagine them, spreading to cover the area–it wouldn't take them long to find him, to drag him back to the killing grounds before the Opéra–to utterly extinguish him in fear and pain.. "Please," he whispered.

The woman looked at him–her eyes hard; and didn't move. "Never mind," Imadan said. "I'll just–" He'd go away, find some other place to make a last, pathetic stand; to scream the last of his defiance at them.

Footsteps, distant, and growing ever closer. "He's gone that way!"

"Oh, Hell," the woman swore; and shifted, so that the door opened. "Come in, you damned fool."

Already damned, Imadan thought, but he barely had the strength to move anymore; could feel nothing but a trembling in his limbs that wouldn't go away, the lightness of his bones, as if they'd snap at any moment–the woman pulled at him, all but throwing him inside; and, in a fraction of a second as the noises of footsteps became unbearably close, locked and bolted the door.

"Géraldine," a man's voice said, behind Imadan–who still stood, rooted, where Géraldine had left him–unable to do anything but watch.

"Not now," Géraldine said, curtly. She laid her head against the door, and listened for a while. The sound of booted feet echoed in the room.

"He can't have gone that far!" A woman's voice; probably the girl who had led the gang.

"He was desperate. Probably found a last reserve of strength."

In the house, Géraldine took a small box from a side drawer, and inhaled its contents–the rich, sickening smell of angel-essence filled the room, even as Géraldine’s skin shifted and changed–nothing huge; a subtle altering of texture and gloss, so that it seemed to be reflecting all the light in the room. Géraldine laid her hand on the door; and closed her eyes, muttering words Imadan couldn't hear.

"Perhaps he's gone on further. What if you're wrong?"

"Have I been wrong before?"

"No." A silence; then, "and if you ever are, I'll tear your heart out, Philippe."

"Of course," Philippe's voice was sarcastic. "How silly of me."

Another voice, accompanied by hacking coughs. "Can't find him. Maybe he found refuge in one of the hovels?"

Géraldine’s voice rose and fell–curiously slow, curiously soothing. Imadan couldn't make out the words, but it made him want to curl up and sleep; to let go of whatever had propelled him this far–to...

A hand, on his arm; he wanted to jerk back, to say that no one touched a House dependent against their will; but it was merely a small, grinning man with the same kind of pinched, harsh face as Géraldine. "Don't listen, wing-breath. She'll blow the brains right out of your head, if you let her." She–

Something was running, on his cheeks: Imadan raised his hand to his face, and found it wet with blood.

On the other side of the door, there was a deeper, longer silence; then Philippe's voice: "Are you all right?"

"Yes," the girl's voice said, testily. "Just a little tired, that's all. Let's go further out."

"As you wish."

Géraldine remained kneeling against the door until the last footsteps had died away; and then stood, breathing deeply–composing herself. One look at Imadan, and a frown. "You look like Hell. I thought House dependents would be... swankier."

Imadan fought an urge to laugh, or to collapse on the floor. "Are you–"

"It's nothing," Géraldine said, curtly "Angel-magic always comes with a price."

The heady rush of power; that feeling she could be anything, anyone–something tempting enough, even if you were a Fallen; how much more, if you were a mortal? "I'm sorry," Imadan said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. Half a day ago, he wouldn't have given Géraldine the time of day.

"It's nothing," Géraldine said. "Sit down. Let's see to those bruises. You have a nasty

"I heal fast," Imadan said; but he let her take him by the hand, and lead him to a wooden chair; while the small man fussed around a cot. She put a drink of some kind in his hand–an alcohol that smelled as though it was going to render him blind, and gave him a chunk of bread in his other hand. He stared at them, stupidly; unable to collect his thoughts. He'd almost died. He'd–

"You can stay here for the night," Géraldine said. "Should be easier to walk home in the morning. "

He must have dozed off; for when he woke up the man was asleep , and Géraldine was sitting in a chair, the baby nursing at her breast. Her bright, burning eyes held him.

"Thank you," he said at last. "You didn't have to–"

"No." Her voice was low, mocking. "I didn't. I guess we're all fools sometimes." She didn't move, but her gaze racked him. "You were right about healing."

His innate magic had already started knitting his flesh back together; and the fatigue had sunk to a dull ache within him–he should have slept, but he couldn't find a way to relax. His bones felt solid once more; the fragility slowly receding. "Have you never seen a Fallen?" he asked, at last.

"Here? Of course not. Fallen never leave their Houses, or they don't last long. As you should know."

If he'd been smarter, or more awake, when he'd gone to the House of Hawthorn... his cheek barely hurt now, but he could still remember the taste of blood in his mouth; could still remember the fear tightening in his chest and the gleam of light on knife blades.... Outside, the night was quiet; but the gangs were still out there–distant calls and jeers echoed, in a direction he couldn't pinpoint.

The baby made a contented noise, and shifted, nestling deeper against Géraldine's flesh. "Which one are you?" she asked.

For a moment he couldn't see what she meant; and then he remembered she'd never seen a Fallen; didn't know the significance of the red and silver he wore. "Silverspires."

"The oldest. Must be nice."

