The Wondrous and the Wicked

by Page Morgan

  She entered her room and found that her maid had prepared it for her. The lamps were on and the fire was going, her nightgown draped over the duvet.

  “Kendall?” Gabby shut the door and moved toward the bed. Her maid wasn’t in sight, but Gabby’s senses were humming.

  Someone else was in her room. And she knew exactly who it was.

  Nolan stepped out from behind her four-panel silk changing screen. He’d shaved and changed his clothes, but his shoulders still looked like they were winched tight with a line of rope.

  Gabby drew to a stop to stare at him and quickly realized that she’d drained every last ounce of her steely pride that afternoon. Tears welled up swiftly and unexpectedly. She didn’t even have time to be mortified by them. She didn’t see Nolan crossing the room, but then he was there, his arms closing around her, his lips in her hair. “I’m sorry, Gabby. God, I’m so sorry, lass.”

  She couldn’t speak, her throat swollen with a suppressed sob, so instead, she wiggled her arm free and punched him in the stomach.

  He answered by tucking her closer against him. She made another fist but only thumped it against his shoulder. How could he so quickly, so effortlessly, undo her like this?

  “I know I did everything wrong,” he said, clinging to her, his lips trailing kisses through her hair and over her forehead. “I know I hurt you. I know I should have fixed things.”

  Gabby found enough strength to untangle herself, but she couldn’t look up into his eyes. If she did that, she knew she’d just fall right back against him.

  “But you chose to ignore me instead,” she said, busying herself by blotting the tears on her cheeks with as much dignity as possible.

  “I couldn’t apologize on paper, not for the things I said to you. Not for the way I treated you that night,” he said.

  He’d been cold the night his father had been killed, not allowing her even to touch him. Telling her she had to leave Paris and then acting as if he couldn’t have cared less.

  “It would have been better than silence,” she said.

  Nolan hung his head, his hands on his hips. He didn’t have any more excuses. He wasn’t the type of person to throw them out ahead of himself to clear a path anyway.

  “I thought that you—” She took a breath, preparing to humiliate herself. “You told me you loved me.”

  He clutched her arm and tipped her chin up so she couldn’t avoid looking into his eyes any longer.

  “Did you really believe I’d stopped?”

  Gabby itched to punch him again. “What was I supposed to believe when I didn’t hear from you for a month?”

  “I was wrong, Gabby, and I’ll apologize for it forever if you want me to. But the truth is I couldn’t face you. If I came to you and you sent me away, if I knew for certain that you didn’t want me anymore … God in heaven, Gabriella Waverly, I’ve never been so bloody afraid of a lass before.”

  Nolan’s mouth hovered over hers and she could see the fear bright in his eyes. She wanted to laugh. Nolan Quinn, a fierce swordsman who picked battles with Underneath demons on a regular basis, was afraid of her? But she couldn’t laugh. He was being completely serious, and for the first time Gabby felt the weight of what that meant. He was real and he made mistakes, but he loved her.

  “Please forgive me,” he said, still worried she wouldn’t. He traced her scars with his thumb with such tenderness it made her ache.

  Gabby was certain she kissed him first, but after a moment, it didn’t matter who had started it. Nolan had her against his chest and he was kissing her as if she were his air source.

  She had the urge to pull him closer even though there wasn’t a single gap between their bodies. His hands were everywhere; raking through her hair and uncoiling her chignon, coasting down the curve of her spine and fanning out over her hips, his fingertips brushing dangerously lower. He murmured her name as he drew her hair aside and nuzzled her neck. He lifted her from the floor, spun around, and set her down again, this time on the edge of her bed.

  He stood in front of her, breathing hard. His eyes traveled from her loose curls down the front of her dress, to her legs, and then back up again. He must have noticed the heat in her cheeks, but he didn’t tease her the way he normally would have. Nolan had gone acutely sober. Predatory. Gabby had seen something close to it in his eyes before, in her rectory bedroom when he had climbed through her window and asked her to lie beside him for a while. Nolan had promised to be a gentleman then. However, as he took a step closer to the bed and tilted her chin up, she understood that he no longer wished to be a gentleman.

