by Page Morgan
“Only certain Dusters would have the capacity to inject poison,” Vander said, his eyes landing briefly on Grayson. “There are others who don’t. Like you, Ingrid.”
She flexed her fingers, trying to dispel the last of the tingling. Demon poison was used to debilitate prey. Lectrux demons used electricity to do that, not poison. She kept quiet but inside shuddered with relief.
“And you,” she said to Vander, who had turned toward one of the long counters. He was busying himself with a microscope and a sample of Chelle’s blood. “Mersians aren’t dangerous to humans. You didn’t even fall under Axia’s spell.”
Vander had given Ingrid an injection of his blood immediately after he’d sutured Chelle’s wound. They hoped it would work the way it had for Grayson.
“I don’t know why she would have given me the blood of a mersian if it meant she wasn’t going to be able to command me. If she even knew,” Vander said, peering through the microscope. He swore and slammed his hand onto the table. “It’s clotting. Chelle’s blood and mine.”
Grayson dug his palms into his temples and raked his fingers roughly through his hair.
Out in the street, a rise of noise broke the unnatural silence. Vander crossed the room to the window and lifted the drape just enough to peek out.
“You need to leave. All of you. Now.”
Ingrid joined Vander at the window. She peered out just as stealthily, feeling Luc press up behind her for a glance as well. Four stories below, three conveyances had pulled to a stop directly in front of Hôtel Bastian’s entrance. The carriages were surrounded by Alliance members, all of them armed. She spotted Hans among them. They were guarding the carriages, it seemed, and the dozen or more men climbing out of them and onto the curb.
“The Roman troops?” she guessed. A man wearing a bright red cape and hat appeared among those below.
“And the Directorate representative,” Vander said. He stepped away from the window and, crouching, pulled up the hem of his right trouser leg. He gripped the hilt of a knife strapped inside his boot and held it out to Ingrid. “You’re not safe here.”
Ingrid didn’t take the proffered blade. She’d had one in her reticule, but she’d lost the purse, along with one pair of her custom-made gloves and Luc’s stone talisman, when the hellhound had dragged her to the Underneath.
“All we have to do is tell them about your demon blood being able to subdue ours,” she said.
Vander stood up. “And if they don’t care? If they don’t listen or understand? They’re hunters, Ingrid, and they’ve got their orders. You need to go.”
“He’s right. Take the knife,” Luc told her, still at her back.
She didn’t want the knife! “Where are we supposed to go? We can’t keep running. There has to be something we can do.”
“We find Axia,” Grayson said. He’d gone back to Chelle’s side.
A low rumbling of feet and voices drifted from a few stories below.
“If she’s started her Harvest, that means she’s here. In human form. That’s why she consumed the blood of those girls back in December, right? To give herself a corporeal form,” Grayson explained as the bottom floors of Hôtel Bastian came to life.
“One that can be harmed,” Ingrid said. Or better still, killed.
Vander’s patience snapped. He grasped her hand and forced the handle of the knife into her palm. He closed her fingers around it.
“Go. Go with Luc and Grayson and stay away from any Alliance, understand? There’s more mersian blood in my room on rue de Berri. Get to it in at least another day or so.”
She frowned at him. “You can’t stay here. You’re a Duster!”
“I’m Alliance,” Vander replied, then nodded toward the table where Chelle was lain out. “Besides, I can’t leave her.”
“Neither will I,” Grayson said. Ingrid spun toward him to protest, but he already had his poker face on and his hands up. “I’m not leaving her, Ingrid.”
She pursed her lips. Ingrid knew her brother, and she knew when he’d made up his mind to see something through. Besides, she had a strong feeling that her brother had fallen in love.
More voices, the scraping of furniture, the slam of a door.
“What will they do to you?” she asked Vander.
“Get her out of here, Luc,” he said, ignoring her question. “Avoid the roof. There will already be a few fighters stationed there. Go down the hall, to the last room on the right. There’s a balcony.”