He thought of the House; of the sprawling, ruined buildings; of the garages where Baptiste kept a fleet of cars always clean and in good repair, in spite of the soot that seemed to get everywhere; of evenings playing dice on the cobbles of the courtyard, and of the smell of fine wines and freshly baked bread, so unlike the rough alcohol and dry chunk he held in his hand. "I guess so," he said. "A long way from here."

Géraldine's smile was bitter. "Of course."

"I–" he said, feeling obscurely embarrassed. "I won't forget."

"Of course you will." Géraldine shifted the baby from one breast to the other; and Imadan had to look away for decency's sake. "It doesn't matter."

It should, he wanted to say, but her gaze was hard, and he didn't have the courage to gainsay her.

He was up with the dawn; feeling rested, magic running within him like a rising tide; his movements fast, and graceful, and effortless–he could walk home now, to Silverspires; could keep the world at bay if needed be.

The hovel was silent and grey. Géraldine slept in the chair she'd been sitting in, the baby still wedged in her arms, a look of utter contentment on their face. In the rising light, he could see the child's ribs, and the wrinkles on Géraldine's face; the missing teeth in her mouth; the nails, trimmed short not out of choice but because they kept breaking. As Imadan moved, she shifted–and for a moment he saw her framed in the lit doorway at night; and remembered fear flooding through him; remembering muscles straining to fail, his bones on the edge of shattering, an instant before collapse...

No. No.

The chair he was sitting in was battered, one of its legs shaking under him as he rose; and there was little furniture. The house was cold, and small, and suffocating.

Imadan moved to the dresser, where he found the container Géraldine had used the night before. He exhaled, carefully, into it, and sealed his breath inside with a clumsy spell–he was no alchemist, but it would hold for long enough for her to use it, or sell it. Then, gently, carefully, he kissed the hand of the sleeping woman–breathing his magic into her lungs, into her bones, until her skin gleamed once more with reflected light, and the wrinkles had all but been smoothed out. Like the container, it wouldn't last–not for long, but it would be long enough for her to do small spells, which would she could trade for coin or food, or whatever currency held sway among the Houseless.

At the door, he turned, one last time, to look at the hovel–at the slumped, sleeping woman and the man curled up on the bed, the hearth with only the ashes of wood in it, the empty table with the dry, sterile smell of stale bread, and the faint after-odour of mould and rotting wood.

Not his world. Never his world.

She had been right. He would forget, because he had to–because this was not him, this would never be him–this crushing, debilitating misery he couldn't bear to think on, the memories of being hunted like an animal through ruined streets; of pain and fear, and his magic deserting him. His debt to her was paid; that would be the end of it.

"Time to move on," he whispered; and stepped out, into streets flooded with light–to walk back to the comforting safety of his House.

What Has to Be Done

House Silverspires, Ile de la Cité, 1958

Emmanuelle woke up, still woozy with sleep; and then felt it.

It was... a yawning emptiness within her, a terrifying absence she hadn't been aware of–like missing an arm or a limb, or her own heart within her chest.

"Selene?"

Her lover was already awake, sitting at the end of the four-poster bed. "Did you–"

"Yes," Selene said. She shook her head; her short bob of auburn hair moved in the light of the lamps. In her gaze was the same tightness; the same fear that now filled Emmanuelle.

"The House is gone," Emmanuelle said.

"Don't be silly," Selene said. She pointed at the faded wallpaper of the room, with its large peonies and birds of paradise. "We're still here. We're still alive."

"But–" Emmanuelle said.

A knock, at the door. "Selene? Emmanuelle?"

It was Choérine, the old Fallen who was in charge of Silverspires' school for the children; and behind her, Irène, who worked with Emmanuelle in the archives; Oksana, the steward of the House; and Father Methodius. Their faces were grave; Emmanuelle had never seen the four of them together.

"You've heard?" Oksana asked.

"Felt it." Selene's face was hard; revealing nothing of what she felt. But of course she was Morningstar's apprentice–and in addition to magic he had passed on some of his harshness to her. "What happened? Did the wards fail?"

"We don't know," Choérine said.

"He's gone." Irène's face was pale. "Completely gone. We've searched the grounds; sent messages–"

Morningstar. Emmanuelle's heart sank in her chest. That was the emptiness within her; the gap that nothing could fill: the link to the House, flapping in the wind like a loose sail without the presence of a head of House to hold it all together. "He can't be," she said. "Did he–?"

Selene closed her eyes, for a fraction of a second. When she opened them again her gaze was as hard as jewels. "You searched his room."

"Yes."

"Did he leave his sword? His wings?" Morningstar slept without his wings; taking off the metal armature; laying away their wicked, serrated edges in a corner of the room. But he seldom walked without them when awake.

"No," Father Methodius said. He was mortal, and old–unlike Emmanuelle and Selene, who were both Fallen–and he looked immensely tired. Emmanuelle wanted to hug him, and to ask him how he was; to comfort him as he comforted others in their hours of need. But it wasn't the moment.

"I asked the servants," Oksana said, her thin, fair face twisted with worry. "He packed a small bag, and left. The last they saw of him, he was walking towards the Petit-Pont."

Towards the city, then; south, to Jardins du Luxembourg, and perhaps the ruins of Hell's Toll, one of the three Houses that had disappeared during the Great Houses war. "When was that?" Selene's voice was still quiet–how could she–how could she keep her calm, when all Emmanuelle could feel was the hollow of Morningstar's absence?