  Gabby couldn’t breathe. The room was too hot, the fire in the grate roaring. She closed her eyes when Nolan’s fingertips brushed down the curve of her throat. He leaned forward to trail kisses in their wake, and Gabby honestly believed her body might combust. Her back met the forgiving plush of the duvet and she opened her eyes to Nolan, holding himself on one elbow over her, the palm of his free hand flat against her stomach.

  He said nothing as his hand grazed over her ribs, tightly cinched in a corset that Gabby suddenly despised more than ever. She hitched her breath when he continued his exploration, allowing his palm to shape around her breast. Nolan then took her mouth in the sort of kiss that said things. Things that would sound graceless if bound by words.

  She twined her fingers through the silk of his hair, arching her back in an attempt to be closer to him. When he pulled away, Nolan stared down at her with an unexpected hint of trepidation in his eyes. He put on one of his half smiles.

  “This isn’t very gentlemanlike, is it, lass?”

  No witty comeback surfaced, and after a moment of simply staring up at him, her fingers running over his lips, she watched as Nolan pushed himself off of the bed.

  She sat up, suddenly realizing with stark clarity what had just nearly happened.

  “I have to go,” Nolan said, buttoning the top buttons of his shirt. Gabby blushed furiously. Had she undone them?

  “Of course.” She averted her eyes and touched the side of her head and the mess of loose curls.

  “I don’t want to go,” Nolan said, his husky voice rich with disappointment. “Someday I won’t.”

  Gabby forgot her untidy hair. She fixed her eyes on his, heat coursing into her cheeks yet again.

  “I love you, Gabby.”

  Air. There wasn’t enough of it. Nolan stood a moment while Gabby stared up at him, stunned speechless, just as she’d been the first time he’d said the words to her.

  He gestured to the silk screen. “The case with your sister’s blood is over there.”

  Gabby blinked. He was just giving it to her?

  “Will you come with me?” she asked.

  “I thought you didn’t require my presence,” he said, quirking one brow.

  Gabby smiled but looked down, thinking how haughty she must have sounded.

  “I don’t require it,” she said. “But I want it. So will you come?”

  He stayed back from the bed, though she knew he wanted to come closer. Instead, he cleared his throat and went to her door. She had no doubt he’d be able to sneak out of the house the same way he’d sneaked in.

  “I’m at your service, as always, Miss Waverly,” he said, and with a playful bow, disappeared into the corridor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ingrid had seen a number of maps of Paris. The layout of the city had always reminded her of an inked thumbprint. The roads all seemed to swirl inward, crossing, merging, and growing tighter together until they reached the two islands in the Seine. Ingrid knew the city was large and sprawling, that there were over a million people living here and going about their daily lives without fear of the Underneath or of a vengeful fallen angel. For those people, it was life as usual.

  But for the past handful of days, it had seemed to Ingrid as if the thumbprint of the city had started to smudge and disappear, as if those other people didn’t exist and the only things that were real had to do with the Alliance a
nd Dispossessed and the scattered Dusters, driven into hiding.

  Ingrid didn’t want to hide. She’d had the intense urge to leave her arrondissement for some other part of the city she didn’t normally see. To experience something that reminded her that that thumbprint was still there. That those other people were real.

  Marco was at the reins of the landau, directing the horses down rue de Berri. She wasn’t certain Vander would be in his apartment, but she knew better than to go to Hôtel Bastian again. Marco would have refused to bring her there anyhow. He must have trusted Vander; he’d only put up a mild stink about acting the part of lowly driver.

  Ingrid was restless. She couldn’t go to Hôtel Bastian, she shouldn’t go to gargoyle common grounds, and she definitely couldn’t stay at the rectory or abbey any longer. If Vander wasn’t at his apartment, she would direct Marco to Clos du Vie next, despite Constantine’s message that lessons had been suspended.

