Means nothing? Isabelle had said the same thing — he felt the same words of the old oath rising through him, and pushed them down. There was no point: Asmodeus wouldn’t know what he was talking about. “I abide by my word,” Philippe said, drawing himself to his full height. It was all nonsense — here he was, vexed because some murderous bastard Fallen wouldn’t trust his word? That was hardly the priority.
Asmodeus came closer. As he walked, something gathered behind him — shadows, Philippe thought at first, his heart in his throat, shadows like the ones in the ballroom — darkness pooling from the walls of the place, all the despair and pain gathering into the shadow of huge wings; until Asmodeus stood close enough to touch him, and, as with Morningstar, the weight of his presence was strong enough to make Philippe’s knees tremble. “Yes,” Asmodeus said. “Fear me. I walked this earth before you were born, boy, and I’ve seen enough things to turn your blood to ice. I’ve done many of them, too, and I won’t hesitate before doing them to you. All of them, do you understand me?”
That — that wasn’t what he feared, but he couldn’t get the words past his frozen lips. Beyond Asmodeus, he could catch glimpses of movement; flashes of wings and fangs; of biting, rending sharpness; and his chest was so tight with the rising curse, his ribs were going to burst into splinters—
“Do you understand me?”
The eyes, behind their glasses, the mad, fiery gaze; the pressure of the curse against his mind… I was born long before you, Philippe thought, trembling. When you were still rebelling in Heaven, I had a family — father, mother, wife, children. I… ascended. I became Immortal. You’re nothing compared to me.
He had to believe that; to hold on to that thought — and not to dwell on where he was, in a cell under the earth with close to no recourse — he found the khi elements leaping into his hands, eager to do battle, though to reveal himself, now, here, was a double-edged weapon — there were no shortages of Fallen here, more than enough raw power to utterly extinguish him….
“Asmodeus!”
Selene stood in the doorway, her eyes burning. Threads of magic spun around her, drawn from the House itself, like a hive surrounded by a hundred swarms of bees. “Get out. Now.”
“I was just getting started,” Asmodeus said. He turned to face her; the overwhelming aura lessened; and then died altogether, as the shadows around Asmodeus departed. Philippe took in a deep, shaking breath — fresh air, though was it going to last?
Because, after all, the curse wasn’t going to go away; not when it was so tightly tied to him.
“I know you weren’t far in front of me,” Selene said, grimly, to Asmodeus. “You left your goons at the door to stop me, and a further two in the corridor.”
“Oh dear. I do so hope they’re not harmed.” Asmodeus made it sound like a threat.
Selene did not smile, or move from her place on the threshold. “They slowed me down a bit. As did the other heads of Houses, as you intended.”
“Of course.” Asmodeus left Philippe’s side, and bowed to her, though there was no respect in the gesture.
“This is my House, Asmodeus,” Selene said. “You may mock it; you may think we’re degenerate and doomed to fail—”
“I didn’t say that.” Asmodeus’s smile was ironic.
“No. You worked on it, very hard.” Selene raised a hand; and Asmodeus flinched: a fraction of a movement only, but clear enough that Philippe could see it. “As I said, this is still my House, and I’m still head of House. Philippe is under my protection, and I won’t give him up.”
Philippe had never thought he’d be glad to be claimed by a House. “Then consider this.” Asmodeus’s smile was cold. “You’re responsible for this. Even if you’re not the one who ordered the killings, you’ve still failed to protect your guests.”
“Guests? You knew what you were doing when you were coming here, Asmodeus. You wanted to invade us and humiliate us, by showing we were incapable of investigating our own troubles. You knew Silverspires was under attack, and you brought more people here! It’s hardly my fault if you got burned.”
“You—” Asmodeus’s face twisted, and for a moment Philippe thought he was going to lunge at Selene. He controlled himself with a visible effort; his voice, when he spoke, was cold and contemptuous. “I will demand reparations, Selene.”
“And you will have them.”
“Will I?” Asmodeus pointed to Philippe, who still hadn’t moved from his place by the wall.
Selene didn’t move. “He had nothing to do with it.” But her voice lacked the force of conviction, and Asmodeus must have felt that. Or perhaps he would have reacted the same way regardless of what Selene said.
“Possibly yes, possibly not. But you know how reparations work, Selene. Eye for eye. Blood for blood.”
“You quote the Bible now?” Philippe asked. He couldn’t help himself: he should have been more afraid, since it was his fate they were debating. But they were passing him around like some magical parcel — weighing and dissecting and selling him like coffee or rubber or anything else they owned.
Asmodeus did not even turn. “You will be silent.” And then, to Selene: “You know what I want.”
Selene nodded, but her gaze was wary. She didn’t protest Philippe’s innocence again. Her dress rippled in the wind from the corridor as she bent her head left and right. “Reparations usually involve the guilty party, Asmodeus.”
Asmodeus smiled. “That would be you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And so do you. Reparations are a gesture of goodwill, Selene. If you do not meet my demands — well, I and the other heads of Houses have to ask ourselves how sorry you are, exactly, about the attack on Samariel.”
Selene’s hands had clenched into fists, but she didn’t move. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll think on it. In the meantime, you will leave me access to Philippe.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of impeding you. As you say, it’s still your House.” He left, without turning back, but the irony of his words hung in the air long after he had gone.
“Sorry,” Philippe said to Selene.
“Not as sorry as you’ll be if Asmodeus gets his way,” Selene snapped. She came into the room, bringing the smell of expensive perfume with her: patchouli and a hint of some other scent he couldn’t identify, a breath from an entirely different world.
Philippe took a deep breath, and spoke, trying to put everything he had into a casual lie. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”
Selene did not answer. She was watching him, scrutinizing him from all angles. On show again; a freak; a man for sale. “My spell is almost gone,” she said sharply.
Philippe bit back a curse. Of course she’d know how her own work had fared. “And I’m still here.”
“That’s not the question.” Selene watched him for a while; and then she sighed. “I can’t read you, Philippe, or whatever your real name is.”
Gone. Dead in the war, like so many things. “I tried to break the spell on my own,” Philippe said. “But it didn’t work.”
“Of course it wouldn’t,” Selene said. She glanced at the door, where Asmodeus’s two guards still waited. Of course she wouldn’t admit that Philippe was more than he seemed, not in front of them.
“I think—” Philippe shook his head, and went for the lie nearest to the truth. “Something happened in Samariel’s bedroom. Something that undid it, but I don’t know what. It was like nothing I’d ever seen.”
Selene’s gaze rested on him; he couldn’t read her expression, much as she couldn’t read him. Then she started weaving magic, frowning — a cool cocoon that wrapped around them both, magnifying sounds until all he could hear was the sound of his own breath. “There. This should keep Asmodeus from listening in.”