by Page Morgan
He took a cloth from one of his coat’s inner pockets and ran it along the blade, black with demon blood. He acted with such quiet certitude, such stealth. Gabby wished for the same skill. She knew he was right. It was time she moved to the next level.
Gabby nodded. “I’ll get dressed.”
The London docks were no place for a lady. Gabby walked along the Wapping Basin quay wishing she didn’t feel so much like an earl’s daughter. She hadn’t in Paris those few times she’d been out with Chelle tracking demons. But Paris had been more than just a new and different city. There, Gabby had entered an entirely different world. It had given her permission, in a way, to be an entirely different person. Here in London, in the city she had always known, the old Gabby kept trying to creep back in.
Her heeled boots clacked along the stone quay, and the river water slurped in and out of the dock’s entrance basin with a constant push and pull. The small, three-acre basin was silent otherwise, having mostly fallen out of use with the larger ships coming in to port farther upstream at the Shadwell entrance. Rory had chosen this spot for its privacy. He walked next to her, the two of them draped in near blackness. There was only a handful of lamps lighting the rows of four-story warehouses, and another string of them up ahead along the jetty and the Western Dock, where light ships and barges heaved gently in the water.
There were a few people milling about, but nothing like the pandemonium the docks must have been like during the day. Gabby saw shadows moving between warehouse lanes and around corners. Not demons, she thought. One had a sack thrown over his shoulder—a rag-and-bone man. Another had the messy upswept hair of a loitering prostitute. Muted laughter came from one of the ships moored to the Western Dock. Sailors.
“My cousin would spear my guts and roast ’em over an open flame if he knew I’d brought ye here,” Rory said, voice hushed. “He wouldna like that I’ve been trainin’ ye, either.”
His eyes roamed the docks and saw, Gabby knew, more than she did. Rory was competent, and she trusted him, but she still wished Nolan could be the one teaching her how to hunt. He had been going to. When his father had told Gabby she couldn’t be part of the Alliance, Nolan had vowed to train her in private.
“I don’t think he’d mind so much anymore,” Gabby said softly as they made a right and moved parallel to a row of brick warehouses. She breathed in the sweet scent of tobacco stores in the cool, still air.
“Nolan’s being a bloody dunderhead right now, but I know my cousin. He’s gone half daft he’s so in love wi’ ye, laoch. Just give him a little more—” Rory paused on the narrow walkway between the warehouses and the Western Dock’s high quay wall. His arm came up, level with Gabby’s shoulders, and stopped her from taking another step.
“Ye don’t want to step on it,” he whispered, his attention fixed on the ground before them.
Gabby followed his gaze. In the low light it appeared to be a slug. The largest slug she’d ever seen. It was about the length of her hand and the width of three fingers, and it moved with surprising speed, cinching and stretching, its two feelers pointed in the direction of the tobacco warehouse. It wasn’t alone. A line of them crawled up from where the quay wall dropped off into the watery Western Dock.
Without speaking, she and Rory stepped to the edge of the wall and leaned over. The slugs were climbing up the slick, mossy stone, coming from a pale mass floating in the water.
“That’s what I thought,” Rory said, with an unmistakable edge of excitement. Gabby felt only revulsion.
There was a body in the water, slapping gently against the quay wall. It was so completely covered by slugs that its clothes and skin looked like they were writhing.
Gabby’s hand settled on the pommel of her sword, sheathed inside her long coat. “What are they?”
“They’re part of a bigger demon. A mollug,” he answered, sinking into a crouch. He watched the slugs wriggle away from the quay wall in a perfectly ordered line. The line curved behind a pyramid of crates and slatted wooden boxes set in front of one warehouse door, then disappeared.
“What do you mean, part of another demon?” Gabby asked.
“The mollug itself canna move quickly. It sheds its exterior—scores of these smaller slugs—and sends ’em to attack and paralyze its prey,” Rory explained, hitching a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the body below in the water. “They’re returnin’ to the mollug now. Once they reattach, the mollug’ll come out for its dinner.”
