by Page Morgan
“It is an essential room,” she replied.
“And why are you showing it to me?” he asked. There was no point in trying to charm Chelle. Better to be direct.
She responded by walking toward a waist-high shelf running along the wall to the right. The shelf, enclosed by locked glass lids, resembled a jeweler’s display case. Grayson followed her. The case held another assortment of weapons. Daggers, swords, crossbow bolts, and even a few hira-shuriken. He noticed the sheen—dull pewter instead of reflective silver—and knew what they were.
“These are mercurite dipped,” Grayson said. He’d learned from Léon and Monsieur Constantine that the Alliance had these weapons. First dipped in mercurite and then heated over flames to seal and harden the coating, a weapon like any of these would be able to debilitate a gargoyle. Kill it, if need be.
“The Chimera caste is behind the Duster murders,” Chelle said. She’d overheard Constantine.
“Why just one caste?” Grayson asked. He hadn’t thought of the question before now.
She leaned a hip against the shelf, a real scowl set upon her lips this time. “One of the Chimeras wants to be elder, and this is his show of power and leadership.”
It wasn’t speculation. Chelle’s answer sounded confident.
“How do you know?”
She lifted one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “I have been called sneaky.”
He started to smile, until he lowered his eyes and saw the case of mercurite-dipped weapons. Because he now knew why Chelle had brought him to this room.
“You were right down there,” she said. “We need to stop the Chimeras.”
He met Chelle’s hazel eyes, each iris flecked with gold. “By killing them?”
She set her jaw, and Grayson knew she was mentally rolling up her sleeves, preparing for a fight.
“Would you rather wait for more Dusters to die? Who will be next? Ingrid? Perhaps even you?” she said, her French accent growing stronger with her anger. “And do you believe Dusters will be their only target? Once they’ve taken care of your kind, they will come after mine.”
Your kind. Grayson dragged in a breath and tried not to let it bother him. Chelle hadn’t meant it as an insult. At least, he didn’t think she had. Still, it was as if she’d drawn a line between them and shoved his chest, pushing him away. Humans on this side, Dusters on that side.
“Word is spreading that Axia has reclaimed her blood from your sister. The gargoyles will be out in droves hunting Dusters, trying to destroy Axia’s little seedlings before she can use them for whatever it is she plans to do,” Chelle went on, her cheeks beginning to pink.
“Maybe they should,” Grayson heard himself say. Chelle squinted up at him, her lips parting in surprise.
“You think Dusters should die?” she asked.
Now he felt like an idiot. Of course he didn’t think all Dusters should die.
“Some of us deserve it,” he answered.
Chelle gathered a breath and walked around him, toward the opposite wall of blessed silver weapons. An unwieldy battle-axe hung at knee level, the buffed blade head so wide it showed the reflection of Chelle’s legs.
“I don’t know what happened in London. I mean, I do know, but I wasn’t there and I don’t know what happened to you, or what it must be to have something like that on your conscience. But, Grayson—” Chelle paused to face him. She didn’t usually tangle up her words, and she started to blush for having done so.
Grayson saw the prickles of red wash over her creamy skin and stopped breathing. He didn’t want to smell her blood. He didn’t want to feel that disgusting clench of desire lock up his stomach and throat.
“You don’t deserve to die,” she continued as his lungs started to beg for air.
He gave up and let his body have what it needed. Though it wasn’t strong—Vander’s blood must have been working its magic—the air tasted sweet. Grayson moved toward her.
“You want to know what happened to me in London?”
Chelle’s soft expression turned wary. He was glad of it. She was smart and fast and trusted her gut.
“I caught the eye of a girl in a tavern. A working girl,” he clarified. Chelle didn’t bat an eye. “She blushed when I smiled at her, and the blood rising to her cheeks like that, it set something off inside me. I didn’t understand it. I felt drugged, like I’d had too much whiskey, only I hadn’t.”
Chelle betrayed her thoughts when her palm came up to touch her own cheek, still rosy.
