The Lovely and the Lost

by Page Morgan

  We serve Mistress first.

  The answer trickled into his mind with crystalline lucidity compared to the muffled, underwater voices of his sisters and father. Their arguing burbled around him while the hound’s thoughts continued clearly.

  You serve her now as well. Bring the one Mistress wants.

  Ingrid. They’d come for Ingrid. And Grayson had led them straight to her. The hounds had played him for a fool. They’d never been under his control at all.

  He caught sight of the beast across the courtyard. It clambered onto the exterior limestone like a thorny vine, defying gravity as it ran along the stone façade, perpendicular to the ground. A disciple shot one of the Daicrypta’s gleaming nets, but the hound evaded it and the net shattered a window instead. The hellhound streaked along the exterior stone, clawing over windows and shutters and balcony railings, red eyes focused on its prey: Ingrid.

  Silver flashes slashed the air over Grayson’s shoulders, announcing Chelle’s presence. One of her hira-shuriken gouged the limestone, but the other sheared through the hound’s flank. The beast stumbled and Grayson charged toward his twin. Axia’s pet would not succeed—she would not have Ingrid’s blood, and she would never be his mistress.

  Chelle hadn’t hindered the beast. It arced off the wall, scoring the frozen ground with its claws upon landing. Someone was shouting, a new voice burbling up in a muffled pocket of air. And then someone else dove into the path of the oncoming hound.

  Nolan’s father held no weapon, but he ran toward the demon with crazed determination. Grayson slid into position, blocking Ingrid, and watched in awe as Carrick Quinn ran full tilt into the hellhound’s enormous maw.

  The beast clamped its jaws around the man’s torso and ripped him from the ground. Carrick’s war cry went silent as the hellhound darted past Grayson and Ingrid and disappeared through the dark arcades.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Nolan’s scream drowned out Gabby’s. She watched his broadsword cleaving the air as he chased after the demon and his father. There was nothing to be done for him. Gabby knew it, and if she did, so did Nolan.

  Pangs of shock and sadness drummed her in the stomach. She would have gone after Nolan had it not been for her brother, covered in swaths of greasy yellow fur and crouched on all fours in front of Ingrid.

  “Stay away from her!” Lord Brickton screamed, jabbing Gabby’s sword toward Grayson. Her brother yelped and growled as he avoided the point of the blade. Why didn’t he shift back?

  “Papa, stop!” Ingrid and Gabby shouted together, each of them pulling at their father’s sleeves.

  More screeching came from above, the shadow of wings and long, whiplike tails swerving through the air. Lennier and Yann had returned, and with Marco, Chelle, and Rory, they were driving the disciples back inside the mansion. Vander, however, was still stuck beneath one of their bizarre nets. Luc had freed Ingrid, but the silver must have been laced with mercurite—he could only crawl toward Grayson, who was still at the end of Lord Brickton’s sword.

  “You’re a monster,” Brickton moaned, the sword trembling in his grasp. “A murdering monster. This is how you killed her, then, you wicked beast. This is what you are.”

  Gabby stared, not understanding. Grayson hadn’t killed anyone. He couldn’t have.

  Her father raised the sword. He was going to do it. He was going to kill his own son. Grayson hunched down and roared—and Gabby knew that her brother would not be the one to die.

  Luc must have known it as well. He stopped crawling, and from where he lay, battered and broken, he lashed out his long, darted tail and clipped Brickton’s ankles. Marco compounded the strike, slamming into her father’s chest with the force of a bull. Her father went down and Gabby’s sword pinwheeled through the air, landing yards away.

  “Grayson, shift! Change back!” Gabby cried.

  Lennier and Yann circled above like vultures. Grayson wasn’t human to them just then. He was a demon. A threat.

  Yann dove first.

  Gabby heard the spring on Vander’s crossbow release. A dart shot through the gaps in the netting and pierced one of Yann’s razored wings. He spun wildly off course—and Lennier immediately plunged down, his great white wings tucked back, talons extended.

  “Grayson!” Gabby screamed.