Luc took her elbow and dragged her from the room, Ingrid craning her neck to see her brother and Vander before the door shut. They ran down the hall to the room with the balcony, just as Vander had instructed. Luc threw open the doors and tugged Ingrid against his chest. He swung one leg over the wrought-iron rail.
She froze, staring down at the four-story drop. “Wait—aren’t you going to shift?”
He lifted her to sit on the rail, her legs dangling over the edge. He held her steady, and she didn’t even consider being afraid.
“I’m not planning on flying anywhere,” he said as he hooked her legs with his arm and cradled her against his chest. He brought his anchoring leg over and then they were falling. The wind rushed up her nostrils and through her hair; a scream lodged like a stone in her throat. Luc hit the pavement below. His legs, like oiled springs, sank into a smooth, graceful crouch before bounding back up again. Ingrid’s stomach swam somewhere around her ankles.
“We’ll be less visible on foot,” Luc said, inclining his head toward hers. “Are you able to walk?”
She licked her lips and nodded. He let her down, but she continued to gaze up at him.
“How did you do that?”
His lopsided smile made her forget the ground beneath her feet. “Not human, remember?”
He kept her hand in his as they ran along the alleyway, away from the main road. They reached the next block and Luc turned right. Ingrid looked left, toward the abbey and rectory.
“We’re not going home?” she asked, forgetting for the moment that he no longer called it that.
“It will be the first place the Roman troops go,” he answered.
She thought of Marco and what he would do to any Alliance fighters who showed up searching for her.
“Don’t worry about Marco. He’ll know where we are,” Luc said, his read on her unsettlingly accurate.
“To your territory, then?” she asked as Luc slowed their pace to a jog.
“Not with Vincent and the others likely massing there right now to discuss the demon invasion,” he answered quickly.
She yanked her hand from his and came to a stop. This side street was as deserted as rue de Sèvres had been, but she still kept her voice low.
“Why did we even bother leaving if we had nowhere to go? Why am I running from the Roman troops if Vander and Grayson aren’t?”
Luc expelled a long breath. His hands were on his hips, his alert gaze coasting along the empty road for a moment before settling on her.
“Because the first Alliance fool to touch you would have died.” Luc took the three steps back to her side. “I would have killed him, and then maybe a few more, but eventually they would have overtaken me. I’d be dead—for good, this time—and the Alliance and Dispossessed would be at war.”
A gust of wind barreling down the street caught the last traces of her anger and stole them away. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She closed her eyes, knowing she had to start or they weren’t going to make it through the night.
“Marco’s old territory,” she said, opening her eyes. “He said it was deserted.”
Luc held out his hand. She slipped her fingers through his.
“I know where it is,” he said.
The stately town home covered nearly half a block of a street directly off rue de Vaugirard. The windows were dark when Luc and Ingrid approached, as were most of the windows surrounding Marco’s old territory. Shutters drawn, drapes thrown closed, awnings over storefronts secured. There were fe
w people milling about as the last rays of sun streaked through the dust and smoke drifting through Montparnasse. A group of young men, loud and cocky, were making a racket farther down Vaugirard; two policemen on horses trotted toward them; a brave girl in one of the buildings had her window open, her elbows propped on the sill, her eyes pinned on Luc and Ingrid.
Luc led Ingrid toward the back door of the town home, where deliveries and servants had come and gone. His hand loosened around hers.
“No gargoyles, at least,” he whispered, reaching for the knob. He twisted it, breaking the lock and reminding Ingrid once again that even his human form couldn’t mask what he truly was.
The glass-paned door glided inward and Luc and Ingrid stepped inside a dark, cold room. Ingrid couldn’t see anything beyond black shapes, a glint of copper or glass, and the hulking shadow of a stove. Luc, however, had reclaimed her hand and easily guided her through the dark. The last vestiges of dried herbs and vinegar, of burned coal and wood, hinted that this was the kitchen.