“Do you want to know the rest?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I can piece it together on my own.”
Grayson took another step closer. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t. But the truth is, when I scent your blood like this, I can’t think of anything other than what it would taste like on my tongue. Sliding down my throat.”
Chelle lowered her hand, revealing an even brighter flush than before. It was too dangerous. He had to leave.
“The only thing your tongue would taste is the cool silver of my hira-shuriken,” she whispered, so softly Grayson needed a moment to understand what she’d said. And then he laughed.
“That’s good to know,” he said, still laughing.
Chelle’s expression remained serious. “But you don’t deserve to die, Grayson Waverly. Neither did Léon, or the other Dusters the Chimeras have hunted down.”
His laughter subsided. No. Léon hadn’t deserved to die, even with his own bloody and horrible past sins.
“You heard Vander and Constantine. The Alliance can’t make a move against the gargoyles without starting a war,” he said.
Chelle waited a few moments in silence before Grayson understood.
“But I’m not Alliance,” he said for her.
Chelle then did something to surprise him. She touched him. Her hands settled on his arms, which he’d crossed at his chest.
“I’ll be with you,” she said.
He was lost for words, from her touch, from her closeness. From her blood. He knew, without having to ask, that Chelle would leave with those mercurite weapons, with or without him. She was determined, and there was nothing he could say to dissuade her.
Perhaps she was right. If the Chimeras were the ones doing this, they did need to be stopped. The next Duster target could very well be Ingrid. His sister wasn’t some nameless Duster walking along a street somewhere. She was well known. If the Chimera vying for elder wanted to prove his strength and authority, killing her would be a fine demonstration for all the Dispossessed.
“All right,” Grayson said, pushing back the weight of indecision. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER TEN
The voices grew louder the closer she got to the entrance. Ingrid stopped a good twenty paces from the vine-swathed stone arcades that led into the courtyard at gargoyle common grounds. She’d approached them through the Luxembourg Gardens at an angle, shielding her arrival from any Dispossessed who might be lurking about Luc’s new territory. It was late afternoon, but the sun still had another hour or so before it slid beneath the western horizon completely. Ingrid had hoped no other gargoyles would be about during the daylight hours. In vain, it seemed.
The voices drifting from the courtyard were harsh and insistent, just shy of shouting. The words weren’t clear, however, and she wasn’t sure she should move any closer to make them out.
An arm wrapped around her from behind, bracing her chest, and a hand clapped over her mouth to stifle her scream. A hot mouth pressed against her ear.
“You shouldn’t walk into a lion’s den without a pair of claws, Lady Ingrid.”
Marco released her, and she threw an elbow back to jab him in the stomach. It was like elbowing a brick wall.
“You didn’t have to creep up behind me,” she hissed.
“And you didn’t have to be so predictable,” he replied, grasping her arm and dragging her toward the arcades.
She stumbled through the patchy snow and kept her voice a grating whisp
er. “But we can’t go in—there are others inside the courtyard!”
“They have already felt my arrival, though not yours.” Marco jerked her to a halt at the first of several stone columns forming the arcades. “I’ll show myself and then make some excuse to leave.”
He pushed her backward until her spine was against the column. “If you move from this spot before then, I will be forced to take you back to the rectory and chain you to your bed for the rest of your life.”
Ingrid would have rolled her eyes had Marco not looked completely serious.
He stepped away and through the arcades, into the courtyard. A moment later, he was greeted by someone with a slick, sarcastic tone. She knew the owner of the voice at once: Vincent, the Notre Dame gargoyle who had threatened to attack her the last time she had been in Hôtel du Maurier’s ramshackle courtyard.
“Ah, the protector of an abomination graces us with his presence at last,” Vincent said.
Ingrid turned her shoulder into the column and pressed a palm against the cold stone.
“You should really improve the company you’ve been keeping lately, Luc,” Marco replied, ignoring Vincent entirely.
