The Lovely and the Lost

by Page Morgan

  Wind tunneled down her throat and canceled out her scream. He had taken her from whatever danger lay on the ground, but what about Gabby? Why hadn’t he taken her sister as well?

  Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to flail. A bubble of nausea rode up her throat, and though they were flying straight, she still felt as if they were corkscrewing through the air. She had nearly fainted the first time she’d flown with Luc, but this dizzy spinning sensation was something different. It felt oddly familiar.

  She fought the spell as shifting currents of wind tossed her legs side to side. Luc hadn’t pinned them up as he had the first time. The air filled his wings and took him higher into the dense cloud cover. The lights below finally disappeared, and then Luc was hurtling through cold black clouds. Ingrid’s cloak and dress were sodden, her skin had numbed to ice, and her head throbbed and spun—and then went still.

  Just like that, the nausea was gone.

  Ingrid knew what it had been.

  “Luc! Lower!” she cried out, but again, ate her own words as wind filled her throat. She tucked her head to keep the icy mist from pelting her eyes.

  The same fast, debilitating dizzy spell had come over her in the profane cemetery lot. The mimic demon had been latching on to her. Burrowing through her memories.

  The mimic?

  Luc’s arms went slack.

  Ingrid gargled a scream as her whole body swung down, perpendicular to the ground, far, far below. Her fingers dug for purchase on the shalelike scales. The mist had made them slick, though, and he slipped out from under her hands.

  It isn’t Luc was the absurd thought floundering through her mind as she fell. It was the mimic. It had finished playing with her. Now it was time for her to die.

  Weightlessness felt strange. As if the sky were both pushing her down and sucking her back up at the same time. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even scream. The wind blew the pins and combs from her hair as fingers of wind rotated her body in the sky. Her cloak flapped like useless wings at her sides.

  She wouldn’t see Luc again. She’d be dead and he would still be a gargoyle and how could this be happening? Ingrid rushed to grab hold of his image—she only had a few seconds left to think of it. It wasn’t his human form that slid into her mind, though. Not the raven hair and soft warm skin, but his tempered-steel scales, the brawn of his chest, the magnificent spread of jet wings. That was the Luc she wanted to cling to.

  The front of Ingrid’s body slammed hard against an unforgiving surface, driving the air straight out of her lungs. The strike hadn’t hurt half as much as she thought it would, and her body undulated as it might upon a wave. She dragged in a rough gasp and—she was still breathing.

  Opening her eyes, she saw the Paris skyline scrolling by underneath her and the scaled body of the gargoyle she’d crashed into. Marco! She lay prostrate along the knuckled ridge of his back, his russet wings stroking the air at her sides. They enclosed her in a safe embrace on each upward stroke. She wound her arms around his neck and straddled him, digging in with her knees until her muscles shook. Ingrid buried her face in his coarse scales.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she sobbed, and was answered with a shriek that vibrated through his back.

  Ingrid had only just evened out her breathing when Marco dove into a sharp slant. The peaked roof of a palatial old mansion rushed at them, along with a brightly lit circular drive. Marco shifted his weight, throwing down his legs and landing on the drive with startling finesse.

  Ingrid fell off his back without an ounce of grace. She landed on her rump and stayed there. The stillness of solid ground was glorious.

  “Lady Ingrid.”

  Nolan’s father ended her reprieve. He stood within the open front door of a medieval-looking estate. Ingrid remained where she was, her legs too rubbery to attempt standing. He came into the courtyard, his eyes fixed on her. “I feared you would not come,” he said, and for a moment he did look afraid. Afraid and relieved at once.

  “You,” Ingrid said. A spark of electric static fired through her shoulders. Her arms and legs—her whole body—were so wet and cold that the burn of the sudden flare hurt. Just as it had hurt that time on Constantine’s grounds when she’d been sprawled in the snow, and again, in the sewers. Ingrid gasped as more sparks lit and fired underneath her skin.

  “Where is my father?” she asked, wobbling to her feet.