Emmanuelle hadn't liked Morningstar; hadn't worshipped or even respected him, as Selene did–she had, in fact, walked away from him and his games, discarded the old fashioned name he had given her–Indigo, a mockery of her dark skin colour, a reminder she looked different from the other Fallen. But, no matter how she felt about Morningstar, he had been there. He had always been there. He had founded the House; and it was his power that kept it together; that kept them safe; that made them the effortless leaders of the dominance games played in post-war Paris. Without him–

Without him, what would they do?

With a start, she realised the conversation was ending. Selene was frowning–she was worried, but not showing any of it to others. Oksana looked fearful; and Father Methodius just tired. Emmanuelle sidled closer to him, drawing her night robe around her–not that anyone had had any words over impropriety, it wasn't that kind of moment, and wasn't even that kind of House. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Father Methodius shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said. He laughed, bitterly. "If you had told me, a week ago, that I would be praying for his return..." He and Morningstar didn't like each other: Morningstar had no faith, and no patience for it.

"I know what you mean," Emmanuelle said.

"I wish I could say we'll get over this," Father Methodius said. "But..."

But their founder and head of House was gone; the presence around which everything revolved. Emmanuelle raised her gaze: Oksana, Choérine and Irène had moved away from Selene, looking at her expectantly–because she was Morningstar's apprentice, because they all thought she would know what to do. In Selene's eyes Emmanuelle read nothing but fear, and uncertainty–the same knot within her, the same tottering on the edge of the abyss.

"Are you sure about sending the messengers?" Oksana asked. "To tell the other Houses..."

"They already know," Selene said. She shook her head. "Better to tell them we have this in hand, than risk their assuming weakness. Are there any other questions?"

They looked at her; and shook their heads, slowly and reluctantly. Selene waited until they had all cleared the door, including Father Methodius, before she closed it, and sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands. Emmanuelle sat behind her, wrapping her arms around her chest. "It'll be fine," she whispered. "Truly."

"You don't believe that," Selene said.

"No," Emmanuelle said. "But I believe in you." And in God, though who knew if God would grant selfish prayers for survival–but there were hundreds of dependents in the House, dozens of young children and infant Fallen: was their protection not a worthy cause to pray for?

Selene laughed, curtly. "Join the queue." And then, in a lower voice. "Sorry. It's just–" She took a deep, trembling breath.

"Do you think he will come back?" Emmanuelle asked. It was his House, his pride; what he had founded and guided through the centuries. He couldn't–he just couldn't leave them like this.

"I don't know," Selene said, with a sigh. She leant against Emmanuelle's chest, her grey eyes looking upwards. "He might... Oh, God, who knows. He might have grown bored with the House. He might have decided to teach us a lesson. He–"

"He's a hard person," Emmanuelle said–she wouldn't lie to Selene, though she didn't know how to give something that would comfort her–and how would she, when she herself felt shaken to her core?

Selene snorted. "A hard person to love? Of course. I–" she closed her eyes again. "I don't know what to do."

Emmanuelle was silent, for a while. "I don't, either," she said. "I don't know what will happen–" To the House. To them–to Selene, who together with Oris was now the only remaining living apprentice of Morningstar. It would change things, whatever happened. It would stretch and pull; and break, and sunder. "I don't know where we'll go."

Selene didn't open her eyes, but her face stretched into a tired smile. "We're going nowhere. You worry too much, Emmanuelle."

As if Selene didn't.

"We should get out of this room," Emmanuelle said. Otherwise Selene would just fret and mope; and get more and more depressed–and Emmanuelle would, too, in all probability. "Why don't we go see the wards? Unless you already sent someone to do that?" The wards were what kept them safe; what prevented other Houses from encroaching on their territory in the endless tussle for dominance that was everyday life in Paris. They were Silverspires' boundaries–the extent to which its dependents were protected–but they were also Morningstar's work; and who knew if spells survived the leavetaking of their maker?

Emmanuelle thought, sourly, that she wouldn't have put it past Morningstar to ensure that nothing of the House would survive him. It was uncharitable, and uncalled for; but who knew what he had planned for? In his mind, he was ageless, immortal, and he would forever be there to guide the destiny of the House–except, of course, that everything always came to an end.

"Choérine was going to talk to Alcestis," Selene said, with a sigh.

"Alcestis is competent," Emmanuelle said. "But he's not Morningstar's apprentice." She laid her hands, gently, on Selene's temples; and started massaging.

"As if that meant anything."

"It does, and you know it."

"The latest passing fad, and we all know it. He'd have discarded me, in a few years' time."

Morningtsar took apprentices as other people took pets or hobbies: teaching them baubles, and growing gradually dissatisfied with them, until he finally discarded them. They'd argued, more than once, about that; Emmanuelle trying to convince Selene to leave before she was damaged beyond repair–but now there was Selene, admitting it as bald as daylight; and that scared Emmanuelle more than anything; as if being away from Morningstar had lifted a veil cast over her world.

And, in turn, had cast a dark, unmovable veil over Emmanuelle's, a fear deep within her that nothing would ever fill the void within her–as Father Methodius had said, who could have foretold they'd ever pray for Morningstar's return? "You're here," Emmanuelle said, slowly. "Here and now. I don't know what he would have done. But it's beside the point, isn't it?"

