After she’d gone, Asmodeus bowed to Selene, with the same old, usual irony. “And I shall see you later.”
“Asmodeus,” Selene said, when he started to move. He didn’t bother to turn around. “She’s right. You don’t care.”
A silence. Then, in a voice as cold as the chimes of winter: “Don’t presume to tell me about what and whom I should and shouldn’t care.”
And, with that, he was gone.
For what felt like an eternity, Selene stood there, trying to make sense of what he had said; knowing she was wasting her time, that he wouldn’t explain anything to anyone, least of all her. And now he was in her House looking for God knew what.
Great.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of Father Javier and Aragon, both in a mess and with the pale look of the sleepless. “Any news?” Selene asked.
Aragon shook his head. Father Javier said, “We’ve turned the House upside down. I think it’s gone—”
No. She didn’t have the strong link to the House Morningstar had had, another item on the long list of why she wasn’t and would never be Morningstar — but she was still linked to it, had still had toll taken from her and bound to the substance of the House. If she called the magic of the House to herself; if she held it, like a trembling breath, she could still feel the darkness that had slain Samariel; could taste it like bile and blood on her tongue. “It’s here,” she said. It hadn’t gone with Philippe, though there was but little doubt Philippe had been its catalyst. But he’d released something; something large and angry and deadly; and she had no idea where it could be hiding in the vast spaces and corridors of those disused buildings.
“I’ll need you to prepare,” she said to Father Javier. “And tell Choérine to do the same with her students.”
Javier had gone pale; though with his dark, Mediterranean countenance, it was merely a slight change of skin hues. “I have a few spells,” he said, “but you know the position of the Church—”
Selene smiled, bitterly. “I have faith. But faith isn’t always enough. And, to Aragon, “I’m sorry.”
Aragon shook his head. “I’m the one who should apologize. But it would be good if—”
“I know,” Selene said. Asmodeus be damned, she needed to see Emmanuelle; even if she was afraid of what she’d look like, of the new hollows the sickness would have carved into her cheekbones. “I’ll be by later.”
Aragon nodded, and withdrew. After a while, Javier did the same. He was too well-bred to say what he thought, but he wanted to protest. She could feel the mood of the House; knew what they all felt but wouldn’t say. They needed strong leadership, and they didn’t feel Selene was providing it, not anymore. It had been easy to head the House in the years of its power — or in as much of its power they could salvage, after the war and Morningstar’s departure — but now that the storm had come…
Well, she was all they had, and short of a miracle that Selene didn’t believe in, they’d have to weather this together.
Selene shook herself, and went to see Madeleine.
She shouldn’t have had to. There were far better uses of her time, and myriad things that needed to be done. But she was rattled, and the laboratory wasn’t far, and she was sure that just a few words would be enough to dispel Claire’s suggestions. All she was trying to do was set them at each other’s throat; to weaken Silverspires from within after failing to undermine it from without.
The laboratory was deserted: no sign of Madeleine, or Isabelle, though the latter’s red cloak lay on one of the large armchairs. An assortment of magical artifacts lay on the table, all of them shimmering with the potency of stored magic. There was a sheet with Madeleine’s painstaking, precise handwriting, making a note that some of the ones at the end would need to be emptied and renewed soon. Good. In times like this, it was better to know what they had; though they should think about storing more magic. She herself had been remiss on that, lately, with the various emergencies….
They couldn’t have been gone long, or planned to be gone for very long, given the state of disarray; though, to be fair, Madeleine’s laboratory was always in a state of disarray.
There was nothing in the laboratory to vindicate Claire’s suspicions. At least, nothing visible. Selene took a deep breath — what was she doing, giving in to suspicions? — and gathered to herself the magic of the House. For a moment, she hung in a timeless space; feeling the connections between the House and its dependents, the ghosts of the dead and the roiling, anguished magic spread throughout Paris; tasting blood on her tongue, and the darkness around them, barely held at bay by Morningstar’s wards.
There was… something in the laboratory, or rather the remnants of something. Selene spoke the words of a spell of retrieval, and let the magic guide her to a drawer in the secretary. When she opened it, it was empty, but a slight shimmering indicated a ward. She punched through it and the ward disintegrated, but the drawer was still empty.
Selene let go of the magic. Suspicions, nothing more; Claire playing them all for fools. She shouldn’t have entered her game; whatever secrets Madeleine was keeping, they were none of her business. God knew everyone from Javier to Aragon to her was keeping secrets — she might not be taking in all the strays, as Claire had accused her of, but many people in Silverspires had come here because it was a refuge — and one could seek refuge from many things, not all of which could be freely admitted.
She was about to leave the room when something caught her attention: something that jangled in the subtle tracery of magic, a feeling like something scraping her skin raw. She followed it to a smaller cabinet, which she opened. There was nothing there, either, in any of the compartments; but when she put her hand in one of them, she felt the scalding heat. Something powerful had been kept there: a pendant, judging by the empty jewelry box still bearing its imprint.
“Show me,” she whispered, and put her hand in the box. When she withdrew it, there were minute traces, like dust. Without the magic, she wouldn’t have seen them, but with it, they burned like raging fire. An intimately, obscenely familiar touch: a power that required its users to take always more, always more often — to find more bones, more Fallen corpses to strip — a power that fueled its existence on the death of her kind, an abomination that shouldn’t have been allowed to exist.
Angel essence.
Claire had been right, then, damn her.
Selene reached into the cabinet, and incinerated the jewelry box and every trace of essence it had contained: an empty, grandiloquent gesture, but it made her feel better.
Angel essence. How could Madeleine be so stupid? It was forbidden in Silverspires, because all it did was beget more deaths, more junkies clamoring for a fix; all that for a power they were too drugged to properly master. Morningstar had despised it, and she was no different. She would not have it in her House. Not now, not ever.
* * *
MADELEINE stood on the bridge, staring down into the waters of the Seine — fighting her instinct to take a few steps backward, to be safe from whatever might come up from the river. “Here?” she asked. Below her, black waves were lapping at the embankment. The stone was stained dark, with the oily residue of the water still clinging to the mortar; and the water itself was foaming, far more than it should have been — much as if you’d poured soap into a bath, though she very much doubted it was similarly innocuous. She wouldn’t have leaped into that water, even if you’d paid her. “That’s really not attractive—”
“I think it’s here.” Isabelle bit her lip. “That’s where he is, but they have to grant us entry.”