The Wondrous and the Wicked

by Page Morgan

  Marco said nothing, and after another stretch of silence, Ingrid turned around. The medical room was empty. Marco had left noiselessly, though she didn’t know if it had been before her bumbling half confession or after. Or during. All she knew was that she was alone in a room with a dead body.

  Strangely, she didn’t feel any lonelier than usual.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LONDON

  The moment the door to number 75 Eaton Square shut behind Gabby, she let out a breath and stormed toward her father’s waiting carriage. All she wanted was to climb inside, pull the shade, and forget the last thirty minutes of her life.

  The driver, busy conversing with a passing maid, did not see her. Gabby was moments away from clearing her throat to gain his attention when the carriage door opened from within. The steps were already down, so Gabby ascended quickly, ignoring the driver’s spluttering apologies as he finally saw her and belatedly offered his hand.

  “I just want to leave. Quickly,” she stressed, and ducked inside the carriage.

  She sat down, leaned against the cushions, and released a pent-up groan.

  Rory Quinn, seated on the opposite bench, took out his pocket watch and checked the hands.

  “A full half-hour. Yer patience must be improvin’,” he said with a grin.

  Gabby closed her eyes. It wasn’t Mirabelle’s fault. She’d been one of Gabby’s closest friends before the move to Paris. Perhaps that was why Gabby had finally felt compelled to accept her invitation, after ignoring scores of others that had arrived at Waverly House in the days following her return to London. Surely Mirabelle would be sweet enough to overlook the grotesque scarring on the left side of her face. She wouldn’t mention the puffy white tracks that ran in a hooked arc from Gabby’s eye to the corner of her mouth. The ones she tried to keep hidden beneath dark veils, all of which she’d slashed on a diagonal. No, Mirabelle hadn’t mentioned them.

  But her two other, unexpected guests had felt no such reservations.

  “No more teas. No more parties,” Gabby said, her gloved fingers smoothing the dark emerald tulle of the day’s veil.

  Rory had seen her scars plenty of times, but she still didn’t wish to showcase them. He’d been with her all month, living in Waverly House, acting the part of bodyguard quite well. His presence went along nicely with the story of how Gabby had received such dreadful wounds—that some deranged murderer had attacked her with a three-pronged hook before making off with and killing her lady’s maid, Nora. Rory was simply an extra measure of protection Lord Brickton had put in place for his daughter, considering the murderer had never been found.

  Of course, the murderer had never existed. A hellhound had killed Nora and torn up Gabby’s face, and even though Lord Brickton knew as much, he still refused to speak about anything remotely supernatural. That was, whenever he bothered to be at Waverly House. Which wasn’t often.

  “Teas and parties don’t suit ye anyhow,” Rory replied as the driver rocked onto the bench and whistled to the grays.

  “They did. Once,” Gabby said softly. She sat up and attempted to hold a proper posture.

  After a full month of being back in London and one horrible outing to a ball, during which she had suffered relentless inspection and false sympathy, Gabby had retreated to Waverly House and taken to living as a hermit. All of London society knew she was there. They all knew she was avoiding them. And to her surprise, Gabby didn’t give a fig.

  Rory sat with his knees wide and his coat undone, revealing the vest of blessed silver daggers he wore instead of a waistcoat. He was no gentleman. He was a demon hunter, and a fine one, at that. Nolan had assigned him as Gabby’s protective escort, and he took the job most seriously. Wherever Gabby went, Rory attended her. He had even claimed the bedroom two doors down from hers at Waverly House, much to her father’s displeasure. Lord Brickton had been far too intimidated by the demon hunter to refuse him the room, though.

  “Listen,” Rory said. He rubbed his fingers against the knees of his tan trousers. “The London faction tracked me down while ye were takin’ tea.”

  “You mean while I was resisting the urge to chuck my tea at Mirabelle’s friends,” she muttered.

  Gabby had barely swallowed her first scalding sip before the two girls had brought up the scars. Mirabelle had flushed fiercely at their silly questions. Did the scars still pain her? Was it very difficult to look into the mirror? Was there nothing a surgeon could do to reduce their size?

