The Beautiful and the Cursed

by Page Morgan

  Luc turned away from the table and moved toward the bamboo, keeping his back to them. The blistering sensation beneath Ingrid’s skin ebbed.

  “Would a demonstration be too much to ask, Mr. Burke?” Constantine said after a moment, reminding them that he was still present. “We’re all in agreement that Lady Ingrid’s dust must not be disturbed, but perhaps … Luc?”

  Luc paused at the entrance to the bamboo path.

  “You are neither demon nor Duster, but you do have dust,” Constantine went on. “If Mr. Burke could—”

  “You don’t honestly believe he could weaken me?” Luc asked. He looked over his shoulder and fixed Vander in his sights. “You share the blood of a pestilent demon. Mine comes from the Angelic Order.”

  “And yet you’re still a slave,” Vander rejoined.

  Luc had no retort for that. He was a slave, Ingrid knew. Luc knew it as well, and for the first time, Ingrid saw something new flash over his expression: shame. It was there and gone again, and then Luc had recovered, pulling on his cloak of arrogance once more.

  He spread his arms wide. “Try it,” he said, sauntering up to Vander.

  “Just for a few moments, Mr. Burke,” Constantine interjected, and with a gentle hand on Ingrid’s arm drew her away from Luc and Vander.

  Vander hesitated. Ingrid understood why. She still doubted her own power every time, and usually with good reason. But if Vander’s touch had been weakening her … maybe that was the problem.

  With a steadying breath, Vander reached toward Luc. He didn’t make contact but hovered an inch or two above Luc’s outstretched arms, then ran his spread fingers down their length and along his ribs and torso.

  Luc gave a skeptical roll of his eyes when Vander sank into a crouch and swept his hands down Luc’s legs, past his knees, and then up again, never once making contact.

  “His dust is moving,” Constantine whispered to Ingrid. She wished she could see it too.

  Vander let his hands fall back to his sides. “I don’t think it’s working.”

  “Give it another moment,” Constantine urged.

  Luc groaned, arms still wide. “I’m getting bored.”

  “This isn’t exactly a carnival ride for—” Vander’s jaw hinged shut. He lifted his head and tensed his back. “What is that smell?”

  Luc’s arms dropped. “What did you say?”

  Vander sniffed the air, his eyes searching for the source of the smell that was distracting him. He moved toward Ingrid, breathing in deeply.

  “That smell,” Vander repeated. “Can’t you smell it? It’s … grass. It’s like I’m in a field and it’s just been hayed.” A huge grin crossed his face and he laughed. “This is amazing.” He looked to Luc. “What is this?”

  Ingrid stared in wonderment at Vander’s infectious smile. Constantine looked especially pleased. The only one who didn’t was Luc.

  “It’s Ingrid,” he answered darkly. “It’s her scent.”

  Vander turned back to her, his honey-wheat eyes bright. “It worked.”

  He could scent her the same way Luc always did. Could he feel her heartbeat, too? It was unsettling to think so. It was odd enough knowing Luc could.

  She met Luc’s glare. “Can you still … ?”

  He kept his lips pressed into a grim line and avoided her eyes. He didn’t answer her, and he didn’t have to.

  He couldn’t scent her. Vander had taken it from him.

  “Exceptional! I hardly see a reduction in Luc’s dust at all,” Constantine remarked, unmindful of the panic creeping over Luc’s expression. “I wonder, if Mr. Burke were to absorb more of Luc’s dust—”

  “I’m done. My dust stays where it is,” Luc said, severing Constantine’s theory at the knees.

  For Ingrid, the question of what might happen continued to snowball. If Vander had adopted Luc’s ability to scent her so quickly, what else could he adopt if given more time? Scales? Wings? What if he could take Luc’s ability to coalesce?

  Vander, a gargoyle? And Luc …

  A human.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dinner at Hôtel Bastian was a complete and utter farce.

  As Gabby sat at the long oval table inside Hôtel Bastian’s modest dining room, she wished for that awful painter from a few nights before to come paint their portrait. She would command him to title it A Meditation in Absurdity, and who knew, she just might allow him to paint on a few bare, dimpled backsides.