Ingrid’s heart beat faster. Luc was right there, on the other side of the arcades. Her fingers dug into the stone and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember Marco’s black glare. Remembering Vincent’s unveiled hatred the last time he had looked at her helped as well.
“Because of your demonic human, the fallen angel Axia has what she needs to come here, to our city.” Ingrid opened her eyes. This voice didn’t belong to Vincent. It belonged to Yann, the Chimera that guarded a bridge over the Seine.
“She will reap her abominations, using them to gain control of our territories,” Vincent chimed in. “Unless we act together to put an end to them.”
Arguments burst out, though none of the voices was familiar to Ingrid.
“Dusters are still human.”
“We cannot touch them.”
“Human? They are diseased with demon blood.”
“The Order would wish them destroyed.”
“And if a Duster belongs to one of us? What then?”
This last comment raised a valid point. Marco couldn’t be the only gargoyle protecting a human Duster.
“We’ve already started.” Yann’s words came through the din. “They’ve been simple to kill. We could wipe out Axia’s army within days if we had the Seer or Constantine on our side.”
As if Vander or Constantine would ever give these monsters aid. At least it seemed as if Yann and the majority of the other gargoyles were still in the dark about Vander. That he was a Duster as well as a Seer appeared to be something only Luc, Marco, and Gaston, Constantine’s guardian, knew.
“You will stay away from my human.” Gaston’s command and the unspoken threat attached to it lifted the hairs on Ingrid’s arms. She wondered how many gargoyles were actually inside the courtyard. All of them?
Ingrid shifted her weight, her feet growing cold.
“Unprotected, these abominations are weak.” Vincent again. “They barely know how to use their powers. I’m calling on all of you here to join me and my brothers to end them. Let us take back this city.”
A round of quarrelling followed but was yet again silenced by a single voice.
“We are here to protect humans, Vincent. Not kill them.”
The sound of his silvery voice, smooth yet brutal, spread warmth through her legs and arms and coiled inside her chest.
“And we have agreed Dusters do not qualify as humans,” Vincent returned.
“We have not agreed on anything,” Luc growled.
Ingrid was tired of standing still, of not being able to see what was happening. Holding her breath, she shuffled as quietly as she could around the column. A sliver of the courtyard came into view. She saw the backs of a few Dispossessed, but none she recognized.
“My fellow Dispossessed,” Vincent bellowed, speaking to all who had gathered. “Is this the gargoyle you desire as your elder?”
Ingrid parted her lips in awe as she realized what was happening. Luc was Vincent’s opposition for the role of elder. The Alliance had been saying everything was chaos among the ranks of Dispossessed, and this was why.
“Make no mistake,” Vincent went on. “There are those among us who enjoy their precious humans too much.”
Ingrid eased over another step and finally saw Vincent. He wore the cumbersome, faded black cloak she remembered. He stood with his profile to her, his narrowed glare presumably set upon Luc, still unfortunately out of view.
“This Dog took his human charge and made her his own,” Vincent spit.
A murmur rumbled through the courtyard. Ingrid’s heart stuttered and her mind raced ahead to what might happen next. She’d seen at least ten gargoyles so far. A group large enough to attack Luc and overpower him.
An electrical shiver combed her arms.
“The girl is a Duster,” Vincent went on, blatantly shifting the fear and loathing he’d just nurtured for Axia’s seedlings toward Luc.
The electrical current fed on Ingrid’s anger, on her desperation. It rolled along the slender bones in her hands, and she lassoed it, envisioning a sparking whirlpool at each fingertip.
She would not allow this wretched gargoyle and his supporters to harm Luc. She would not allow anyone to harm him.
“Irindi was mocking the Dispossessed by giving a human-lover an elder’s territory,” Vincent said. “I have waited too long to take it from you.”
He threw off his heavy cloak and his body cleaved through his clothes, tearing out of his human skin. Vincent fell forward, transforming into a creature with the sleek black body of a panther topped by a pair of snow white-feathered wings, and with the head of a large, grotesque pelican. Its wickedly sharp beak was nearly as long and broad as its panther body.