  The landau drew to a stop, and a moment later, Marco handed her down to the curb. Ingrid saw Vander’s wagonette parked in front of them, the traces at rest on the pavement and his black mare likely put away in the stable behind the church.

  “The Seer is beneath your station, Lady Ingrid,” Marco said, scowling up at the building that shared a wall with the apartments next door.

  “It’s not like that,” she said. “He’s my friend.”

  Marco gave her a look of pity. “And does the Seer know that is all he is?”

  Ingrid gathered her cloak around her and pushed past Marco, heading toward the door. She’d only been to Vander’s apartment once, but she remembered the way in.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” Marco called as he climbed into the box.

  Ingrid turned around. “You’re not waiting here?”

  “You do realize I’m not truly your servant, don’t you?” He released the brake and guided the horses away from the curb. “I’m going to Yann’s bridge. If you need me, I will know.”

  Marco merged into traffic, and with a groan of annoyance, Ingrid entered the apartment building. And does the Seer know that is all he is? Marco’s question poked at her as she ascended the stairwell. Saying Vander was just her friend had been a lie, though Ingrid wished it hadn’t been. Everything would be so much simpler if they hadn’t kissed those few times. If he hadn’t told her how much he wanted her in his life. Vander hadn’t yet told her that he loved her, but at this point the words weren’t necessary.

  He knew how she felt about Luc. Didn’t he? Words weren’t necessary for that, either. Were they? Ingrid turned onto the third-floor landing and a quiver of nervousness weakened her legs. She had to tell him. Perhaps that was what she’d come here to do. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. As soon as she told Vander about Luc, she would lose him—and she didn’t want to lose him. The idea of it sent her heart into a flutter of panic, and then a sharp twinge ignited at each shoulder.

  The current leaked from her fingers before she could rein it back in. It sparked off the metal discs in her gloves, sparing the electric bulbs strung along the short hallway. Vander’s door was just ahead. She would tell him. She’d get it over with.

  Ingrid reached his flat and was about to knock when a familiar voice sounded from within.

  “Is it working?” the muffled voice asked.

  Ingrid leaned closer to the door. What on earth was Grayson doing here?

  Vander’s voice followed. “Well, how do you feel?”

  “Amazing,” Grayson answered. Ingrid could hear his excitement. “I only started feeling the itch to shift this morning. I can smell blood now, but it’s been two days.”

  Ingrid pressed her ear against the wood, unable to believe she’d just heard her brother correctly. He’d gone two days without scenting blood?

  “That’s … I don’t know what to say,” Vander replied. “I think we should tell Ingrid. I’d already tested our compatibility before Nolan took the blood stores, and it didn’t clot.”

  Grayson: “Do you think she’d go for it?”

  Vander: “What Duster wouldn’t?”

  Enough. Ingrid had to know what they were talking about. She opened the door without knocking and entered the small room, which somehow appeared even more cramped than it had the first time she’d seen it. Her brother sat in a chair at Vander’s desk, his arm propped on the top and his sleeve rolled above his elbow. Vander stood beside him, piercing his skin with a needle.

  “What are you doing?” She slammed the door behind her, her eyes on the needle. “And what is that?”

  They both straightened at the sight of her, Grayson swearing loudly as Vander fumbled with the needle and syringe. Grayson swore again, regaining Vander’s attention. He pushed the plunger and the contents of the glass barrel disappeared into Grayson’s vein. He extracted the needle and set it aside on the desk roughly before turning toward Ingrid, hands up in surrender.

  “Let me explain.”

  “What did you just inject into my brother?”

  Grayson stood up. “Mersian blood. Ingrid, it’s okay. You don’t have to look like that.”

  She frowned. “Like what?”

  “Like you want to electrocute the good reverend,” her brother answered.

  “She wouldn’t electrocute me.” Vander peered at Ingrid. “I hope.”

  “Why would you inject Grayson with your blood?” she asked, not in the mood for humor. “And, Grayson, how do you know where Vander lives?”

