The Wondrous and the Wicked

by Page Morgan

  When Grayson remained quiet, Vander let out an irritated breath and took his coat from one of the wall pegs.

  “I’m meeting Ingrid in twenty minutes,” he said, shrugging into his long, faded winter coat. Even if Vander had money, Grayson didn’t think he’d spend it on a new coat or suit. For a brief moment, he thought of his father, Lord Brickton, and what the stuffy old goat’s expression would be if he learned his daughter was planning to marry a poor reverend.

  Not that Vander had proposed yet.

  “I’ll understand if you don’t want to meet anymore,” Grayson said as Vander crouched to slide a long, narrow trunk out from under his bed. “I know it isn’t easy for you to keep secrets from Ingrid or to feel what I normally feel because of this damn blood.”

  Vander twirled the small dial of a lock set into the trunk. Left, right, then left again. The hinges sighed their release.

  “I want to help you, Grayson.” The trunk opened to reveal an impressive collection of blessed silver weaponry nestled in form-fitting velvet cushions of midnight blue. Vander removed the hand crossbow he usually wore underneath his coat, two silver darts, and a light rapier.

  “Besides, I don’t exactly mind recovering from our meetings,” he added with a wry grin.

  His “recovery” involved seeing Ingrid and entering into her dust field just enough to drown out the hellhound symptoms. Lectrux abilities were apparently much easier to live with.

  “Where are you meeting?” Grayson asked.

  Vander sheathed the blessed weapons and held up his hands, palms out. “Don’t worry, big brother. We’ll be in full public view. I won’t be able to do more than hold her hand.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Probably.”

  Grayson feigned a scowl but quickly let it dissolve. He liked Vander Burke. He was going to be a bloody reverend. What older brother—even one who was only six minutes older—wouldn’t want his sister to fall in love with a reverend?

  “Before you leave,” Vander said, adjusting his spectacles, “I have some potentially good news.”

  He nodded toward the table at the foot of the bed, and the needle and syringe kit Grayson had become acquainted with during his last de-dusting. Vander had been wondering, even before hunting Grayson down in Montmartre: If his dust could absorb another person’s dust, what then could his blood do? Could it absorb the potency of a Duster’s blood? At their last meeting, he had tied a rubber tourniquet around Grayson’s bicep, and, using the needle and syringe from his kit, drawn a vial of his blood. He’d planned to draw a vial of his own blood, mix the two samples, and then watch and wait.

  “You warned me not to expect much,” Grayson said, though he’d let his hope run wild anyway.

  Vander hunched over the microscope and used the thick steel knobs to focus the lens. “My warning still applies. However”—he stepped aside and gestured for Grayson to have a look through the eyepiece—“the samples aren’t clotting.”

  Grayson held his breath. That was promising, at least. Vander had explained how blood from one person did not always mix well with blood from another. Transfusions were risky, according to the phlebotomy text he had been reading, because there was a high likelihood that the joining bloods might clot, spread through the recipient’s body, and stop the heart altogether.

  “We’re a match,” Grayson said, bending over the microscope and adjusting the focus until the multiplication lenses showed the blood cells pressed between each slide. They were perfect little pillowy cells.

  “We can try a small injection.” Vander failed to mask the thrill his new experiment gave him. “Come to Hôtel Bastian tonight, after most of the patrols have gone out.”

  Grayson clapped Vander on the shoulder and refrained from thanking him yet again. The demon hunter raised his finger.

  “But like I said—”

  “Don’t get my hopes up,” Grayson finished for him. He grabbed his hat from the cane-back chair and tipped it toward Vander before slipping into the corridor.

  The smell of musty carpet and rotting wooden crossbeams set in the plaster walls didn’t bother him as much on the way out as they had on the way in. His dust had been reduced, and for the time being, he felt comfortably distant from his curse.

  The stairwell took him to the street-side door and deposited him on the sidewalk.

  “Better?”