Vincent raked his hooked beak to the side and bounded forward, out of Ingrid’s view. Senseless of any fear, she raced out from behind the column, into the arcades. She ripped off her gloves, her fingertips sizzling with contained energy. Ingrid spotted Luc on the other side of the water fountain. He was still in human form, Marco and Gaston at his sides, and they, along with a handful of other Dispossessed, were staring down Vincent’s advance—until they saw her and the lightning crackling from her fingertips.
Bold blue branches of electricity snaked across the courtyard and wrapped Vincent’s gargoyle form in a paralyzing embrace. His snowy white pelican wings shook and shivered as the electricity pulsed through his body, until Ingrid drew the current back in, closing her fists tightly as she had learned to do, and he collapsed.
She had made it to the fountain’s empty basin and, as she held her electricity in check, realized there were gargoyles on either side of her. Vincent’s gargoyles.
Vincent himself, lying on the gravel, had melted back into his human form. Ingrid turned away from his naked body and found herself face to face with Yann. The Chimera sneered down at her, his black hair, lightly streaked with white, forming half-drawn curtains around his eyes. He’d never been warm or kind, but he had helped her in the past. After spending a few seconds on the receiving end of his hateful glare, she knew he would not help her again.
Luc slid between her and Yann. “She is a human on my territory. You will not touch her.”
Marco appeared at her side and glared at her as murderously as Yann had. He tugged Ingrid behind him, shielding her from the restless group of gargoyles, every last one of them looking ravenous for revenge.
“If you stand with Vincent, leave my territory. Now!” Luc shouted. “I will not follow a gargoyle hell-bent on executing humans. We might have been murderers once.” He slowly stood aside so Yann could pass. “But we aren’t any longer.”
Yann and a few others hovered over Vincent as the Notre Dame gargoyle pushed himself up on shaky arms. They wrapped him in his cloak; his other clothes were in pieces on the ground. Marco continued to shield Ingrid, backing u
p a few paces as gargoyles began to come toward them, heading for the exit into the gardens. Vincent shook off Yann’s steadying arm and pinned Ingrid with his small black eyes.
“You will be difficult to destroy, but I will see it done.”
She felt childish and weak, hidden as she was. She stepped out as far as Marco’s unyielding grip on her arm would allow.
“Funny,” she replied. “You were rather easy to electrocute.”
Vincent thinned his lips until they were hardly visible and, without another word, left the courtyard for the Luxembourg Gardens.
The moment he had gone, Marco pushed Ingrid away and stormed to the arcades, muttering under his breath. She stumbled, her legs suddenly weak. Her cheeks were hot, as were the tips of her ears. There were still Dispossessed present, staring at her. And, of course, there was Luc.
She turned, spotting Gaston first. Constantine’s gargoyle wore an unreadable expression. He was neither happy to see her nor angry. He nodded toward the few remaining Dispossessed, and they left through the arcades as well.
Marco shouldered past them as they went, coming back toward her, his fury carrying him like a tempest.
“Put these back on.” He forced her hand out and slapped her gloves into her palm. “And stop trying to get yourself killed.”
Ingrid fiddled with the gloves, her hands dampening the soft kid. Marco lifted his eyes and looked into the space over her shoulder. She knew Luc was right behind her.
“I’ll wait in the gardens. Five minutes,” Marco said, before vaulting his thick, dark brow. “And then it’s to bed with you.”
She recalled his threat to chain her to her bed and groaned inwardly. He wouldn’t do such a barbaric thing, of course, but she knew he would punish her in some way.
Ingrid waited until Marco had disappeared before slowly turning around. She realized that she was afraid. It was ridiculous. She had nothing to fear from Luc, yet her pulse leaped and her breath caught in her throat when she saw him. He was as close as Yann had been, less than an arm’s length away. He’d raked back his obsidian hair, and while Ingrid stood speechless, he allowed his eyes to rove over her. They coasted hungrily from her messy chignon to her lips to her neck and bodice and then up again.