  The two men looked at one another and, with a few raised eyebrows and hand gestures, silently discussed who would be the one to explain things. Grayson bowed to the pressure first.

  He stepped toward Ingrid. “I’ve been coming to Vander for a little while. Don’t be angry, Ingrid. I asked him to keep it a secret,” he said quickly, as if knowing how she would react. “He’s been taking some of my dust, making things easier for me. And this experiment, mixing his blood with mine, is actually working.”

  “My mersian blood seems to have cancelled out his hellhound symptoms,” Vander explained.

  She remembered what Grayson had said behind the closed door. That he hadn’t itched to shift in days.

  “I didn’t want to be around you or Mama until I could trust myself,” Grayson added. He stood in front of Ingrid, slightly taller than she was. He cocked his head to meet her eyes.

  “I can do it now. With Vander’s help,” Grayson said, and then, running both hands through his hair, went on, “I think his blood is our answer, Ingrid. Not just us, but all Dusters.”

  She peered over Grayson’s shoulder to where Vander stood at his desk, taking apart the needle and syringe, one ear on their conversation but clearly trying to stay out of it. He’d been helping her brother this whole time? Ingrid had been desperate to know where Grayson was, and Vander had known. He’d known and kept quiet.

  Her brother pinched her arm, jerking her attention back to him. She swatted his shoulder.

  “Would you give me a minute?” she asked. “I’m trying to catch up.”

  Grayson laughed and took his jacket from where he’d tossed it on Vander’s bed.

  “All right, I’ll give you more than a minute, okay? I have to go. But, Ingrid, get the injection. See for yourself.”

  He started for the door but doubled back, as if he’d forgotten something. He took her by the shoulders. “We can be us again. We can be a normal family doing normal things. Normal, boring, mundane things.”

  He lifted her off the floor and twirled her once before she kicked and demanded he put her down. He did, but by then she was laughing.

  “I should say that sounds awful,” she said.

  “But it doesn’t, does it?” Grayson asked. He nodded his thanks to Vander and left.

  Ingrid’s head still spun, her laughter fading. Vander closed the needle kit and stood at his desk. After a long pause, he leaped in with an explanation.

  “I know how worried you were about him, and I wanted to tell you, Ingrid, I did. But if I had and you had come here, for
cing him to see you when he wasn’t ready, he might not have come back.”

  She stood in the center of his room, her hands feeling warm. No current now. She wasn’t upset. And yet tears were pricking at her eyes.

  “I thought if I could help him, even a little, that it would be at least something.”

  It was more than just something. It was good and selfless and earnest. So very Vander.

  “Did he find you?” she asked.

  Vander hesitated. “I found him.”

  “How?”

  “I tracked him.”

  He’d found her brother. He’d helped him. Given him hope. And because of that, Grayson had just picked her up and spun her around the way he’d always done before, whenever he’d been too happy to hold still. Her brother hadn’t been happy like that in ages.

  Ingrid crossed the room to the desk where Vander still stood and, without a word, threw her arms around his shoulders and clung to him. He stiffened briefly before his arms encircled her in return.

  “This doesn’t feel like you’re angry,” he said.

  She laughed, her cheeks wet with tears. “How could I be angry? You went out of your way to track down my brother, and you helped him. He needed someone to care for him, and I couldn’t, but you did,” she said, her voice muffled by Vander’s shoulder.

  She pulled away, wanting to say thank you. Vander’s mouth caught hers, stunning her long enough for him to ease her forward, against his chest. Ingrid’s lips had already been parted to speak and Vander had deftly stolen inside. The touch of his tongue and the way his fingers worked underneath her coiled braid, rubbing against her scalp, stunned her for a second time. But when he wrapped one arm around her waist and whirled her around, lifting her to sit upon the desktop, Ingrid laid her palms flat against Vander’s chest and pushed. Hard.

  “No. Stop,” she gasped as she slid off the desk and stumbled away from him.

  Vander stared after her, heaving for air. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, unable to meet Vander’s gaze.