  The carriage turned a corner and lurched, shaking Gabby from the humiliating memory of standing up and excusing herself after a second round of questions, one of which touched on her handsome Scottish bodyguard.

  “They got a telegram,” Rory went on. “From Nolan.”

  A cascade of stones poured into the pit of her stomach. There was a flutter of hope in her chest, though piteously small.

  “May I see it?” she asked. Nolan hadn’t written a word to her all month. Gabby had sent one letter. A simple thing, saying she’d arrived in London, that she was safe. Her pen had hovered over the fine stationery while she thought of how much she missed him. How much she loved him.

  She had signed off with a safe Yours, Gabby and sent it before she could humiliate herself. When no reply had come, she was glad she had held back.

  “It’s encrypted. Ye won’t have a clue what it says. The London boys decoded it, though, and it seems yer sister had herself a spot of mischief this morn.”

  Gabby sat up straight. “Is she hurt? Was it Axia?”

  Rory held up a hand, his palm bare. Demon hunters didn’t wear gloves. Too slippery on the handles of their weapons. “She’s just fine. Her gargoyle was wi’ her, and it wasnae Axia.”

  Gabby relaxed her spine, relieved. Though not wholly. Axia was still a threat to Ingrid, still able to send her demon pets to the human realm to try to fetch her to the Underneath. Gabby should have been there, in Paris, at her sister’s side. Not hidden away in a big old house on Grosvenor Square.

  “It was an Alliance assassin,” Rory said.

  The carriage ground to a stop, and so did Gabby’s breathing. Before her mind could even form a thought, Rory again held up his palm.

  “She’s safe. The assassin’s dead.”

  “The Directorate sent him,” she said, remembering what her sister and Marco had told them about Carrick Quinn’s confession. Gabby had believed them, of course, though it hadn’t gone over well with the rest of the Paris faction.

  “They canna know that,” Rory said as the carriage broke through a knot of traffic and started rolling again.

  “Of course they know. Who gives assassins their orders?” Gabby challenged.

  Rory sighed. “The Directorate.”

  She cocked her head and crossed her arms. “There you have it.”

  Rory removed his bowler and his mess of wavy ginger hair sprang forward, nearly covering his eyes. He didn’t like hats, she guessed. He was always taking his off and running his fingers through his hair, holding the bowler in his lap until he stepped into public view. Gabby figured the brim impaired his side vision, and for a demon hunter, being aware of one’s surroundings was of paramount importance.

  “I need to go back,” Gabby said. Her body might have returned to London, but her heart was still in Paris.

  “No.”

  Rory was probably used to telling her that by now, she thought.

  “Ingrid writes that the Dispossessed don’t know their tails from their wings. They don’t have a new elder; they don’t have any order at all. It’s been a month. The flame of vengeance must have turned cold for them by now, don’t you think?”

  Rory leaned forward. The blades strapped to his vest shifted as well. “Vengeance is a flame that stays lit, Gabby, even if it’s only the bluest of embers. One breath of air is all it takes. Yer stayin’ here.”

  Nolan’s cousin could be intimidating when he wanted to be, and right then, his frosty gaze and the tight muscles of his jaw urged her into silen
ce. Fine. She wouldn’t argue. But she truly did not think—could not think—that she would be forever barred from setting foot in the city of Paris. What if Mama, Ingrid, and Grayson never left? Mama had her art gallery to see to, Grayson would never wish to be near Papa again, and Ingrid … well, Ingrid had Luc. A gargoyle. Yes, her cautious, intelligent, level-headed sister was in love with a gargoyle. Luc had been taken away from the abbey and rectory, but Gabby knew Ingrid would not be so easily deterred.

  Gabby missed them all more than she’d imagined possible. To be cut off from them … from Nolan. Perhaps that was what he wanted. The thought turned her throat into a hard knot. She turned so that Rory could see only the veiled half of her face. She peered out the window. They had not traveled north toward the stately homes of Grosvenor Square. Gabby noted the salty tang of the river Thames, smelled the bite of an oil and grease factory and the familiar malty scent of a brewery. Rory must have directed their driver to take them to Battersea.