  The courses had all been served and cleared away, and even though each dish had been delicious, Gabby hadn’t been able to enjoy any of them. She’d sipped her wine and prodded food around on her plates, waiting for something terrible to happen. It was inevitable. Her father and Carrick Quinn had been chitchatting merrily for close to two hours, feeding lies to one another and in turn consuming them with relish.

  Apparently, Carrick owned a textile mill, and Nolan was in line to take control of it. Chelle, seated across from Gabby, was playing Nolan’s lovely sister, and Gabby wasn’t sure which was worse: Chelle’s atrocious Scottish accent or the calico-print dress she had clearly not even bothered to press. As for Lord Brickton, he was happily embracing his wife’s new gallery venture. Grayson, seated at Gabby’s left, had been proudly presented as heir to the Brickton earldom and had received an unsettling number of grins from their father. Ingrid, would you believe it, had quite a few beaux waiting for her in London, and Gabby … well, poor Gabby; Lord Brickton was sure Carrick had heard all about her shocking accident.

  It was all so embarrassing. The fact that her father seemed to be the only one in the dark was especially mortifying. She almost felt sorry for him.

  Nolan, seated to the right of his “sister,” had caught Gabby peeking at him a few times, and she had caught him peeking once or twice as well. There was nothing flirtatious about their glances, though. They were both nervous.

  He sat rigid in his seat, his steel-blue eyes watching his father spin lie after lie. Just like Gabby, he was waiting for something to happen.

  She jumped when Carrick pushed back his chair.

  “If the ladies will allow us to take our leave, I have a bottle of single malt waiting for us, gentlemen.”

  They all stood, Nolan and Grayson seeming to do so with added weight. They had to go off to some smoky room and endure more of their fathers’ absurd conversation. Gabby only hoped the Scotch whiskey went down smooth and fast.

  Upon exiting the dining room, Carrick led the men off to the right, and Chelle led the ladies to the left. They had seen the parlor when they’d first arrived. It was just off the foyer, and like the rest of the rooms, it had a starched look about it. The furniture was all too new and underused. Proper, but not loved. It was a stage, Gabby knew, and right now they, all of them, were acting.

  Chelle closed the foyer door behind her.

  “Miss Quinn,” Gabby’s mother called. Chelle plastered on a dainty smile—it looked rather painful—and turned to face Lady Brickton.

  “Yes, Lady Brickton?”

  Gabby’s mother chose a sofa and lowered herself, patting out the folds of her skirts. “Would you be so kind as to tell me your real name?”

  She said it as primly as if she were asking Chelle to ring for tea.

  “Thank goodness. I thought I’d go mad if we had to keep playing make-believe,” Gabby said, dropping to the cushion beside her mother.

  Chelle let go of the posture suited to a lady and slouched. She tugged at the waist of her dress. “I can’t believe I volunteered for this.” She eyed Lady Brickton bashfully. “My name is Chelle, but it isn’t followed by Quinn.”

  “That isn’t surprising, dear. You don’t look a thing like them,” Gabby’s mother said. “And your accent is deplorable.”

  Gabby snorted. It really was.

  Ingrid moved toward the fireplace, her terra-cotta dress glowing like coals in the firelight. “Chelle, why on earth did Mr. Quinn invite us here?”

  Chelle fell back into her soldierly gait as she
crossed the room, headed toward a door that servants might use. “He wants to align your families.”

  “What?” Ingrid asked.

  “How, exactly?” Gabby demanded.

  To the queue of questions, Lady Brickton added, “Why?”

  Chelle opened the narrow servants’ door and gave a small whistle before turning back to the three Waverly women.

  “The old-fashioned way: by marriage. The marriage of Ingrid and Nolan, more specifically. And you, Lady Ingrid, have your magical blood to thank for it.”

  Gabby shot up from the sofa. “Ingrid and Nolan?”

  “I am not going to marry him!” Ingrid exclaimed just as Nolan’s cousin Rory appeared in the servants’ door.

  He wore his standard outfit: trousers, shirtsleeves, and a waistcoat armored with daggers. Lady Brickton gasped at the sight of him.