Selene sighed. "You're right. Let's go see the wards."

They dressed first: Emmanuelle in a simple white cotton dress that threw her skin into sharp contrast; and Selene in her usual mens' tailcoat–Emmanuelle helped her straighten the cravat at the throat, gently adjusting the golden pin that held it together.

As they walked through the House, they saw it in disarray: everyone had woken up with the same feeling of emptiness and loss. Children wandered, listless, through the corridors; parents screamed at each other–and crowds were milling in every available space from disused reception rooms to courtyard, and even within the ruins of Notre-Dame, pointing to Morningstar's broken throne and speaking in low, worried tones.

Selene had cloaked herself in light invisibility, which prevented people from mobbing her–though everyone stared oddly at Emmanuelle; and Luc, one of the dependents who helped out in the archives, came to her and asked if she knew what was going on. Emmanuelle merely shook her head, unable to think of anything that would convince Luc.

No one seemed to have gone down into the cellars. She and Selene went through the East Wing, which was all but deserted: room after empty room with furniture covered in dust, and old-fashioned paintings that had started to crack with age–only silence around them, and the sound of their own footsteps. Emmanuelle drew a deep breath; called up the magic within her–a pitiful trickle, to hold against the abyss. It had to do. It would have to.

Selene was lost in thought; her sharp, round face almost relaxed. "Here," she said, pointing to one of the wine cellars. "That one isn't locked." The tone in which she said implied this was a mistake.

The wards were part of House Silverspires much as veins and arteries were part of a body: they had been baked into the stones of the House, carved into its foundations–spread through the very air its dependents breathed. There was no single point an enemy could have destroyed; but there were places where they were closest–where one could stand close to a wall, or kneel by a cobblestone, and feel a surge of power come arcing through one's body.

The wine cellar was dark, but Selene had brought a lantern, which she now laid on the ground. She frowned, staring at the wall between the racks of bottles. "I'm not sure–"

Emmanuelle laid her hand on the wall; felt the magic within her slowly, carefully aligning itself with the heartbeat of the House–the emptiness in her chest becoming the gaping hole within the building's structure–her loathing and yearning for Morningstar smoothed away, becoming the unquestioning, patient endurance of stone; the strength and resiliency of wood; the brittle harshness of fired clay. "Here," she said, pointing to a patch of wall between two racks.

Selene put her hand against it–light seeped through it, her skin becoming paper-thin, as translucent as Chinese rice paper lanterns. Her face became expressionless; her gaze unfocused; and every one of her fingers lying perfectly flat, perfectly relaxed against the outline of the bricks.

Emmanuelle withdrew–there seemed to be little point in both of them doing this. And she knew, already, though she was not Morningstar's student–she already knew what Selene would learn.

The building was empty, its heart torn out; but the wards still held. The wards still waited for their master.

Or for the one strong enough to seize and hold them.

At length, Selene shuddered, and looked at Emmanuelle. "You saw," she said.

Emmanuelle shrugged. "Yes."

Selene shook her head. She looked–not ageless, not preternaturally composed–but young again, bewildered and lost, as if she must have been just after her Fall; long before Emmanuelle met her. "I can't," she said, slowly, softly. "I just–"

Emmanuelle had known or suspected all along, of course. Of course she didn't want Selene to become head of the House; didn't want the distance and loneliness that came with power–she just wanted the two of them to have their lives, to enjoy each other's company, each other's love. She didn't want to be the lover of the head of House Silverspires; with the deep-seated knowledge that this might well tear them apart. But... but she knew Selene too well.

"Here, now," Emmanuelle whispered. "Who else, Selene?"

"I can't," Selene whispered, again–but she did not take her hand away from the wall.

She would argue and hem and doubt; and curse Emmanuelle; but in the end, she would do what she always did–she would take stock, coldly and analytically, and do what needed to be done. Because there was no one else. Because there was no one better suited. Because there had never been a choice.

Emmanuelle crossed the empty space between them; squeezed Selene's hand in hers–her skin was sweat-drenched and warm, her heartbeat slowly heightening, just as her gaze hardened. "I'll be there for you," she said. "Always."

"You'd better be," Selene said, with a tight, nervous smile.

And Emmanuelle, too, did what had to be done–smiling through the yawning emptiness within her, the fear she wasn't sure she would ever master; the worry that this would destroy them, just as it saved the House. "Of course. Everything will be fine, Selene," she said–the words slipping out of her in a few easy, exhaled breaths–so easy and so smooth, they almost didn't feel like a lie.

Afterword

This is a mosaic featuring characters from my novel, The House of Shattered Wings (out now from Roc in the US, and Gollancz in the UK/Commonwealth).

You will (of course) find out more about the Great War, House Silverspires, House Hawthorn, Morningstar, Philippe, Emmanuelle, Selene, and many other characters in the full novel. I’ve included Chapter One, if you want to take a look.

Thank you for reading!

Bonus: Chapter 1 of The House of Shattered Wings

The Falling Star

It is almost pleasant, at first, to be Falling.

The harsh, unwavering light of the City recedes, leaving you in shadow, leaving only memories of relief, of a blessed coolness seizing your limbs. Nothing has turned yet into longing, into bitterness, into the cold that will never cease, not even in the heat of summer.