  Her brother bounded away, but he still didn’t shift. Maybe he couldn’t, Gabby thought. She reached into her cloak and gripped the handle of a dagger. If she could pierce Lennier’s wing, just wound him, as Vander had done to Yann, it would buy Grayson time to shift. Or escape. Gabby didn’t care which, so long as her brother was still breathing.

  She hurled the dagger as Lennier swooped low. The blade was in midflight when Léon’s silken ropes lassoed Lennier’s leg and pulled him back. The dagger sailed past Lennier, who took one swipe at the arachnae silk and sheared himself free.

  A second dagger was in Gabby’s hand and then whirling toward Lennier before she could take another breath. He unfurled his wings, exposing the steel cage of his chest, and the dagger plunged through the albino scales. Lennier dropped, heavy as a stone. His body plowed a deep rut into the earth, and then he lay still. Utterly still.

  “Gabby—” Ingrid’s hand landed on her shoulder and jerked her back. “What did you do?”

  Gabby stopped breathing.

  She reached inside her cloak and touched the one remaining dagger. The familiarity of it made her stomach clench. It was one of her own. She’d thrown two daggers. One blessed silver and one—

  Oh God.

  The mercurite-dipped blade. The one she’d pocketed, intending to use it on Dimitrie.

  Yann touched down beside Lennier and crouched over the elder gargoyle’s body. His lion’s tail slashed back and forth, his white and gray speckled wings flat planes at his sides.

  His tail stilled, and Gabby knew for certain which dagger had speared Lennier’s chest.

  Almost instantly Yann took flight in a reverse flip and came for her.

  Rory slid underneath Yann, his daggers weaving through the air. His aim was true, and Yann veered off course long enough for Marco to leave Brickton and hook Gabby around the waist. He rocketed into the air, and as they spiraled up, Gabby craned her neck to look down. Lennier was no longer a gargoyle but a flaccid old man, his long white hair splayed on the ground—and her dagger was embedded in his heart.

  Chelle approached Grayson, her arms open and hands facing out.

  “It’s me,” she said, as if he couldn’t already recognize her. Couldn’t already smell her blood sluicing through her veins.

  “Change back, Grayson.” Her voice was muffled but firm. Calm. She wasn’t afraid.

  “Close your eyes,” she suggested. His heart rampaged hard in his barrel of a chest. He had to calm down.

  He closed his eyes to the sight of Rory prying the steel-like net off Vander; to Ingrid helping Luc to his feet, their gargoyle protector looking half dead; to the gargoyle lying motionless on the ground, now a mound of white hair and pale crepe-paper flesh. Gabby had only been trying to protect him. She never would have killed that gargoyle on purpose.

  He had to change back. He had to explain.

  His femurs cracked as they shrank. The hulking muscles along his neck and back compressed and his cartilage reshaped. The wicked February-night wind licked his human skin next.

  When he opened his eyes, on all fours, the frosted grass dampening his trousers, Grayson felt another pair of eyes boring into the crown of his head.

  Grayson got to his feet. A pair of hands shoved him hard in the chest and propelled him back to the ground.

  “We trusted ye!” Rory towered over him. “Ye said the hellhounds were under yer command.”

  “They were.” Grayson rebounded to his feet. “At least, I thought they were.”

  “You led them here?”

  Nolan crossed through the dark arcades, the tip of his broadsword slicing into the earth as he dragged it.

  Grayson didn’t know how to e
xplain what had happened. “I’m sorry—”

  “No, you’re not. Not yet.” Nolan flipped up his sword and drove it toward Grayson. Vander slammed his crossbow into Nolan’s silver blade and brought it down.

  “Not now,” he said, raising his eyes to the Daicrypta windows. “We need to leave. Before they have another fit of bravery.”

  The skin under Nolan’s eyes looked bruised as he stepped back and saw Lennier’s lifeless body for the first time. He stilled. “What dagger is that?”

  Rory bent to extract it, the blood black on the blade. “Mercurite.”

  Nolan forgot his fury with Grayson and turned it on Rory. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Rory calmly sheathed the bloodied dagger. “I know what I’ve done tonight, cousin, but I dinna think Gabby does. ’Twas her deed, no’ mine.”

