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effects; but then again, plenty of people weren’t former Immortals. Blood was the body’s embodiment of
khi
, of the vital breath that saturated the universe—the source of long life and stability. He closed his eyes—could still feel her, a tenuous presence at the back of his mind, like a distant pain.
    â€œI don’t know what to do,” Isabelle said.
    â€œAnd you think I do?” Philippe shook his head, unsure of where the conversation was going. He doubted the link could be broken, and with Selene’s spell on him he wasn’t about to attempt experiments.
    â€œYou have more experience,” she said, slowly.
    â€œI’m no Fallen,” Philippe said. “And not experienced in magic, either.” He’d never made use of magic that wasn’t his, or consumed the more refined magical drug of angel essence, save for that one moment of weakness—why did such a small thing always have such large consequences? But of course he understood about discipline, and how the smallest lapse could lead to the largest failures. “I can’t tell you what to do.”
    â€œSelene says no one can,” Isabelle said. She came into the room; and sat on the bed, by his side. He held himself rigid—trying to be polite; to not frighten her, even though everything within him screamed at him to move away as far as he could, as fast as he could. He couldn’t help breathing in her smell—musty, like old books falling into dust—couldn’t help feeling the raw magic in her, a temptation forever beckoning to him. No wonder mortals went mad over Fallen, one way or another; hungering for essence, for breath, or even for a simple touch. “But I’m not Selene. I need—”
    â€œAdvice?” Philippe said. It wasn’t much, but he could give her that, at least. “Look, it’s not a bad place, as Houses go.” It was the House keeping him prisoner, but that wasn’t her problem. “You have people to talk to, inside and outside it. I can’t give you guidance or wisdom; I’m not qualified.”
    â€œWhat about company?”
    Startled, he looked up at her; at the dark eyes that seemed to have no expression. “You’re among your kind here.”
    â€œThey’re old,” Isabelle said. Her hands, he saw suddenly, were shaking; the threads between them contracting and expanding on a rhythm that seemed to echo a heartbeat. “They talk about things they barely remember. I can’t—”
    â€œNeither can I,” Philippe said, more gently this time.
    â€œNo, but you can help me. Can’t you?” There
was
something in her eyes, a reflection of the fear and emptiness the City had left behind. What would it be like, to remember snatches of what you’d lost; to know that you were in the mortal world, away from the communion of angels or whatever else had fulfilled her in Heaven?
    Not far from how he’d felt, when he was first cast out of the company of Immortals: the bleak despair that had sent him roaming from end to end of Indochina; the black veil descending over the forests and the rivers, turning the chatter of town markets into small, petty tripe, and the beauty of mountain retreats into aimless desolation.
    There was a gulf between them—in age, in nature, in magic. But . . .
    They were not so different, after all—isolated and new to the House, trying to learn its rules fast enough to survive—and linked, by blood and magic—thrown into similar circumstances. No wonder she would see a kindred spirit in him, no matter how incongruous the thought was.
    â€œYou heard Selene. I’m not House; and I shouldn’t be here. I won’t stay,” he said.
    â€œI know,” Isabelle said. “But while you’re here . . .”
    â€œYou realize what you’re asking?” Philippe asked. “I cut your fingers. I tasted your