  His friend Léon leaned against the limestone exterior, ankles and arms crossed. Léon had walked with him to rue de Berri but, as usual, declined to go up to Vander’s room. He wanted nothing to do with dust reduction. Not too long ago, Léon had nearly allowed the Daicrypta to drain his blood in order to be rid of it. Like Grayson, Léon had lost control of his demon half once. Grayson had taken the life a prostitute in London, and Léon had killed his own parents and younger brother.

  But now, after having spent more time with Constantine and a handful of other Dusters, Léon felt at ease with his demon side. His arachnae blood gave him fangs, deadly venom, and the surprisingly useful ability to create silken web at his fingertips. All controllable, apparently.

  “I can’t smell your blood,” Grayson answered. “And considering your blood smells like a pair of dirty socks, yes—much better.” He ducked as Léon made a swipe for his hat.

  “I do not understand,” Léon said, his French accent heavy. They spoke to one another in English mostly, since Grayson’s French wasn’t much better than Ingrid’s. “Without your dust, how are you to protect yourself?”

  They started toward the wide boulevard of the Champs-Élysées. Grayson knew Dusters had been going missing the last week or two. He’d eventually gone back to Clos du Vie for another lesson with Constantine, and it had gone more smoothly than the first. Grayson had returned many times now, and at his last session, the old man had warned him to be vigilant.

  “Still no word from Marianne?” Grayson asked to avoid Léon’s question. The girl had hellhound blood, like Grayson, though she hadn’t fully shifted yet.

  Constantine had started combining his students into small groups, allowing them to form acquaintances. The old man had thought the approach might be better than having his students learn how to control their base instincts and desires individually, feeling isolated and freakish.

  Léon shook his head. That made four Dusters in just the past week.

  “The rumor is that gargoyles are doing this,” Léon said as they came upon the busy Champs-Élysées.

  Grayson hadn’t met many gargoyles, but he couldn’t imagine Luc would have anything to do with killing Dusters. If Marco had not become bound to Ingrid, the Wolf might have developed an appetite for Duster blood. Not now, though. Yann, a griffin chimera that had attempted to kill Grayson once, couldn’t be trusted. He’d been Lennier’s comrade and likely still craved retaliation against Gabby.

  “If that’s the case, we’re bird bait,” Grayson muttered. Léon huffed a laugh.

  “But if you had your dust like you should …,” he said, not needing to finish his thought.

  Grayson stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped around an ankle-deep puddle of slushy gutter water.

  “I want to be human, Léon.”

  Léon was the only one who knew about Grayson’s meetings with Vander. The other Dusters he’d gotten to know through Constantine’s lessons were like Léon—practically proud of their demon dust. They acted as if they felt special instead of just strange. They didn’t understand how the blood ate away at Grayson.

  “You cannot be, mon ami,” Léon replied softly.

  Grayson hadn’t told his friend about Vander’s latest theory or the blood test. If it worked … if Vander’s blood could cancel out Grayson’s demon blood, even if for a little while … it could be the answer to everything.

  They crossed the boulevard and Grayson turned left, heading toward Place de la Concorde. Léon drew to a stop.

  “Are you not coming back to the room?” he asked. “Pierce and the others are meeting us there soon.”

  He and Léon had moved i
nto a crummy little place on the left bank a few blocks away from the Eiffel Tower and the mass of exposition buildings erected around the Champs de Mars. It was one room, with no running water and a single brazier for heat, but without funds, it was the best the two of them were able to afford. Their Duster friends preferred the place to their own homes, considering most of them still lived with their families.

  “In a while,” Grayson answered. A ball of nervous energy tightened in his stomach. “I need to try to find someone.”

  He felt slightly guilty that it wasn’t Ingrid. However, Vander was about to meet with her anyway. Fresh out of dust, Grayson didn’t want to waste any time. Ingrid and Mama had not been the only people he’d been avoiding. Or missing.

  “The Alliance girl,” Léon guessed.

  Grayson’s smile came involuntarily. “Her name is Chelle.”

  Léon rolled his eyes. “I know her name, you fool. You talk about her even when you sleep.”

  “I do not,” Grayson said, but Léon was too busy laughing.