The wind, at first, is pleasant, too—softly whistling past you, so that you almost don’t notice when its cold fingers tear at your wings. Feathers drift off, blinking like forgotten jewels, catching fire and burning like a thousand falling stars in the atmosphere. Some part of you knows you should be experiencing pain; that the flow of crimson blood, the lancing pain in your back, the fiery sensation that seems to have hold of your whole body—they’re all yours, they’re all irreversible and deadly. But you feel nothing: no exhilaration, no relief, not the searing agony of your wounds. Nothing but that sense of unnamed relief, that knowledge you won’t have to face the judges in the City again.

Nothing, until the ground comes up to meet you, and you land in a jumble of pain and shattered bones; and the scream you didn’t think you had in you scrapes your throat raw as you let it out—like the first, shocked breath of a baby newly born into a universe of suffering.

* * *

It was Ninon who first saw her. Philippe had felt her presence first, but hadn’t said anything. It wasn’t a wish to protect the young Fallen so much as to protect himself—his status in the Red Mamba Gang was precarious as it was, and he had no desire to remind them how great a commodity he could become, given enough cruelty on their part. And Heaven knew, of course, that those days it didn’t take much for cruelty or despair to get the better of them all, when life hung on a razor’s edge, even for a former Immortal.

They’d been scavenging in the Grands Magasins—desperate and hungry, as Ninon had put it, because no one was foolish enough to go down there among the ruins of the Great Houses War, with spells that no one had had time to clean up primed and ready to explode in your face, with the ghosts and the hauntings and the odor of death that still hung like fog over the wrecks of counters and the faded posters for garments and perfumes from another, more innocent age.

No one, that is, but the gangs: the losers in the great hierarchy, the bottom feeders surviving on the carrion the Houses left them. Gangs could be huge, could number dozens of people, but they were fractured and powerless, deprived of the magic that made the Houses the true movers of Paris. And as far as gangs went, the Red Mambas were small; twenty or so members under Bloody Jeanne’s leadership; and Philippe, on the bottom tier of the bottom tiers, just doing his best to survive—as always.

He and Ninon had been under the dome of the Galeries Lafayette, crossing over the rubble in the center—what had once been the accessories department. On the walls were fragments of advertisement posters, colored scraps; bits and pieces of idealized human beings, of products that had long since ceased to be manufactured; and a fragment promising that the 1914 fashion season would be the headiest the city had ever seen: a season that, of course, had never been, swallowed up by the beginning of the war. Ahead were the stairs, blocked by debris; the faces of broken mannequins stared back at them, uncannily pale and expressionless, their eyes shining like cats’ in the dim light.

Philippe hated the Grands Magasins—not that he was as superstitious as Ninon, but he could feel the pall of death hanging over the place, could almost hear the screams of the dying when the petrification spells had struck. Like any Immortal—even a diminished one, far from his home and his people—he could feel the khi currents, could sense their broken edges rubbing against him, as sharp as serrated knives.

“Ninon—”

Ahead, on the stairs, she’d turned back at him, her face flushed with the excitement of it all, that incomprehensible desire to flirt with danger until it killed you. A wholly human thing, of course; and he was meant to be human again, now that he had been cast out of the Heavens; but even as a mortal in Annam he’d just never had that kind of reckless death wish. “We should go—” he’d started, and then he’d felt it.

It was pure and incandescent, a wave of stillness that seemed to start somewhere in his belly and spread to his entire body—a split second when wind ran on his arms and face, and darkness stole across his field of vision, as if night had unexpectedly fallen in the world beyond the dome; and a raw sense of pain rose in him, a scream building in his lungs, on the verge of forcing its way out . . .

And then it was gone, leaving him wrung out, panting on the staircase as if he’d just run for his life across Paris. The pain was still at the back of his mind—a faint, watered-down memory that he would recognize anywhere—just as he would unerringly be able to find its source.

A Fallen. A young one, barely manifested in the world, lying in pain, somewhere close; somewhere vulnerable in a city where young Fallen were merchandise, creatures to be taken apart and killed before they became too powerful and did the taking apart and the killing.

“You okay?” Ninon asked. She was watching him, eyes narrowed. “Not going to go all mystical on me, are you?”

Philippe shook his head, struggling for breath—couldn’t show weakness, couldn’t show ignorance, not if he wanted to survive . . . At last he managed, in something like his usual flippant tones, “No way, sis. This is about the worst place in the world to get an attack of the mystical.”

“Doesn’t mean you idiots wouldn’t get one,” Ninon said, darkly. “Come on. Alex said there was good booty on the third floor, perfumes and alchemical reserves.”

The last thing Philippe wanted to do was go upstairs, or hang around the place any longer than he had to. “And they’ve remained miraculously untouched for sixty years? Either Alex is misinformed or there’s some pretty heavy defenses. . . .”

Ninon grinned with the abandon of youth. “That’s why we have you, don’t we? To make short work of anything.”

“Sure,” Philippe said. He could cast some spells; call on some small remnants of who he had been, drawing from the khi fields around him. He would, however, have to be seriously insane to do it here. But he daren’t protest too much, or too loudly; he was, as Ninon had reminded him, only useful as long as he could provide magic—the conscious, mastered kind, one cut above the lures of angel essence and other adjuncts. When that ceased . . .

