Asmodeus’s face swam out of the morass, his mouth open in a question that he couldn’t hear. Every word slid like drops of water on polished glass: the pain in his body had abated, but the other one was still raging on, a whirling storm of suffering and anger and the desire for revenge on all that had harmed him. In a rare moment of lucidity — clinging, desperately, to thoughts that were his, he understood. This was the heart of the curse. This was the tight knot of pain and rage and disappointment, the khi current of wood and water he had followed to this room, the primal scream that fueled the darkness.
Betrayal.
This was not his; not his rage, not a betrayal of him, but something far, far older; the event that called for justice; for revenge. This — this was not his pain. This was not the present where he was being torn apart by Asmodeus, but the past; the memory of someone else’s pain; of someone else’s death — except that knowing it didn’t help him, not one whit — the memories were too strong, an overwhelming maelstrom of power and rage that dragged him along until he could no longer tell what agony and rage belonged to him, and what didn’t.
One must seize power, Morningstar whispered, sitting in the fractured image of a red plush armchair, the wings on his back glinting like blades in the instant before they cut into flesh. One must be ruthless and utterly dedicated. And, nodding gravely, he said, I gave everything to this House, and I expect my students to do the same.
That same horrible pressure against his brain, that same exquisite and painful sensation, the rush of knowing he did his master’s will, that he would die for it — all that complex and conflicted love sharpened to pure hatred, as he hung suspended in the chains of another House, traded away to buy peace.
He — Morningstar had given everything to the House — everything — ruthlessly sacrificed his own student to a long, painful death, so the House would be safe…. He—
Revenge. Hatred. Betrayal. All there bubbling up from the past, overwhelming his mind — no wonder it was so strong; no wonder it still drove that curse like a sharpened, salted blade — that a master should betray his own pupil, his beloved child….
You understand, Morningstar whispered, except it wasn’t Morningstar; it was the black maw of some huge animal — the faint outline of leathery wings and claws, a shape that kept going in and out of existence — that slid across mirrors and crystal glasses, waiting until the time was right to strike….
No, no, no.
THIRTEEN. A THREAD OF WOOD, A THREAD OF WATER
ISABELLE was in Madeleine’s laboratory, gluing a panel of glass to the inside of a mirror frame, her face furrowed in concentration. Earlier, she had looked preoccupied and uneasy, working the fingers of her good hand into the hollow of her crippled one, as she always did when worried — though she’d shaken her head when Madeleine had asked her what was wrong. Not trusting enough — Madeleine, remembering Oris, fought an urge to ask her again, but it was useless. She couldn’t pry words out of Isabelle, not if the Fallen didn’t want to talk.
Madeleine turned her attention back to the vials, where Selene had stored a few breaths: not much magic, but enough to get someone out of trouble, if need be. She would need to seal those carefully, stoppering them with primed wax so the breath didn’t escape.
A sound brought her out of her reverie: a knock at the door. Madeleine opened it, to find Selene, Aragon and Emmanuelle on her doorstep. What—?
Selene was as impassive as ever, cool and composed and revealing nothing of her thoughts. But Emmanuelle’s face was ashen, her hands shaking.
“What is it?” Madeleine asked. Something grave, no doubt, to bring the three of them to her laboratory at this hour of the night. Thank God she hadn’t taken angel essence; she wasn’t sure she could disguise its effects from Selene’s sharp gaze; though she felt the lack of it keenly, her mind shriveled and small in a moment when she could have used all of her wits.
Selene’s gaze moved past her, to rest on Isabelle. “I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Your dedication is commendable.”
Supercilious and entitled, as always. “We all do our duties,” Madeleine said, dryly. Some of them better than others — it was a frightful thought, but what had Selene achieved, beyond opening them up to Hawthorn again — to reduce the safe House Morningstar had been so proud of to a tottering wreck? She quenched the thought before it could betray her, but the anger wouldn’t leave her. “What do you want?”
Selene completely ignored her. “I need your help,” she said to Isabelle.
Isabelle looked startled. “My help? But I don’t—”
“Don’t underestimate your powers, child.” Selene crossed the room and gently removed the mirror from Isabelle’s hands. “Listen to me, but don’t ask questions. There isn’t much time. Samariel is dead. Asmodeus has vanished, and so has Philippe. I need to find them, but it’s a large House and we can’t afford to search every room.”
Isabelle, as Selene had asked, did not speak up. Her face drained of color, in what seemed an eternity to Madeleine; but when she spoke, Selene was still waiting. “What do you need?”
“Your help. You’re still tied to Philippe, aren’t you? There’s a bond between the two of you, one I don’t quite understand.”
Isabelle flushed. “It doesn’t quite work like that. I can’t locate him, precisely. I just get images, and feelings, and only at certain times, when my mind isn’t busy with other things….”
“Please, child. There isn’t much time.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she seemed to have aged — her cheeks hollowed out, her hands shaking. “He’s in pain,” she said. “So much pain, dear God, how can he bear it all?”
Selene grimaced. “That’s not very helpful,” she said; but Madeleine, who was more observant, was there to catch Isabelle as she swayed and fell. Her body had gone rigid.
“His pain,” Madeleine said through gritted teeth. “That’s all she’s getting from him.” She didn’t even bother to hide her contempt from Selene. Isabelle was convulsing in her arms — her body arching backward while her skin turned deathly pale, the weight of her almost catching Madeleine off balance.
“I know.” Selene’s voice was cool. How could she keep her head, in a situation like this? “But I need her. Asmodeus is an old hand, and he’ll have obscured his location. I don’t have the time or the resources to search every room in the House.” She came to take Isabelle’s hand, her dark brow furrowed in thought. “Isabelle, I need you to focus. I can help you, but only if you let me.”
Magic blazed through her: a light from beneath the skin that cast every bone in sharp relief, a feeling of warmth drawn from the entire House, so strong it made Madeleine tremble. She ached for that power to go through her instead of Isabelle, to fill the emptiness within her, to wash away the rot in her lungs.
“Isabelle.”
Isabelle’s eyes opened. The brown iris had disappeared: they were white through and through, the color and harshness of seagulls’ feathers; and shining with the same unearthly radiance as Selene. “Pain,” she whispered, and said nothing else for a while. Her hands were clenched, her fingers held at an angle that seemed almost impossible — another trick of Fallen anatomy? Selene’s grip on her remained tight.