  “I don’t know if I’m up for sparring today,” she said, forcing her voice steady as their carriage clattered along the industrial road lined with brick and clapboard buildings.

  “Yes, ye are,” Rory replied. She shook her head, but knew he was right. There was nothing she liked more than sparring. Rory had been taking her to an abandoned Battersea dry dock for the last three weeks, and there, Gabby had resumed her weapons training for when—if—she was allowed into the Alliance.

  Whenever she held a sword or dagger in her hand, she felt essential, as if she was doing something important rather than whiling away her time in exile. The exertions of swordplay, from wielding the heavy blade and parrying with quick steps to lunging, thrusting, and absorbing the impact from Rory’s opposing blade, left her muscles sore and her chest heaving. She was by no means competent, but she wasn’t as green as she’d been in Paris, either.

  The carriage drew to a stop, and after letting them out, the driver continued. Most likely to a tavern for a pint of ale and a meat pie, Gabby guessed. He’d been accommodating their secret outings in return for an hour of freedom.

  The long, narrow building jutted out over the swirling brown Thames and had an open access point to the river. Its clapboards were whitened with age, wind, and weather. Inside, the slipway, shaped like a wooden cradle, had once held ships in dry dock.

  Rory had stored Gabby’s short sword in his coat. He withdrew it and, without warning, tossed it toward her. She lunged and caught the handle of silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The pommel, a hollow sphere of silver filigreed scrollwork, was tucked tight against her wrist. She pointed the tip of the sword at Rory’s head.

  “I might have sliced off my fingers had I caught that poorly,” she said, her heart already beating faster.

  He raised his arms and withdrew the two short swords resting in a cross-sheath at his back, under his coat. He swung them in an ostentatious display, the blades circling through the salty air.

  “I’ve taught ye better than that, laoch.”

  The Scottish word meant “warrior,” and Rory had taken to calling her that the way Nolan had called her lass. She closed her eyes briefly and pushed Nolan from the front of her mind. He couldn’t live there forever.

  “Come at me,” Rory commanded, his swords at his sides. She would never get a strike in, that much she knew. He was too stealthy, too fast.

  She unpinned her hat and tossed it to the floor. The cold air coming off the choppy Thames through the access gap ruffled her dark hair and gusted over her cheeks. Rory paid her scars no attention. He never had, and Gabby knew, without his having to say it, that they weren’t a distraction for him the way they were for so many others. Sometimes, if she didn’t smile or squint, she couldn’t feel the tightness of the scars. She could even pretend they weren’t there.

  Gabby walked a circle around him, trying to find a way in. Some method of surprise. She locked eyes with him, forgetting his two swords and her one. So much of Rory’s training so far had been about mind play. Hunting required the skill to predict your opponent’s next move and the ability to mask your own.

  Gabby lowered her sword until it was at rest, as both of his were. Still holding his stare, she took a step toward him. The aged wood floor groaned beneath her. Rory’s brows pulled together almost imperceptibly. She’d still seen it, though. He was trying to read her. Trying to predict her tactic. She took another step and Rory’s glacier-blue eyes sharpened.

  Just one more step and she’d be close enough to swing her sword up so the tip was at his navel. He’d block it, of course. Rory’s strict attention wavered, diverted to Gabby’s left cheek and the track of scars. Trying to distract her, now, was he? Playing on her deepest insecurity. It wouldn’t work. She knew he didn’t see her the way Mirabelle’s friends did, as pitiful and pathetic. Nolan had once said that every scar told a story. Every scar was a victory. She wanted to believe him.

  Gabby cut her sword up. The silver tip whispered against Rory’s coat before he blocked her strike with his right blade. The trance was broken. Gabby hopped back with a wild smile.

  “I did it!” She belted out a laugh. “I had you!”

  A wry smile pulled on the side of his mouth. “What makes ye think I didna plan to give ye that taste of confidence?” He pressed forward.