He forced himself not to think about it as he followed her upstairs—past landing after deserted landing, under the vacant eyes of models in burned posters, past the tarnished mirrors and the shards of chandeliers. As he had feared, the pain at the back of his mind grew steadily, a sign they were approaching the Fallen’s birth site. Ninon herself wasn’t a witch—the magical practitioners had long since been snapped up by the Houses—but for all that, she was uncannily, unerringly headed toward the newly manifested Fallen. “Ninon—” he said, as they rounded a ruined display promising exotic scents from Annam and the Far East, a memory of a home that was no longer his.

Too late.

She’d stopped, one hand going to her mouth. He couldn’t tell what her expression was, from behind, if it was horror or fascination or something else. As Philippe got closer, he saw what she saw: a jumble of crimson-stained feathers, a tangled mass that seemed to be all broken limbs and bleeding wounds; and, over it all, a gentle sloshing radiance like sunlight seen through water, a light that promised the soft warmth of live coals, the comfort of wintertime meals heated on the stove, the sheer relief just after the breaking of a thunderstorm, when the air was cleansed of all heaviness.

Philippe recovered faster than Ninon. While she still stood, gaping at the vision, he cautiously approached, circling the body with care, just in case the Fallen turned out vicious. But Philippe didn’t think it would.

Close up, the body was a mess: bones broken in several places, not always cleanly; the hands splayed out in abandon, loosely resting above dislocated wrists; the torso covered with blood and unidentifiable fluids. There was no smell, though; no stench of blood or ruptured guts; just a tang to the air, an acridity like a remnant of burning wood. Young Fallen never smelled like much of anything, not until the light vanished. Not until they joined the mortal plane like the rest of their kind.

The face . . . the face was intact, and that was almost the most gruesome thing about the Fallen. Eyes frozen in shock stared at him. The gaze was somehow ageless, that of a being that had endured beyond time, in a City that had nothing human or fragile about it. The cheekbones were high, and something in the cast of the face was . . . familiar, somehow. Philippe glanced back at the mess of the torso, noting the geometry of the chest: this particular Fallen manifested as female.

He hadn’t expected to be so . . . detached about things. He’d thought of a thousand ways she could have reminded him of the Great War, of the bloodied bodies by his side; but in some indefinable way she seemed beyond it all, a splayed doll rather than a broken body—he shouldn’t think that, he really shouldn’t, but it was all too easy to remember that it was her kind that had torn him from his home in Annam and sent him to slaughter, that had gloried in each of the dead, that had laughed to see his unit come back short so many soldiers, covered in the blood of their comrades—her kind, that ruled over the ruins of the city. . . .

“Awesome,” Ninon said. She knelt, her hands and arms bathed in the radiance, breathing in the light, the magic that hung coiled in the air around them. Fallen were magic: raw power descended to Earth, the younger the more powerful. “Come on, help me.”

“Help . . . ?”

Ninon’s hand flicked up; it came up with a serrated knife, the wickedly sharp blade catching the light.

“Can’t carry her. Too much work, and there’s only two of us. But we can take stuff.”

Stuff. Flesh and bone and blood, all that carried the essence of a Fallen, all that could be inhaled, put into artifacts, used to pass on magic and the ability to cast spells to others. He put his hand in the blood, lifted it to his mouth. The air seemed to tremble around his fingers as if in a heat wave, and the blood down his throat was as sweet as honey, warming his entire body, reminding him how it had been when he’d been an Immortal; and a flick of his hands could have transported him from end to end of Indochina, turned peach trees into magical swords, turned bullets aside as easily as wisps of vapor.

But that time was past. Had been past for more than sixty years, turned to dust as surely and as enduringly as his mortal family.

Ninon’s face was bathed in radiance as she knelt by the body—she was going for a hand or a limb, something that would have power, that would be worth something, enough to sustain them all . . . It— the thought of her sawing through flesh and bone and sinew shouldn’t have made him sick, but it was one thing to hate Fallen, quite another to cold-bloodedly do this.

“We could take the blood,” he said, forcing his voice to come back from the distant past. “Use the old perfume bottles to mix our own elixirs.”

Ninon didn’t look up, but he heard her snort. “Blood’s piffle,” she said, lifting a limp, torn hand and eyeing it speculatively. “You know it’s not where the money is.”

“Yes, but—”

“What’s the matter? You feeling some kind of loyalty for your own kind?”

She didn’t need to make the threat, didn’t need to point out he was as good a source of magic as the Fallen by her side.

“Come on, help me,” she said; and as she lifted the knife, her eyes aglow with greed, Philippe gave in and pulled his own from his jacket; and braced himself for the inevitable grinding of metal against bone, and for the Fallen’s pain to paralyze his mind.

* * *

Selene was coming home to Silverspires when she felt it. It was faint at first, a chord struck somewhere in the vastness of the city, but then she tasted pain like a sharp tang against her palate.

She raised a hand, surprised to find she’d bitten her tongue; probed at a tooth, trying to see if the feeling would vanish. But it didn’t; rather, it grew in intensity, became a tingling in the soles of her feet, in her fingertips—a burning in her belly, a faint echo of what must have been unbearable.

“Stop,” she said.