Her stomach kinked as Rory took the Daicrypta’s crossbow from inside his long coat and held it out for Gabby. She stared at it dumbly.
“Go on,” he said. It was larger than Vander’s hand crossbow, and when she took it and felt her muscles struggle to adapt, she imagined it was probably much heavier as well. She wore no gloves, and the polished steel stock slipped in her sweaty hands.
“We couldna’ve asked for a better demon to test this contraption on,” Rory murmured.
Gabby let out a breath. He was right, especially if the mollug was too lethargic to capture its own prey.
“All right,” she said, holding out her hand. “Just show me how to load the net … bolt … thing.”
Rory smiled and reached inside his coat for the bolt. Gabby stepped forward to take it—and felt something squish beneath her boot. Rory swore as Gabby lifted her foot and saw the flattened remains of one slug.
A high, keening wail slipped out from behind the stacked crates.
“Take it.” Rory shoved the bolt into Gabby’s hand. “Load it, quick.”
The wail died down, but Gabby’s ears still rang.
“Load it how? I need you to show me,” she said, her panic rising as another sound came from behind the crates. A grating, dragging sound, like the bottom of one slatted wooden box being shoved along the quay stones.
“Pull the bowstring back,” Rory said. Gabby dropped the bolt to the ground in order to lever the hemp back. She hadn’t yet hooked it into the latch when she saw movement at the crates. A pale, undulating blob emerged. It was taller than Rory, and without any normal features like arms or legs, or even a head. It was just a huge, jellylike tumor—and it was coming for them.
“Load the bolt into the groove,” Rory said, his curt instructions striking like errant pins at a dress fitting. He stood immobile, his eyes on the mollug as it heaved forward, its flat bottom slurping along the stone. One by one, the slugs climbed up onto the mollug, tucking themselves close together to form a kind of shell.
Gabby picked up the long bolt and tried sliding it into the groove atop the stock.
“It’s not working—Rory!”
He didn’t move to help. “Pay attention to the bow, Gabby. And turn the bolt around.”
She flipped the bolt and slid it into the groove easily just as the mollug increased its speed. It was less than five yards away from them now. She lifted the stock against her shoulder and aimed for the creature.
“Pull the trigger,” Rory said.
Gabby placed her index finger against the curved trigger and squeezed. The trigger stayed put. Her stomach bottomed out.
“Rory!”
“Again. Harder,” he barked.
Gabby crushed the trigger as hard as she could and yelped as the crossbow bucked against her shoulder. The bowstring released, propelling the bolt down the flight groove and toward the demon. The net whirled open and came down hard over the mollug. The net’s rim slammed against the ground, and Gabby heard the spikes crack through the stone, sealing the demon in place.
Rory clapped his hand against her shoulder, jostling her forward.
“Nicely done, laoch.”
Gabby regained her balance and jammed the stock of the crossbow into Rory’s stomach. “We could have practiced first!”
He coughed and pulled the weapon from her hands. “That was practice.”
He toed one of the slugs out of his way as he walked to the captured demon. The ones that hadn’t made it back to the mollug retreated from the net now,
into the shadows and back toward the quay wall.
“Besides,” he said, clearly amused. “I knew ye could do it.”
A man’s voice sounded from close behind them: “Why shouldn’t she have been able to do as much?”
Gabby whirled and saw three men watching her and Rory. Two tall, burly men flanked a shorter person. For a heartbeat Gabby thought the center person was a child. But then the figure stepped forward.
“Diffuser bows are extraordinarily easy to manage,” he said, his voice that of a grown man.
Rory had abandoned the netted mollug and was now back at Gabby’s side. The stranger knew the Daicrypta crossbow; he had a name for it. Which could mean only one thing: he was a member of the Daicrypta.
The man wore a dark suit and a cape the color of midnight. It was a handsome, expensive design, if a little dramatic. Red silk piping ran along the edge, and wide red ribbons tied at his throat. Truly, he looked like a magician. A very short magician.