  “You are like one of Shakespeare’s plays. All tragic and star-crossed and depressing. She does not even like you, mon ami.”

  Léon was right about that. Chelle didn’t like him. There had been one moment, though, when she’d seemed as if she might be softening toward him. A moment when, if Grayson had possessed the nerve, he might have kissed her. But that was before he’d confessed to ripping out a girl’s throat back in London.

  Chelle was going to skewer him. He still had to see her, though: her clenched jaw and dark, flashing eyes. He yearned to hear her impertinent voice commanding him to go away.

  “You are going to humiliate yourself,” Léon said.

  Grayson shoved him hard enough to send him into one of the icy gutter pools. Léon swore in French, still laughing.

  “I know I am, but I’m tired of looking at your sorry face all the time,” he called, racing away before Léon could counterattack.

  Léon waved in surrender, kicking his legs and shaking out his soaked trousers and shoes. As they parted ways, Grayson swallowed the urge to turn around and walk back to the shabby room with his friend. It would be easier than seeing Chelle. But if he could control himself this time with Chelle, perhaps he’d try stopping by the rectory soon.

  Ingrid didn’t need him. She was safe with Marco and Vander. But he needed her. And he needed to prove that he could be the Grayson she remembered and trusted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Champs de Mars didn’t usually look this way. At least, that was what Vander was telling Ingrid as they strolled down the crushed-gravel esplanade toward the iron behemoth that was the Eiffel Tower. Vander, who stood more than an arm’s length from Ingrid, gestured to the palatial three-story buildings surrounding them.

  “They’re constructed out of plaster,” he said. “Quick to go up, and even faster coming down, I suppose.”

  The buildings, all connected by arcaded façades and domed entrances, had been built specifically for the Exposition Universelle, opening in just over two weeks. Ingrid’s mother’s art gallery would be opening that week as well. She and Mama had spent the last month working furiously to ready the abbey. The stained-glass windows had all been repaired, each alcove chapel cleaned out and dusted, and the organ tuned, and men had come in to construct walls to run between the nave and the side aisles, where most of the art would be hung.

  Ingrid had exhausted herself with the work, taking up much of the manual labor on her own. A scandalous thing for a lady of the British peerage, but it had been a way to drive out thoughts of Grayson and Gabby—and Luc.

  “It seems a shame,” Ingrid said of the exposition buildings. “They’re beautifully done. Especially the Château d’Eau.”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the head of the Champs de Mars. The soaring Eiffel Tower sat at one end of the esplanade and the ornate Château d’Eau at the other. A grand, tiered fountain surrounded an extravagantly carved dais set in the center of the chateau. She’d heard that the fountain would be illuminated at night once the exposition began, as would the Eiffel Tower.

  The glass roof of the Palace of Electricity rose behind the chateau. All the electricity required for the fair was going to be generated right there, inside that one, enormous building. It topped the straight line of the Champs de Mars like the top bar of the letter T. The engineers were likely testing the generators, because she could hear the low hum of machinery. There was a subtle electrical charge in the air.

  “How are the gloves working?” Vander asked after a beat of silence.

  Ingrid held her hands clasped before her as they walked, the soft, buff kid gloves looking as fashionable as those of any of the other ladies strolling the esplanade. Of course, those other ladies would have been hard-pressed to find a pair such as these in any Paris shop. Ingrid doubted they would find the paper-thin metal disks sewn into each fingertip very practical. However, when one wished to contain sparks of electricity erupting from one’s fingertips, those disks came in rather useful.

  Ingrid clasped her hands tighter and felt the stiff, unyielding tips of each finger. “Quite well. I haven’t accidentally electrocuted anyone in days,” she replied, winning a laugh from Vander.

  They had designed the gloves together after Ingrid had joked about needing to carry around a lightning rod in order to contain her volatile ability. An idea had lit Vander’s eyes. “A lightning rod at each fingertip,” he had returned.

  The little disks absorbed the runoff energy that happened to leak out, but Ingrid was getting much better at controlling her electric impulses.

  “Were you wearing them this morning?” he asked.