There were four of them in the car that night: two of her usual guards, Luc and Imadan, and Javier, the Jesuit, the latest of several incongruous additions to the House. He had volunteered when Selene’s chauffeur fell ill. She’d found him in the great hall, stubbornly waiting for her, his olive skin standing out against the darkness of his clothes; and had simply gestured him into the car. They’d hardly spoken a word since, and Selene hadn’t probed. Like the rest of the motley band that constituted the House, Javier would open in his own time; there was little sense in trying to nudge or break him open—God knew Selene had had enough experience, by now, of what it meant to break people. Morningstar had taught her well, from beginning to end.

“What is it?” Javier asked.

Selene raised a hand to silence him, seeking the origin of the magic. Young, and desperate; she’d almost forgotten how that tasted, how bittersweet it all was, that mixture of bewilderment and pain that came just after the Fall.

West, in the ruined blocks that had been the great department stores and the great hotels before the war, their names like a litany of what had been lost: the Printemps, the Galeries Lafayette, the Hôtel Scribe, the Grand Hôtel . . . West, where the House of Lazarus still stood. And if she could feel it, so could every other Fallen in the vicinity; and perhaps their pet mages, too, if they had the right artifacts or were pumped up on essence.

Needless to say, Selene did not approve of essence.

“We don’t have much time,” she said to Javier. “It’s an infant Fallen, and it’s in trouble.”

Javier’s face was pale, but set. “Tell me where.”

“Right,” Selene said. “Left at the next intersection.”

The car moved smoothly under Javier’s hands—though of course there was nothing smooth about it, and the battered and old metal carcass ran as much on magic as it did on expensive fuel.

Left, straight ahead, right, left. It was in her bones now, a dull vibration, a vague hint of something red-hot and searing, something that would overwhelm her, given half a chance.

Ahead was the dark mass of the Galeries Lafayette: the dome had miraculously survived the war and everything thrown at it, but the insouciant crowds that had once filled the shops at the beginning of the twentieth century, marveling at hats and brocade robes, sitting in droves in the tearoom and reading rooms, were all gone. It had been sixty years, and none but the insane would enter the Galeries now.

The insane, or the powerful.

“Park here,” Selene said, pointing to a somewhat clear space among the rubble. She glanced at the shadows; there were people there, the lost and the Houseless, but they wouldn’t move unless Selene showed weakness of some kind. Which wouldn’t happen. She was old enough by now to know the rules of the city, and not foolish enough to leave her car unprotected. Anyone who attempted to open it after they were gone would get a nasty shock as a warning, and incineration if they persisted.

“Here?” Javier asked, slowing.

“Yes. Come on, there isn’t much time.” She could feel the pain and the fear, the way they were building up, faster and harder than they should have.

Which meant only one thing.

Someone was trying to hurt the Fallen. In her city, within her reach.

She didn’t think. Without pausing to check if Javier was following, she strode under the dome and onto the vast stairs, vaguely feeling rubble shift and crumble under her feet. The pain and the need were within her, rising—a sharp, short stab followed by agony that would have doubled her over in pain, but her wards took the brunt of it, leaving only anger, only fear. . . .

Magic was building within her—drawn from the House, from the city and its river blackened by ashes, from the devastated countryside that surrounded them all beyond the wastelands of the Périphérique, layer after layer of gossamer-thin spells, not as powerful as they had once been. But she was old and canny, and forged into a weapon by her master, Morningstar, and what she’d lost in power she more than amply made up in skill. The pain in her mind receded, to be replaced by white-hot anger; so that, by the time she reached the third floor and saw, among its shattered counters, the two people crouching in the unbearable radiance of a newly manifested Fallen, her thoughts were as clear and as sharp as glass blades.

“You will stop,” she said in the silence.

They looked up, both of them: a girl no older than fifteen or sixteen, her face coated with grime, her malnourished frame making her seem even younger; and a boy of perhaps twenty, dark-skinned, narrow-eyed—an Annamite, by the looks of him—and then she saw the blood splayed on their hands and on their clothes; and the blades they’d been using to saw two fingers loose from the Fallen’s shattered hand.

That was the fear she had felt—waking up, fuzzy and disorientated after the Fall, still struggling to adjust to a bewildering world; and finding only pain and the slow, excruciating sawing of a knife against her hand. . . .

“You will stop,” Selene said again, coldly. “Now.”

The girl laughed. Her lips were stained with blood and her high-pitched voice was all too familiar, the voice of someone drunk on strange and unaccustomed power. “Or what? You’ll make me? I don’t think you can. You’re old and scarred and the magic doesn’t sing to you anymore.”

“Ninon—” the boy said—no, not a boy. Selene had been mistaken; he must have been older, twenty-five or thirty. He was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated; but apart from the blood, nothing about him indicated he’d consumed the flesh of the Fallen. Or perhaps he was merely more experienced. Either way, she was the real danger: the leader, the hothead.

Selene threw a thread of magic, intending to pick up the girl and fling her aside from the prone Fallen—but Ninon laughed, and the power buried itself among the shards of glass from perfume bottles.

“Told you,” she said. “My turn.”