She stayed behind Luc, her hand closed in his. He led her deeper into the pockets of darkness, treading up stairs to the second floor. With every step she felt as if they were ascending farther and farther from the mad world outside, into a safe haven of their very own.
He brought her into a room and closed the door behind them before leading her across the bare floor. Her skirts brushed along a piece of furniture, and Luc guided her to sit upon a sofa. The cushion was soft with use, and Ingrid sank down into it.
“There’s a fireplace,” Luc announced before releasing her hand.
Ingrid was still shaking, but she didn’t think it was from the cold, musty air of the closed-up town home. She couldn’t stop wondering what had happened when the Roman troops had walked into the medical room. How had they treated Grayson? And what if Vander refused to point out other Dusters? Ingrid buried her face in her hands. It was a nightmare. Not just Axia and the hellish realm she’d unleashed, but the Alliance and how they’d undergone a sea change.
A small flame ignited in the hearth. It revealed the black outline of Luc’s crouched figure. He wasn’t as broad or as tall as Marco, but he was powerfully built. Nolan’s borrowed clothes fit snugly, defining the able muscles of Luc’s arms, shoulders, and back. He blew into the flames and added a few small pieces of firewood.
“I’ll have to search for things to burn,” he said as he straightened his legs and came toward the sofa. He stopped in front of her. The firelight revealed furrowed brows and an expression of concern.
“Get up,” he said. Ingrid shot to her feet, panicking for a moment that they weren’t alone. That they would have to start running again. But Luc only grabbed the arm of the sofa and dragged it closer to the fireplace.
“There. You’ll be warmer.”
She ignored the sofa and buried herself in his arms instead. He held her, his breath fanning out over her scalp as he let out a long sigh.
“What if you need to return to your territory?” she asked. If a human sought shelter from this madness at gargoyle common grounds, Luc would have to go.
“People won’t hide away in a drafty, run-down building,” he answered. “They’ll want shuttered, intact windows and doors that lock.”
It made sense, and she supposed it was at least one blessing. Still, if he had to leave, then he had to leave. There wasn’t anything either of them could do to stop the force of an angel’s order. Ingrid pulled back at the thought.
“Irindi,” she said. Luc peered down at her.
“What about her?”
“We need help.” She slid from his hold as an idea took her. “We need help stopping Axia, and Axia is part angel. What if Irindi and the other angels could stop her again? Banish her, like they did the first time?”
Luc didn’t react. He stayed still as a statue. Contemplating the merits of her idea, she hoped.
“Irindi and the other angels of the Order don’t concern themselves with human problems,” he finally said.
“But this isn’t just a human problem! It involves one of their own.”
Luc turned toward the growing fire.
“I’ve never summoned her,” he said into the flames. The light played off his bright eyes, turning them into glittering gems.
He would try. Ingrid didn’t need to ask him to do so, and he didn’t need to say that he would. He drew her back to his chest, tucking the crown of her head under his chin. The fire was already warming her legs, and she’d stopped shivering.
“I know it was difficult,” he whispered. “Leaving Grayson back there. And the Seer.”
He said the last bit quickly, spitting out the word as he might a chunk of gristle.
“He loves you,” Luc added, even more quickly.
Vander, he meant, not her brother. Ingrid raised her eyes, though she couldn’t see Luc’s expression from where she was, underneath his jaw.
“I think you love him, too,” he went on.
She gathered her breath. He didn’t say it angrily or pose it as a question. He’d simply stated it.
“You could have a life with him, Ingrid. A real life, and I think you want the things he could give you. Things like a family.”
A family? She already had one, and she wasn’t ready for anything more than that, not yet. She wasn’t even eighteen. Luc was older. Much, much older. He’d had plenty of time to consider all the things he wasn’t capable of having.