  Ingrid paused as they crossed under the shady base of the tower. He hadn’t mentioned the attack until now. Earlier, when they had met for their stroll at the gigantic Ferris wheel, the Grand Roue de Paris, Vander had said nothing. He’d charged up to her, directly into her dust field, and had cupped her cheeks with his ungloved hands. They’d stood like that for a half a minute or more, just staring at each other, Vander’s warm hands so inappropriately pressed against her skin. Ingrid had been terrified that he might actually kiss her. But he’d let her go and stepped away, Ingrid’s relieved breath shuddering between them.

  “Does it matter if I was wearing my gloves?” she answered now. “Vander, it was an Alliance assassin, and yet Hans still refuses to admit the Directorate sent him.”

  “You shouldn’t have been under that bridge.”

  Ingrid bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. She was worn out from listening to everyone tell her how idiotic she’d been. It especially bothered her that they were all correct.

  Vander invaded her field of dust once again to take her elbow. He brought her to a halt at one of the tower’s wide pillars. Reluctantly, she met his warm, golden-brown gaze. She despised admitting she was wrong. Thankfully, Vander didn’t allow her the chance.

  “I should have listened to you,” he whispered.

  Vander stood a full head taller than Ingrid. He tilted his face toward hers. Men and women walked arm in arm all up and down the esplanade, but Ingrid still felt as if she and Vander were standing more intimately than was proper.

  “I wanted to believe Carrick had lost his mind when he told you those things about the Directorate.” Vander sighed, and the quick puff of air caressed her ear.

  The Alliance was the only family he had. Ingrid knew he hadn’t wanted to believe they would stoop so low.

  “I don’t know whom to trust,” he said, his head still tilted toward hers.

  A smile pulled at her lips. “That’s easy. You can trust Nolan and Chelle and Constantine. And don’t forget Marco.” Vander scowled and Ingrid gently nudged him. “You don’t have to like him.”

  Vander caught her hand against his chest before she could pull it away. Now that she knew what his dust did, she could feel the subtle shift in her own body whenever he stood too close to her: the rise of gooseflesh along her arms and legs and the
comforting warmth low in her stomach. He hadn’t risked absorbing this much of her dust in a long while.

  Ingrid’s eyes flitted to his mouth. He was going to kiss her. It had happened twice before. Both times, the touch of his lips had weakened her, and then she’d felt guilty when her thoughts had inevitably meandered to Luc. Yet kissing Vander had felt good. So wrongly good.

  She forced her hand out from under his and stepped away.

  “Ingrid—”

  “And me,” she whispered before he could say anything more. “You can trust me as well.”

  “I already knew that,” Vander said, accepting her rebuff like a gentleman. He stayed out of her dust, or what was left of it, but the intensity of his stare made Ingrid feel as if she were being drawn back to him. “And I hope you know that if it ever comes down to keeping loyal to the Alliance or protecting you, I’ll choose you.”

  It will always be you. Vander had made this vow to her before. They had been devising a way to rescue her father from the corrupt Daicrypta doyen, Robert Dupuis, and Vander had brusquely admitted that he didn’t give a damn about Ingrid’s father. He only cared about her. He would choose her. Always.

  “I do know,” she said.

  Vander Burke loved her. She knew this, even though he hadn’t said the words straight out, the way Luc had. Luc. There he was again, always stepping into every thought, every conversation and meeting she had with Vander.

  He was gone. Vander was here. And he wanted Ingrid.

  “The best thing for us to do,” he said, finally resuming their stroll, “is to keep working on the draining machine.”

  Carrick Quinn’s secret partnership with the Daicrypta had allowed him access to the designs for a dreadful blood-draining machine Dupuis had planned to hook Ingrid up to. The machine, Dupuis had explained, would draw out Ingrid’s blood, separate whatever inhuman cells it recognized, and then return Ingrid’s pure human blood to her body. The only problem had been that angel and demon blood made up most of Ingrid’s blood cells, and the human blood returned to her would have most likely not been enough to keep her alive. Dupuis hadn’t cared about that, though. All he’d wanted was the angel blood.