  “It wouldna be a death sentence for ye, Lady Ingrid,” Rory said. “But I’m afraid ’twould be for Nolan once Vander Burke got hold of him.” He finished with a smile that could have easily knocked a weaker girl down flat.

  It wasn’t even directed at Gabby, and she still felt the shock wave of it.

  “Come, Lady Ingrid. We havna much time.”

  Ingrid looked at Gabby and their mother apologetically, hands clasped before her. “I sent a note ahead of us,” she explained. “I need to do something, and I didn’t know when I’d have another chance to come to Hôtel Bastian.”

  Their mother puckered her brow, an expression her children had long ago learned to translate as “Not in a million years.”

  “I helped you leave the rectory yesterday morning, but if you think I’m going to allow you to go off with this young man, you are sorely mistaken,” she told her elder daughter.

  A show of solidarity was the only thing Gabby thought might work. She left the sofa and stood beside Ingrid.

  “I’ll go along, Mama. She’ll be fine.” Their mother didn’t appear swayed in the least.

  “Lady Brickton, I’m takin’ yer daughter to a library on the premises,” Rory said, his charm somehow softening the fact that he wore daggers upon his waistcoat. “No harm will come to her, ye have my word.”

  Why Lady Brickton was convinced by Rory’s vow and not Gabby’s didn’t matter. Sneaking about Hôtel Bastian promised to be ample compensation for Gabby’s wounded pride.

  “Quickly,” Lady Brickton finally said. “I don’t know when your father will tire of this charade.”

  Clearly, she already had.

  Ingrid and Gabby followed Rory through the door and up a set of stairs. Chelle stayed in the parlor with their mother and shut the door behind them. The narrow stairwell went black.

  Thick carpet muffled their footsteps, but their breathing seemed unnaturally loud.

  “One more flight,” Rory announced. Gabby followed his voice and Ingrid’s swooshing skirts while feeling for the steps with the tips of her slippers.

  “Lady Ingrid, pay no mind to my uncle’s plans,” Rory said once they neared the next landing. “He isna himself lately.”

  Because of the mercurite, Gabby knew. He must have used a lot of it over the years. All Alliance fighters did. But how much was too much? She couldn’t help thinking of Nolan. Did all Alliance fighters eventually … change?

  Rory opened the door to a dimly lit hallway. Ingrid seemed to recognize it. She led them toward a door to the right.

  “I trust Nolan wouldn’t wish to marry me anyway,” Ingrid said with an all-too-obvious glimpse in Gabby’s direction. Rory didn’t miss it. He smiled widely.

  “Aye, ye may have trouble wi’ the laoch who fancies my cousin. I hear she’s fierce.”

  Ingrid laughed, while Gabby blushed. Laoch? He’d used that word before, but at the time she’d thought he’d been telling her his last name.

  “What does that word mean?” she asked.

  Rory opened the door for Ingrid and about a decade’s worth of musty, closed-up air escaped. Gabby gagged. It smelled like one of those stinky old bookshops Ingrid and Grayson went all cuckoo for. Ingrid stepped into the room and maneuvered between towering piles of books.

  “It’s Scots for warrior. Isna that what ye are, lass?” No smile now. He wasn’t jesting with her. “Lady Ingrid, ye have fifteen minutes, no more.”

  It wasn’t a lot of time to sift.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” Gabby asked her sister.

  Ingrid craned her neck and read the spines along one shelf. “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “That makes it a bit hard to help,” Gabby replied.

  Ingrid kept her focus on the shelves. Gabby and Rory stood watching her.

  “Well, this is uneventful,” Gabby muttered.

  “I could show ye round,” Rory suggested.

  He cocked his head and slipped back into the corridor. Gabby followed.

  “Stay out of trouble,” Ingrid called, as if her snooping around were proper behavior. Of course, if Carrick came upon her, he would probably take her interest in the library as a promising sign of upcoming nuptials.

  Gabby shook off the shudder of nausea the image of her sister and Nolan’s wedding gave her and concentrated on following Rory. He moved with purposeful strides, his shoulders squared. On his back he wore two short swords in crossed sheaths. The handle on each, she imagined, would be easy for him to reach and pull free.