  The last ounce of Nolan’s color drained. He took a panicked look around the courtyard and, when he didn’t see Gabby anywhere, ran for the arcades once more. He passed Luc and Ingrid, who were already limping in retreat. Vander hurried to shore up Luc’s other side.

  Grayson felt someone approach from behind. He knew who it was. He’d always been able to feel his father’s disappointed glare before meeting it head-on.

  “What are you?” his father asked.

  Grayson sucked in a breath and saw Ingrid stop up ahead, her eyes bouncing between him and their father. She’d begged to know what happened that night in London. Well, Grayson was done hiding.

  “I’m exactly what you thought I was.” He turned toward his father. Brickton appeared unusually old and haggard. Undone. “Did you never wonder how I ripped out her throat?”

  Beside him, Chelle let out a gasp. Good, he thought. Let her hear it, too. He’d been fooling himself, thinking he could hide from what he truly was. Best to tell them all and get it over and done with.

  “I did,” Grayson went on. “I wondered. I tried to imagine how human teeth could manage such carnage. Obviously, human teeth didn’t.”

  He wanted to see shock spread across his father’s face, but Brickton didn’t acquiesce. Ever unflappable and hard, he only flared his nostrils.

  “You are no longer my son.”

  A bitter laugh crawled up Grayson’s throat and he bowed low. “With pleasure, my lord.”

  Grayson had spent his life feeling tethered to the man standing just feet away. As the invisible threads finally released him, the gulf of freedom was as invigorating as it was terrifying. It spread out before Grayson, open and empty and full of promise. Bad or good, Grayson didn’t know, but it was promise just the same. He wasn’t afraid to drift out into that open gulf. He backed toward the arcades.

  “Grayson, stop. He doesn’t mean it. He can’t mean it.”

  Ingrid’s voice was so small and uncertain. Grayson knew she didn’t believe a word she was saying. He’d once known everything his twin felt. Everything she thought. She had been inside him, a second person. Lately, though, he’d lost her. As he walked away from her now, ignoring her pleas for him to stop, to come back, he realized it was better this way. Not for him, but for her. For them all. She didn’t want him to be a monster, but he was. Chelle wanted to believe that he was more human than demon, but he wasn’t. The sooner they realized these things, the sooner they could get on with their lives.

  A hand rested gently on his shoulder. It was Léon, his expression drawn. Another murderer. The only person Grayson pitied more than he did himself.

  “Come” was all Léon said.

  And Grayson went.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Constantine’s brougham rolled down the steep, winding streets of Montmartre, toward the frozen Seine. Vander was at the reins, his mount from earlier fettered to the back and trotting behind. Ingrid sat on the driver’s bench with him, the winter wind rustling what remained of the brittle poplar leaves overhead. She didn’t care about the cold. She would rather turn to a block of ice than ride in the back with her father. After what he’d said to Grayson, Ingrid didn’t know if she would ever be able to forgive him.

  Ingrid pressed a little closer to Vander’s side and wondered when she would next see her twin. The way he’d left hadn’t given her much hope that it would be anytime soon.

  “At least Léon is with him,” Vander said, as if reading her thoughts.

  Ingrid was grateful for that. The Duster had killed his family, but he wasn’t evil. He’d made a mistake. An awful mistake, just as Grayson had in London. Her brother was not a monster. He might think so, but she did not. Ingrid would let him be for now. Eventually, she would find him.

  “I’ll bring him home,” she whispered.

  Vander lifted the arm she was leaning against and looped her with it. She was full against him now, his fingers still tightly gripping the reins. She had no desire to pull away from the embrace. Vander felt solid and strong, and Ingrid breathed evenly, repelling the feelings of guilt before they came too close. She didn’t think she was Luc’s human again just yet, or that he could sense her. He was inside the carriage with her father, having shifted back to his human form as much as could be done.

  The mercurite had hurt Luc more than Ingrid wanted to think about. He wasn’t immortal or infallible, and she’d hated seeing him struggle. She also hated the image that pressed against her eyes whenever she closed them: Luc, standing over Dimitrie’s body. The boy’s head dangling from his talons.

  A shudder worked down her arms. It had nothing to do with the cold. Ingrid tried to pull away, but Vander’s arm kept her encircled.

  “Vander, it isn’t safe,” she said.