“The net,” he said to his companions. The two bruisers approached the mollug.
“What are you doing?” Gabby asked as one of them crouched by the base of the net.
“Simply retrieving what is mine,” the man answered. Standing closer now, Gabby could see he had a youthful face. Not a day over twenty-five, if Gabby was to guess.
“I captured that demon,” Gabby said, though she instantly regretted her petulant tone.
“And you are welcome to it,” the man replied. “I would have the net and crossbow, if I may.”
He extended his hand toward Rory, who still held the weapon. The Scot huffed and stared at him, incredulous.
“Why should I give it to ye?” he demanded.
“Because you stole it,” he answered without hesitating. “And considering it was my father’s invention, I think it only fair you return it to me.”
Though his accent was slight, Gabby could hear a French inflection here and there.
The net’s spikes retreated from the quay into the tubular rim, and suddenly the mollug was writhing again. The net fell away, helped along by the two bruisers, and the creature undulated toward Gabby and Rory with renewed vigor.
“Are you mad?” Gabby shouted, skittering backward. The caped man only laughed.
“Not at the moment. I’m rather amused, actually. You have a demon hunter standing beside you, do you not?”
Rory growled, his free hand going for one of his trusted blades. The dagger whistled through the air, and a thundercloud of green sparks signaled the demon’s demise.
“The diffuser crossbow,” the man said, extending his white-gloved hand once again toward Rory.
He held the weapon up. “First I’ll have yer name.”
The man kept his hand raised and waiting. “Hugh Dupuis.”
Something inside Gabby snapped to attention. Dupuis.
“Your father—” she began.
“Was Robert Dupuis, Daicrypta doyen and head research facilitator in Paris,” he rattled off. “I believe you met him once.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ingrid felt the sting of hard, frozen ground against her cheek first. The pain came next, ballooning inside her as she woke. Her leg was in agony, her calf a ball of flame. The flickering blue light of Axia’s cave had gone. It was dark here, wherever here was. The smell of winter air and dirt and grass browned by snow filled her nose.
She was out of the Underneath. Returned home.
Ingrid pressed her hands against the crusty ground and tried to push herself up. She was too weak, however, and her arms collapsed. She lay still, heart racing. Even opening her eyes seemed to drain her of what little energy she possessed. There was a lamppost nearby, the glass orb streaming yellow, vaporous light over a long park bench and a handful of pigeons roosting on its curved back.
Ingrid closed her eyes again and tried to think of what to do. She was too cold and tired to flinch when the roosting pigeons squawked and scattered in a flutter of excitement. A rush of air fanned down over her, tousling the hair that had fallen loose around her face. The familiar rustle and snap of wings from close overhead caused tears to well up behind her closed lids. Marco had found her.
Her body moved, nudged gently by what she knew were talons, not hands. Ingrid mewled as even that slight touch renewed the pain in her leg and calf. She forced her eyes to open as Marco’s arms wedged underneath her and lifted her from the cold ground. His scales were desert hot in comparison, and as he drew her to his plated chest, she felt the tug of a memory. Marco had never held her like this before, and yet she knew these arms. Knew the warmth of this steel chest, and what it felt like to be cradled against it.
Ingrid looked up, already knowing what she’d see. A pair of peridot eyes, pale and bright as jewels; shimmering jet scales tightly woven along his face; and short, clipped ears set high upon his head.
“Luc,” she managed to whisper before her head fell against his chest once more. Luc had come for her. She didn’t know how he’d known, but he was here and she was safe and there wasn’t anything for her to worry about any longer. So Ingrid let her eyes close and Luc took her into the night sky.
The soft down of a pillow had replaced Luc’s hard, reptilian scales when Ingrid found consciousness again. She was warm, buried underneath the weight of a thick duvet. Her duvet, she saw after opening one eye.