  Gabby wanted to see him in battle. If fighting skill ran in the family, he would be just as impressive as Nolan.

  At the end of the corridor, Rory took hold of the banister on a spiral staircase and climbed. His feet scuffed along the metal lightly, making hardly a sound. It was strange how something as basic as walking and climbing stairs could display so much about a person, but in watching Rory, Gabby saw that he was observant and careful. Precise.

  And that was when Gabby ran into him, treading on his heels. He’d stopped, and she’d been too focused on the way his body moved to notice.

  “Careful, laoch. Ye don’t want to fall in this room.” He shoved open a pair of sliding pocket doors.

  They rolled aside, and a moment later, a series of lightbulbs fixed to the ceiling buzzed to life. The light wavered at first. When it finally held steady, Gabby saw that the room was large, perhaps the size of the rectory’s sitting room. There were no windows, but none were needed. It was already bright enough, and not just from the electric bulbs.

  Polished silver lined the walls. To her left, swords of every shape and size—rapiers, katanas, cutlasses, broadswords, and styles she couldn’t name—hung from silver dowels drilled into the walls. Directly ahead, daggers, dirks, and knives, straight-handled and bowed, hung in rows, from longest to shortest. And to Gabby’s left there were crossbows and darts, throwing stars, and even a few battle-axes.

  She could barely breathe. It was all so beautiful.

  Beside her, Rory crossed his arms. “I thought ye might fancy it.”

  Gabby went for the daggers first. She had her sword from Nolan, and as gorgeous, light, and natural to wield as it was, it was hard to transport in the inner folds of her cloak.

  “Are they all blessed?” she asked.

  Rory nodded. “We do them in batches. The reverend at that church of Vander’s disna ask many questions.”

  Gabby couldn’t imagine he would get many answers if he did.

  “We all have our weapon of choice,” Rory said from where he stood by the door, watching her. She didn’t dare touch any of them. Her fingers would leave spots on the silver.

  “What is yours?” she asked before remembering the daggered vest. She smiled back at him. “Never mind.”

  “Vander has his crossbow and Nolan his broadsword,” Rory said.

  “And Chelle her throwing stars,” Gabby added.

  “Aye, nothing rips the air better than Chelle’s stars.”

  She liked the dagger she’d stolen from Vander’s desk a while back. He knew about it now, and he’d been gracious enough to let her keep it.

  “I don’t k
now what my weapon of choice is,” she said, moving toward the swords. It was funny. It wasn’t long ago that she wanted baubles, dresses, and hats with same sense of longing she now felt for these silver weapons.

  What would her London friends think of her?

  “Dinna worry, laoch. It’ll find ye.”

  Gabby stopped at the corner where the sword and dagger walls met. A floor case started there. It reached to her hip and ran the length of the sword wall. Beneath the display glass, Gabby saw more silver things: some swords and daggers, but mostly crossbow darts. They were laid out neatly, and at first glance Gabby guessed there were perhaps fifty darts, maybe a hundred. They weren’t as shiny as the weaponry hanging upon the walls. Instead of high silver, they were like polished pewter.

  “What are these?” Gabby asked, also noticing a thick padlock on the case cover. She lifted it and gave it a small tug. Locked fast.

  “Those aren’t blessed,” Rory answered. He came up to the stand and peered through the glass. “They’ve been dipped in mercurite.”

  Gabby dropped the padlock, the memory of the burning mercurite still fresh in her mind. “I thought demons weren’t affected by anything but blessed silver.”

  “These aren’t for demons,” he answered. “They’re for killing gargoyles.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  For the first time ever, Ingrid hated books.

  There were far too many of them, all unorganized and uncategorized. And her time was dwindling. So far, none of the random books she’d flipped through had mentioned anything about mimic demons. Constantine had needed days to search his own massive (and neatly organized) collection, and here she was scrambling like an idiot with fifteen bloody minutes!

  “A fool’s errand,” she said under her breath, and then sneezed as dust traveled up her nose.

  Maybe there was no other way of getting rid of a mimic. But Ingrid didn’t think she could kill a living thing to destroy one.