  Carrick raised his palms to her in a gesture of peace. “He is uninjured. The severed finger came from a test corpse. The intended effect seems to have been achieved, however, for here you are.”

  Ingrid stepped in front of Marco. He blew a shot of steam from his wolfish nose and stayed close behind her.

  “You’re a traitor to the Alliance,” she said.

  Carrick blinked twice at the accusation.

  “I cannot argue. I went against my vows. Everything I hold sacred.” Carrick Quinn, though taller and rounder than Nolan, still had his son’s easy swagger. He came toward Ingrid. The gas jets hinged to the façade of the mansion threw half his face into shadows. “And you should be grateful that I have, Lady Ingrid, because the Alliance very much wants you dead.”

  It was inevitable. Grayson had known it that morning when he’d been standing on the roof of Hôtel Bastian, listening to Ingrid insist she sacrifice herself for their bastard of a father. Grayson’s temperature had catapulted, his pulse had gone full tilt, and even though he’d fought it off all day, a part of him had known he wouldn’t win.

  He was going to shift.

  Standing along rue de Clichy, in the slim alley between two apartment buildings, waiting for Constantine’s brougham to clatter by, Grayson knew his time had run out.

  There were two of them this time. He breathed in their musky odor and his skin shivered like horseflesh throwing off flies. This was it. At least Chelle wasn’t there to see it happen.

  Grayson ducked farther into the shadowy alley and arched his back. Letting go didn’t hurt. It felt good. It was a release, like taking off shoes that pinched, or wet, cold clothing. As his body fell forward, muscle and bone shifting and moving like liquid into their rightful places, Grayson heard what the hellhounds wanted.

  Come with us. Mistress says it is time.

  Grayson kept his eyes on the sleek, pale fur of his bulging paws, each one easily the size of a Christmas ham. He smelled things he hadn’t before: the wet limestone of the buildings shouldering him, the rotting carcass of a roast fowl in a row of metal trash cans, a sickly sweet rose perfume drifting from an open window above.

  His mistress wanted him, and he had a sudden urge to acquiesce. Like an undertow, it sucked and pulled, making him want to roll over and submit. It was nearly as strong as the urge to shift, and just as hard to resist. But Grayson could resist. If he tried hard enough, he could.

  No, he thought. Immediately, the apprehension of the other two hellhounds crept inside Grayson. He looked up and saw their cloudy brown shapes and glowing coal eyes. They were nothing but bond servants. Dogs to be commanded. They had no thoughts of their own, no needs or desires or goals except for those of their mistress.

  Grayson was different. He saw that now. He had changed form, but if he tried he could keep his human side intact. He was willing to bet Axia hadn’t anticipated that.

  She wanted Grayson to lead her hounds. She’d given him this curse at birth. She’d made him what he was. From the first breath he’d ever taken to this one right now, Axia had designed him to belong to her.

  He breathed in and realized even angels made mistakes.

  If Axia wanted Grayson to lead her hounds, he could do just that. Just as Axia wished, he could be their master.

  But she would not be his.

  You will serve me, Grayson thought, and took a bold plunge toward the two creatures. He didn’t have Luc at his side this time. He didn’t need him. The hellhounds backed off, letting out thin whines. Their eyes lowered toward the pavement and they crouched in sub
mission.

  Grayson craned his furred neck to see out into the wide boulevard. Ingrid would be passing by soon. What better way to help her than with a couple of Axia’s pets at his beck and call?

  “I’m going in.”

  Gabby slid back against the eight-foot brick wall enclosing the Daicrypta grounds just before one of the four muscled guards would have seen her peeking through the iron bars of the front gates. The building was a small medieval-looking palace atop the butte of Montmartre, and it seemed appropriately fortified.

  “No, you are not,” Nolan said. He stood at the curb, rubbing his hand over one of his hastily bandaged wrists. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the way to Montmartre. The few times Gabby had tried to capture his attention, he’d looked away from her, his jaw set.

  “My sister is inside, and we have no idea where Luc is,” Gabby argued, her voice hushed.