She stirred under the covers, and by the clear honey light coming in through the window, she determined it was early morning. She heard the even, rhythmic breaths of someone sleeping and pushed herself up onto one elbow. Luc had flown her here. Luc. After a full month of not seeing or hearing from him, he’d come for her when she’d needed him most.
It wasn’t Luc in her room now, though. With a start, she saw Vander in a chair at the foot of her bed, his arms crossed, his legs wide, and his chin tucked into his chest as he slept. The sun lit his golden-brown hair, mussed from where he’d likely raked his hands through it again and again. She wondered what Vander had said to her mother to gain permission to sit watch here without a chaperone. The fact that he was to be ordained soon must have certainly come into play. A smile touched her lips, until she twisted to sit up and felt the soreness of her shoulder where the hellhound’s fang had sliced into her.
The memory hit her like a fist. Ingrid batted the heavy duvet off and yanked up the hem of the nightdress that someone had changed her into. Her calf didn’t burn with the same fury that it had in the Underneath or when she’d woken in that darkened park, but the spot was tender. Luc had likely healed her wounds with his blood, because the skin along her calf was unmarred by the fangs Axia had plunged into her flesh.
Ingrid closed her eyes, a hand pressed to her temple. How could she have been so stupid? Racing into that alley, chasing Grayson’s voice. And now Axia had reclaimed her blood. All of it? Ingrid didn’t know. She didn’t feel any different than before, other than the sweep of panic making her hot and then cold again. What would happen now?
“Ingrid?”
Vander shot up from the chair, sleep rasping his voice.
“She has it,” Ingrid said, her thumb rubbing the two strawberry ovals on her calf. “She took her blood back. She had me in her cave again and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t make any electricity, and the demon poison, it burned—”
Vander came to her side and lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress shifted and dipped.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, gasping for air around the tight, aching ball of a sob lodged in her throat.
Vander’s hands cradled her neck and jaw, his fingers combing through her hair. He forced her head up, her eyes to look into his.
“Ingrid, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
She shook her head, though his hands held her tightly.
“She has her blood and now she’ll be coming here, for her Harvest. I gave her exactly what she wanted, Vander.”
He pressed his fingers into her skin more firmly. “She took what she wanted. Do you believe any of us care about that right no
w? You were taken into the Underneath. You were gone a full day. I’d started to worry that you weren’t—” Vander stopped, his thumbs sweeping over the curves of her jaw. “I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
A whole day? She’d been in the Underneath for that long? Vander let go of her but remained on the edge of her bed.
“You’re here,” he said. “You’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
They were simple, straightforward statements. They helped to calm her. Ingrid kept her hand on her calf, rubbing at the small ache underneath her demon marks. Vander followed the motion with his eyes. She gave a start, realizing her leg was exposed from knobby knee to bare foot.
Ingrid let go of her calf and grabbed the hem of her nightdress, ready to tug it back into place. Vander’s hand came up and rested atop of hers, stopping her.
“Is it healed?” he asked. He then took the liberty of skimming the soft curve of her calf with his palm.
Ingrid sat frozen in place. Though her eyes watched him inspect her demon marks, it wasn’t Vander she was seeing in her mind. It was Luc, that first night in the abbey when he’d revealed to her what he was. A hellhound had nipped at her calf, and Luc had demanded to see the wound, roughly tossing up her skirt hem and grabbing her leg. She saw Luc, lifting her off the cold brick and gravel walkway so her bare feet wouldn’t have to endure a painful walk back to the rectory. Luc, storming into Axia’s hive, coming to take Ingrid home to safety. Luc, his damaged wings hanging limply in the Daicrypta courtyard, his bond to her severed, and yet there to help her anyway. And there in the park also, her body belched up from a fissure, too weak to move. He was always there.
He would always come for her.
Ingrid shoved the hem of her nightdress down, dislodging Vander’s hand.
“It’s fine,” she said.
Vander adjusted his spectacles before standing up and moving away from the bed.
“We have Marco to thank for that,” he said.