What she sent snaking toward Selene was brutal, undiluted, with the potency of a wildfire, its heat as scorching as the naked sun—and somewhere in its heart was the pain and hurt and betrayal of being cast out from the City, as raw as open wounds. Selene had to take a step back while she wove and rewove furiously, knitting her wards so that the magic, instead of shattering them, was guided until it buried itself into the floors of the Galeries.

Fallen blood. Fallen magic. Stolen magic, hacked away in a rush of pain, the same pain that was now at the back of her mind like a coiled snake.

That upstart girl would never steal again.

The young man was tugging at Ninon’s sleeve now, his face twisted in panic, though Selene could still hear his exhausted panting. “Please. You can’t go up against her. Not for long. She’s House, Ninon.”

Ninon turned and threw him a withering glance, opening her mouth for some scathing retort. Selene didn’t wait. She gathered all that she could, pulling in from the ghosts of the Grands Magasins, from Silverspires and the throne where Morningstar had once sat, from the mirrors and water basins where witches strove to recreate glimpses of the City—and sent it, not toward Ninon, but toward the floor. It left her hands, a barely distinguishable tremor, a pinpoint that became a raised line, and then a rift across the faded ceramics tiles that would tear the girl apart.

She had no pity. Not tonight, and certainly not for people who fought for the right to dismember Fallen as if they were cattle.

Too late, Ninon saw it. She turned away from the young man and, raising her hands, tried to absorb the magic as Selene had done. But she was untrained; and the light of the magic left her face, the little flesh and blood she’d consumed burning like wastepaper in a hearth—her face twisted as she realized that she didn’t have power anymore, that she didn’t have time to find more, that it was going to hit whatever she did. . . .

“Get out!” Ninon screamed to the young man, in the split second before the rift was upon her.

There was no time left. None at all, and the young man was still there by her side as the rift hit, and the light flared so brightly that even Selene had to avert her eyes. She braced herself for the impact, for the wet sound of bodies twisted past endurance, for the gouts of blood to join the Fallen’s on the floor.

Instead . . .

It was like nothing she’d ever felt: a stillness, a quiet like the eye in a storm, a slow, delicate weaving that drew, not on the ghosts, not on the City, but on something else entirely. The rift stopped, inches from the young man, who stood with his hands open and sweat glistening on his face, his hair raised on his scalp. For a moment—a brief, sharp moment that etched itself indelibly in Selene’s mind—he seemed to hold the weight of her spell in his hands, the whole of her fury and her anger—and then he opened his hands and it was gone, harmlessly snuffed out.

A witch, here? Why hadn’t he—?

She had little time for introspection. Time seemed to resume its normal flow; the young man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, lying bathed in the Fallen’s radiance. The girl, Ninon, stood for a moment, looking at him, looking at Selene; and then she spun on her heels and ran.

Selene made no movement to stop her. Ninon was hardly worth the trouble, and in any case it was all she could do to stand.

“You’re a fool,” Javier said gruffly, coming up behind her.

“You felt it?”

Javier shook his head as he moved to survey the wreckage. “Credit me with a little perception. You can’t draw on this much power and hope it’ll suffice to end fights. You usually don’t get a second chance of casting that kind of spell.”

“With amateurs, it usually suffices,” Selene said absentmindedly. She looked at the young man again. There was nothing special about him, no tremor of recognition racing up her arms. He was clearly no Fallen. But no witch—even high on angel essence, even with the most powerful artifacts of a House at her disposal—should have been able to do anything like this.

Her gaze moved, at last, to the Fallen. A young girl, black-haired, olive-skinned, sharp-featured, looking for all the world as if she’d just come from Marseilles or Montpellier. In the brief interval, her innate magic had had time to start healing the worst of her broken bones, though neither her wings nor the two fingers she’d lost would ever regrow. There were rules and boundaries set on the Fallen: the bitter cage of their existence on Earth that they all learned to live in.

“I heard from Madeleine,” Javier said. “She’s on her way with a couple helpers. Should be there in a couple minutes.”

“Good,” Selene said. “Go and prepare the car, will you?” She looked again at the young man, at the foreign features of his face. Annamites were a familiar sight in the city: they were citizens of France, after all, albeit, like all colonial subjects, second-rate ones. Emmanuelle, Selene’s lover, manifested as African; but Emmanuelle was a Fallen who had never left Paris in her life. Whatever the young man was, he was not and had never been a Fallen.

“As you wish,” Javier said. “I’ll send you the helpers to pick her up.”

Selene shook her head. “Not just her. We’ll have two passengers this time, Javier.”

She didn’t know what the young man was, but she most definitely intended to find out.

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About the Author

Aliette de Bodard lives and works in Paris, where she has a day job as a System Engineer. She studied Computer Science and Applied Mathematics, but moonlights as a writer of speculative fiction. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Obsidian and Blood trilogy of Aztec noir fantasies, as well as numerous short stories, which garnered her two Nebula Awards, a Locus Award and a British Science Fiction Association Award. Recent/forthcoming works include The House of Shattered Wings, a novel set in a turn-of-the-century Paris devastated by a magical war, and The Citadel of Weeping Pearls (October 2015), a novella set in the same universe as her Vietnamese space opera On a Red Station Drifting. She lives in Paris with her family, in a flat with more computers than warm bodies, and a set of Lovecraftian tentacled plants intent on taking over the place.

Visit her website.

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