  “For whom?” He glanced down at her, lamplight reflecting off his spectacles. “I don’t mind absorbing your dust, Ingrid. I’m not afraid of it. In fact …” He shrugged, one corner of his mouth kicking up. “I like being able to feel you this way. No one else can. Just me.”

  Something intimate passed between them. It felt like a kiss without their lips actually meeting. The soft, pale flesh along the underside of her forearm prickled, invisible needles poking lightly at her fingertips.

  It scared her how much she wanted to stay there against him, letting him soak up her dust. How long would it take for him to absorb it all? The idea of being normal, of giving it all away to him, even for just a little while, both tempted and frightened her.

  Ingrid pulled away again, and this time he let her sit up. Disappointment pulled his lips back into a straight line. He focused on the road ahead.

  “You owe him nothing,” Vander said softly, his jaw tight. He knew to whom her thoughts had traveled. With a wrench of guilt, she wondered if she’d always been so very transparent. “If he’s made you any promises, Ingrid, I can assure you they’re lies.”

  Ingrid closed her eyes. She couldn’t talk to Vander about Luc right now. She’d just watched her brother walk away from her, and she knew it was selfish, but she wasn’t ready to watch as Vander did the same thing.

  “No, Vander. It’s just …” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can go to Hôtel Bastian anymore. What Nolan’s father told me, about the Directorate voting to have me killed …” Ingrid closed her eyes at the unexpected tug at the bottom of her throat. The sting of tears.

  “If the Alliance is my enemy—”

  “I am not your enemy, Ingrid.” Vander’s voice cracked like a pistol shot. “I don’t understand why the Directorate would do something like this—if they even did vote to release that mimic on you. Carrick Quinn was half mad with mercurite poisoning, remember. He might have been acting on his own.”

  He hadn’t been. Ingrid knew it, and somewhere underneath his denial, so did Vander. “They are going to discover I’m still alive.”

  “I’ll take down the entire Directorate before I let them hurt you.” He slapped the reins and the horses trotted faster. “You are safe with me, Ingrid. I promise you that.”

  She knew she was. It was the rest of the Alliance that worried her.

  He held both reins with one hand
and laced his fingers through hers. He lifted her hand to his mouth. He didn’t kiss it, but breathed out hot air to warm her. Her lips parted as the warmth reached inside, curled around her stomach, and gave a slow, seductive tug.

  Ingrid dragged in a ragged breath and unlaced her fingers from his. She couldn’t do this. Not after what had happened between her and Luc at gargoyle common grounds. The way they had kissed and touched, their limbs twined together on the bed in that guest room, had left no room for anyone to edge between them. Neither of them had spoken the actual words, but she and Luc had made a promise to one another.

  Ingrid looked away from Vander. “I think I know how to use the electricity now. I need to practice.” It was a flimsy excuse. Vander’s touch stirred her, but was it him? Or was it him disturbing her dust? She didn’t know. God, what was she going to do?

  Vander, gracious as ever, simply nodded. “That’s good. I knew you would. You were amazing back there, you know. The way you took down that hellhound.” He let out a laugh as the horses trotted toward the Île de la Cité. The round towers of the old prison were black against the mottled blue of the oncoming dawn.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked.

  “It’s just I wonder what the Earl of Brickton thought when he saw lightning streak from his daughter’s fingertips.”

  Oh, she was certain she would hear exactly what her father thought of this entire night all too soon. Though, pleasantly enough, she found she didn’t dread it. What her father thought didn’t matter much just then.

  “He’ll never let me return to London now,” she said, a smile playing upon her lips.

  Vander’s amusement faded. The carriage took the first small jump onto the cobbled bridge leading onto the city island. He glanced down at her. “Do you want to go home?”

  Ingrid squared her shoulders, her velvet cloak suddenly heavier than usual. “I’d rather face off with a dozen more hellhounds or crypsis serpents than return to London.” She sighed. “And it’s not my home. Not any longer.”

  Paris was. The abbey and rectory. Hôtel Bastian. Clos du Vie. In Luc’s arms, or folded within his great, protective wings. And though it left her feeling conflicted, she knew home was here, beside Vander.