  Gabby bounced back and to the side, deflecting a teasing jab of his sword. “I saw it in your eyes, Rory Quinn. You were distracted.”

  Her shoulder hit a rusty iron hook the size of her head hanging from the beamed ceiling. She shoved it toward Rory with another laugh. He ducked and moved out of its return path. Gabby kept her eye on the hemp rope swinging back into place a moment too long. Rory slapped the flat side of one sword against her waist before she could curl away, out of reach.

  “Now who’s distracted, laoch?”

  The lick of his sword hadn’t hurt, but it shamed her into making a forward thrust of her own. His blade clashed against hers, and they glided, their silver blades singing together as they circled each other. They were both grinning like fools. With every step Gabby took around the dry dock with Rory, the awful visit to Mirabelle’s faded, and her keen longing for Paris, her sister, and Nolan diminished—at least for the time being.

  Rory’s smile, something he seemed to save for these practice sessions, wavered and then fell. He withdrew his blade from hers, and the loss of his equalizing pressure made Gabby stumble. He pivoted on his heel and faced the sliding warehouse door that he and Gabby had closed less than ten minutes before. It was open now.

  “Show yerself,” Rory ordered.

  Someone else was here? Gabby stepped to the side for a better view of the door. Rory’s sword slashed up and barred her.

  “I thought you said this place was abandoned,” she whispered, worrying that they’d been caught trespassing.

  “It is.”

  A tickle of premonition ran along her spine and Gabby spun around. A man stood near the dry dock’s access point, his back to the mud-colored Thames. Rory pivoted again, holding his swords down and behind him, out of view. Gabby did the same.

  “State yer business here,” Rory said. No questions. Just a command.

  The man stood with arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked indignant, as if he had every right to be there. Perhaps this was private property after all.

  The man moved out of the opening and onto the raised floor beside the slipway. Without the bright gray sky behind him, Gabby could better see his features. He had a light ginger beard and mustache, and he wore a clean suit. Nothing fine; rather, the plain cut of a house servant.

  “I wanted to see the one who killed the Paris elder,” the man said. His eyes locked with Gabby’s.

  Rory’s blades purred through the air as he brought them into view again. Gabby’s grip on her sword’s handle weakened, her breath suddenly short.

  “Gargoyle,” she rasped, though only loud enough for Rory’s ears. He gave a slight nod.

  This man was a Dispossessed. She’d known there w
ould be gargoyles in London. The Alliance here had said they were on decent terms with the local Dispossessed. She just hadn’t met any of them yet.

  “Now ye’ve seen her,” Rory replied coolly.

  The gargoyle continued to look past Rory, his attention solely on Gabby.

  “I’ve got more to say.” He looked and sounded as human and British as Gabby. But he wasn’t human. Not anymore. She knew that in less than five seconds, this man in front of her could shed his skin and become a massive and deadly beast.

  “Then say it,” she said, regaining her grip on the smooth mother-of-pearl handle.

  “It’s about Lady Ingrid Waverly and the attack on her this morning. I’ve had a communication from Marco, of the Paris Wolves.” Before either Gabby or Rory could ask how, he explained. “I had a territory in Paris once. Got reassigned back here, but we’re still in contact.”

  Rory’s arms remained steady, his twin blades poised.

  “He sent a warning for you not to return under any circumstances,” the gargoyle continued. “Your presence would only put your sister in more danger.”

  Gabby had been Marco’s human for a mere forty-eight hours, and yet somehow he still knew she would wrestle with the notion of coming home. His foresight vexed and impressed her in equal measure.

  “So yer saying the Paris Dispossessed still seek vengeance for what happened to Lennier?” Rory asked with a gloating, sidelong glance toward Gabby. She huffed and looked away, not liking that he’d been right earlier. Perhaps it would never be safe to return to Paris.

  “Of course they do. If an Alliance member rubbed out our elder, we wouldn’t quit seeking vengeance.”

  Gabby clenched her jaw. “I’m not Alliance.”