  Yann had shifted into human form long enough to explain that a demon—not Luc—had snatched Ingrid into the air, and that Marco had gone after it. Ingrid and Marco had arrived safely at the Daicrypta, Yann later reported, and had been led inside. Vander had been chastising himself ever since. The mimic demon had been posing as Luc, and Vander had not known. The mimic’s dust had been a shade of light blue, like a gargoyle’s.

  “I agree with Nolan. You should not go inside. Besides, Marco is with her,” Chelle said. She and Rory had joined the caravan as it had wended up the hilly eighteenth arrondissement, but so far, they hadn’t met Grayson. Gabby couldn’t worry about him just then. She was far too preoccupied worrying about Ingrid.

  “Marco is not Luc,” Gabby said. It was an obvious statement, and she wasn’t sure the others would understand what she meant by it. She wasn’t entirely sure she did.

  Luc had protected all of them at one point or another, but it was Ingrid he preferred. Gabby had known it from the beginning, and she was certain she hadn’t been the only one, human or gargoyle, to see it. Within the branches of the leafless trees lining the street were two sets of gleaming eyes. Watching. Waiting for someone to say more about Luc and his human girl.

  Gabby kept her lips pressed together.

  Vander had his crossbow loaded and ready at his side. The closest streetlamp, hanging from a curlicue of iron ten yards away, gave off clouds of yellow steam. Vander’s eyes shone with purpose.

  “I’m going in with you,” he said.

  Nolan clapped a hand to his head. “Of course you are. Storming the castle in true Gawain fashion, are we?”

  Rory, who had been quietly observing them as he leaned against the brick wall, now spoke. “Ye’re both acting on emotions. Look at it rationally—we’ve no idea about the innards of the building, how many guards or their positions, where they’ve been holding yer da, or where Ingrid’s been taken. The two of ye would be charging headfirst into disaster.”

  Every word of that was true, and yet Rory’s caution only made Gabby more desperate to go inside. As reckless as it might be, at least she would be doing something. Sensing that the effect of his words had been the exact opposite of what he’d intended, Rory pushed off from the wall and came toward her.

  “Laoch, I know what’s in yer heart.” He touched her gently, his hand a loose cuff around her wrist. Gabby stilled. “But making danger for yerself won’t help Ingrid or yer da.”

  He held on to her. His stare demanded something that his touch didn’t. He wanted to know she understood.

  “Then we need another way,” Gabby said.

  Polished silver flashed at their side as Nolan withdrew his broadsword. Rory released Gabby’s arm abruptly and stepped back as two figures, cloaked in shadow, approached from across the quiet street.

  “Who goes there?” Nolan called.

  One of the figures held up his hands. In one hand was a cane.

  “A friend,” Constantine replied in a hushed tone.

  Nolan kept his sword steady. “And your companion?”

  Vander brought his crossbow up. “A Duster.”

  Constantine came closer, though the second person held back, reluctant.

  “Léon,” Vander said.

  Chelle, already with her hands at her red sash, took out two of her throwing stars. Rory moved with the same stealth, leaving only Gabby without a weapon in hand. She didn’t rush to follow their lead—instinct told her this Duster wasn’t a threat.

  “Wait!” Léon mirrored Constantine and held his hands in surrender. His tall, lanky build made him seem younger than the rest of them somehow.

  “The boy returned to me this evening.” Constantine laid a gloved hand on Léon’s knobby shoulder. “After hearing what he had to say about this place, I thought it wise to find you immediately. You cannot enter that building.”

  Ice locked Gabby’s chest as solid as a winter harbor.

  “Ingrid is already inside,” she replied.

  And her father, though shouldn’t he have been released by now?

  Léon put his hands down slowly. “Then you must get her out.”

  Gabby’s thoughts exactly.

  Nolan lowered the tip of his sword. “Which would require us to go in. Weren’t we just ominously told not to do that?”

  “Léon has knowledge of the layout of rooms,” Constantine told them, ignoring Nolan’s sarcasm.

  “And I know where they will be taking her,” Léon added.

  “Time is of the essence, Mr. Quinn,” Constantine said.