Silence yawned before them. She knew he wanted some sort of reaction. He would know a lie if she attempted one, and she would only end up disappointing him with anything less than the truth.
“I do love Vander,” she whispered into Luc’s shoulder. She felt his intake of air, the way it inflated and hardened his chest. She forced her way out of his hold so she could look up at him.
“But what I feel for you burns brighter. I may eventually want things you can’t give me,” she continued. “And I know I’ll grow old and you might stop loving me—”
He shook his head and growled, “No. This is not about how you look, Ingrid.”
“But right now,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Right now I choose you. I give myself to you.”
She didn’t have a moment to take a breath before his lips had crushed against hers. He wound his arms around her waist and sealed her body flush against his. She felt him everywhere, their bodies joined from ankles to lips, all soft curves and hard muscle. He formed himself around her, reaching in to take what he could before he inevitably had to stop. Before he transformed into something Ingrid couldn’t kiss. Couldn’t touch, not the way her hands were touching him now, gliding up the soft skin of his neck and into his hair.
Luc peeled her hands from where they were, lost in his short curls, and with a long, husky groan, moved her quickly, though gently, away from him. He held her at arm’s length before letting go of her hands completely, then stepped from the fireplace and turned his back on her.
Ingrid stayed quiet, her pulse loud, her lips throbbing. She knew what was happening to his body, and she slid farther back to give him more room. The bunching and heaving of muscles underneath the borrowed dove-gray linen shirt was more than a trick of the firelight, as were the broadening of his shoulders and the shortening of his hair as it started to pull back into his scalp.
But in the next moment, it all stopped. Luc stood still for another minute before he faced her again, looking faintly uncomfortable.
“Is that all?” she asked, amazed. He had stopped the shift. He’d actually fought it off.
He cleared his throat, his eyes only flashing to hers for a split second. “That was my fault. I lost control. Next time, if we go slowly … I might be able to last longer.”
Ingrid flushed and found it difficult to breathe.
Luc backed out of the room, saying he was going to search for more firewood. He closed the door behind him and Ingrid sank down onto the shabby sofa. She could still feel his hands on her skin, his lips against hers. Next time.
In this small sitting room, closed behind heavy, light-blocking drapes, with only an old sofa and a few other pieces of unloved furniture left behind by Marco’s former human charges, it was easy to believe that she and Luc were safe. It wouldn’t last. Ingrid wasn’t a fool. She knew that the fire would go out and the sun would rise and that at any moment, the demons could come crashing through the windows. She would take this reprieve from reality, however, and happily. A part of her knew she would not be offered another one.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The fire had grown cold again. Luc had torn apart a Biedermeier desk and chair, a wooden table from the kitchen, the frames of a few portraits left hanging in the dining room, and stacks of slatted crates hauled up from the cellar, and yet the fire continued to crumble. Ingrid was freezing. It had been over a day since they’d arrived at Marco’s old territory, and this was their second night in the sitting room, the sofa pulled as close to the weak flames as was safe.
Luc reclined lengthwise on the sofa, one leg on the floor, the other propped against the cushioned backrest. Ingrid lay half on top of him, half beside him, sleeping fitfully. He stroked her hair, hanging loose and gorgeous down her back.
Though Luc had left earlier to find something for Ingrid to eat and to discover the state of things outside, he’d wound up returning within minutes. The demons hadn’t left. They were still stinking up the streets, and to Luc’s unease, corvites were everywhere. They lined the roofs of buildings, sat atop lampposts, curbs, benches, and balcony railings. They perched on the sinewy bones of ravaged horses and dogs and, Luc had noted with a roll of his stomach, even a human carcass splayed out in the street.
They watched. Corvites were annoying that way. Luc had waited until he was sure no corvite was paying him any attention before slipping back to the town home. The other unsettling thing was that he hadn’t heard or felt the presence of another gargoyle in more than twenty-four hours. Not knowing what was happening out there made him tense.