  Gabby turned to Nolan, who seemed to be contemplating an apt reply. Since when did he make all the decisions? This was her sister. Her family.

  “Can we get in without being seen?” she asked Léon, wary of him and yet desperate enough to hope that he meant well. She didn’t know him. He had murdered his family. But he had tried to warn Grayson, and he was here now with another warning.

  “It’s possible,” he replied, his haunted eyes drifting up toward the tangled branches of the nearby trees, where Lennier and Yann still hid, waiting. Léon jerked his chin. “Monsieur Constantine told me about them. He said we might need them, and he is right. We can’t do this without wings.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ingrid had expected the Daicrypta mansion to be just as inhospitable inside as it appeared on the outside. Judging from the blocky, weathered limestone complete with parapets and towers, she’d envisioned large, drafty halls, arched wooden doors, and torchlight.

  She had not imagined what opened up before her now.

  Ingrid stepped inside a carpeted guest chamber decorated with creamy silk wallpaper and drapes, fine beveled mirrors, potted palms, a slim writing desk and chair, and small-scale replicas of all six Lady and the Unicorn tapestries. The elegance of the room far surpassed that of her own at the rectory.

  “I hope it’s suitable,” Carrick said as he entered behind her. Everything about the place had been alarmingly tranquil as they had wended their way to the second-level guest room.

  Though Dupuis had not joined them, a number of disciples, as Constantine had called them, had come to stand in open doorways as Ingrid had gone past. They had stared at her with unabashed curiosity. They were picturing her blood, most likely. Wondering how it would look trapped in glass vials rather than in her veins.

  Marco strode into the room as well, wearing his human skin and a pair of ill-fitting trousers. He’d refused the shirt Carrick had taken from the Daicrypta disciple who had given up his pants. Why don a shirt when he could intimidate them all with his broad, chiseled torso?

  “I won’t be here long enough to enjoy the room, I’m sure,” Ingrid replied, purposefully cool. “Now, for the last time: I want to see my father.”

  Carrick gestured toward the writing desk’s chair. Ingrid remained on her feet, with Marco standing so close to her side that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His presence gave her a fraction of confidence, but she still longed for Luc. Worry kept closing in on her, dashing her concentration. Where was he?

  “I assure you, your father i
s perfectly fine,” Carrick said.

  He’d said the severed finger had come from a corpse, but what proof did Ingrid have of that?

  “I’m here,” she said, her patience worn thin. “I’ve done what Dupuis has asked. Now let him go!”

  The papered walls and hanging tapestries muffled her shout. Carrick could have been lying. Marco hadn’t yet scented her father, so he was unable to tell what was happening to him.

  “I will see to it personally,” Nolan’s father said, putting on a cajoling tone that only made her more irritated.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe a word you say,” she replied as she crossed the room. Earlier she’d been able to command Vincent. She wished she could do the same with Carrick now.

  At the window, Ingrid shoved aside the heavy drapes and tried to open the sash. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Nailed shut, I’m afraid,” Carrick explained.

  To bar an escape, she guessed.

  Marco came to the same conclusion. “The tricky thing about glass, Alliance fool, is that it shatters.”

  She backed away from the window. “I have two questions. I want answers for both, or else Marco and I will be leaving and you will have an open gap here instead of a window.”

  Marco looked giddy with anticipation when she turned to face him and Carrick. “Where is Luc? And why does the Alliance want me dead?”

  The first question was, of course, the crucial one, although a small, dark corner of her already knew the answer.

  Carrick began with her second question. “The decision was made by a handful of the highest-ranking Alliance leaders.”

  “The Directorate?” Ingrid asked. “Why would they want me dead?”

  “Why wouldn’t they? Learning of a fallen angel’s intentions to reclaim her blood from you and then form a demon-human army was enough to give us all nightmares. We asked you to come to Rome, if you remember. We could have kept you safe in confinement there. But you refused, and considering you aren’t officially Alliance, we had no right to force you. Spilling your blood, dashing it out of your veins before Axia could take it for herself, was the next most commonsensical answer.”