by Page Morgan
Grayson had closed his eyes and breathed in the frosty night air instead. He didn’t have the fortitude to play protective big brother, not tonight. One spike of his pulse and he’d shift. He didn’t dislike Nolan Quinn enough to risk attacking him in hellhound form.
He’d waited another minute before stealing out from behind the stables and jogging off sacred ground. Instantly, he’d breathed easier. Perhaps that was the problem. It made sense, actually. Holy ground might not be the best place for someone who was mostly demon.
The Saint Germain-des-Prés streets were sleepy and, aside from a few snoring vagrants, deserted. He didn’t know if Chelle would be out on patrol, but aimless searching was better than pacing his room like some caged tiger. Even if he had been able to speak to her during the disastrous dinner at Hôtel Bastian, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Sorry for turning into a hellhound? I promise I didn’t want to eat you?
He ambled into a small residential square and started to lose hope. The moon reflected off the hard layer of snow, ice crystals winking everywhere. Four iron benches sat arm to arm in a diamond shape around a copse of trees. He wasn’t ready to go back to the rectory yet. The place made his chest feel tight, like he was trying to breathe honey instead of air.
Grayson sat on one of the benches and looked up at the town houses that surrounded the square. The windows were all dark, everyone inside sleeping soundly and safely in their beds. None of them fearing a slip in their temper or the moment their skin sprouted fur.
He felt a tug on his ankle, and then, faster than he could look down, he was being jerked off the bench and onto the packed snow. Grayson tried to move his legs and jump to his feet, but they were bound. A strange kind of white rope had lassoed him from ankle to knee. He rolled onto his back and found a boy looming over him. The moon was so bright over his shoulders it blacked out the stranger’s face.
“You are Ingrid Waverly’s brother? The one with hellhound blood?” he asked before Grayson could speak. He had a French accent and his voice shook.
The boy held the ends of the ropes binding Grayson’s legs. Ropes that kept moving. Strands joined, became one, and then split apart again. It wasn’t rope at all, Grayson realized.
“You’re Léon.” He strained to loosen the spider silk wrapped around his shins. The silk dripping from each of the boy’s fingers trembled in the slight wind. When Léon cocked his head, Grayson saw two hooked fangs protruding from his mouth.
“I followed you from the abbey,” the boy admitted. “She said you are both like me. You have the dust also.”
Like him? He’d murdered his whole family, hadn’t he? Grayson was about to argue but stopped.
He was like Léon. More than he wanted to admit.
“Tell her to stay away from the Daicrypta,” Léon said. He snapped his wrists to the side and detached the dripping spider silk from his fingers. “She tried to help me and I did not let her. Now I am helping her. I am helping all of you. Stay away from that place. Stay away from the man named Dupuis.”
Léon backed away from Grayson, who sat on the ground trying fruitlessly to pry the tacky silk from his pant legs.
“Wait! What happened to you there?” Grayson called. “Wait!”
But Léon was running from the square, his feet kicking up snow in his haste. Grayson swore beneath his breath and yanked one of the strands of silk with all his might. It was like stretching a length of rubber. The silk stayed put, leaving a pitchy residue on his fingers.
“Damn,” he hissed, just seconds before a gargoyle the color of jet landed on the snow beside him.
“I’m glad you can’t say anything right now,” Grayson said, knowing he looked like a complete fool. It was the second time in one week that Luc had been called to his rescue.
Luc snorted, his hot breath rolling from his snout in clouds of white steam.
“It’s funny, is it? Well, don’t bother shifting. I’m fine. It was a Duster. The one Ingrid tried to help,” Grayson explained, shuffling his legs in an attempt to loosen the insanely strong webbing. What was this stuff?
“He came with a warning.”
Luc’s great black wings unfurled with a resulting crack. His rocklike arm, covered in thick, shimmering scales, reached for Grayson’s legs. He sheared through the silk webbing with an easy slice of one talon. The binding fell away and Grayson leaped to his feet—just in time to see Chelle’s slender form glide through the open gates to the square.
“He wants Ingrid to stay away from Dupuis and the Daicrypta,” Grayson finished saying as Chelle hurried toward them.
“Grayson, is that you? What is going on?” she asked. A light popped on in one of the town house windows. Luc turned his beastly face toward it and dropped into a defensive crouch.
“Go, Luc. I’m fine,” Grayson said. With another snort—this one agitated instead of amused—Luc pushed off the ground and sailed into the sky. His wings beat down a rush of cold air that knocked Chelle backward. Grayson steadied her.
“I was heading back to rue Sèvres when I saw someone running from this square,” Chelle said, drawing Grayson into the shadows of the copse of trees. “What are you doing?”
“I was searching for you,” Grayson said.
Chelle blew out a gust of air. It ruffled her short bangs. “You were being demon bait, you mean.”
“It was Léon, a Duster. Not a demon. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could hold my own,” Grayson replied, though he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to untangle himself from Léon’s web.
“Come on,” Chelle said, and with a glance at the surrounding town houses—the lone light had been extinguished—she took his hand and moved for the gates.
Her fingers were small and delicate. Her hand fit nicely in his.
“Where is your other gargoyle?” Chelle asked at the same time Grayson opened his mouth and said, “About the other night …”
Grayson stopped. “What?”
“Your other gargoyle. Shouldn’t he have come, too?” she asked, searching the skies.
It was embarrassing enough having one gargoyle fly in to save him from something as ridiculous as a spiderweb. Chelle had a good point, though.
“I’ll ask him later. Listen, I want to apologize. The other night, when I … became … something else.”
Chelle’s boots ground to a stop, carving ruts in the snow. “You are sorry for protecting me from that hellhound?”
“Of course I’m not sorry for protecting you. That’s not what I was trying to—”
“Wouldn’t the hellhound have been happy to kill me?”
Grayson blinked, unsure when his apology had taken a turn. “It wanted to kill you more than it wanted its next breath. Your blood sang to it,” he whispered. “It sang to me. I’m a hellhound, Chelle.”
She considered this, her expression the serious mask she usually wore. But then her lips quivered and broke apart, and she was suddenly smiling.
She never smiled.
“There is no shortage of dangerous creatures in this world. Not all of them are demons,” she said, her smile faltering a moment as her eyes drifted back up to the sky.
“Do you mean the Dispossessed?” Grayson asked.
She brought her gaze back to him, but it wasn’t as soft as before. “It doesn’t matter. What I mean to say is that you are no hellhound. I’ve faced them before. Real hellhounds. And none of them have ever worked so hard not to kill me.”
Chelle kept smiling. Grayson was taken in by the novelty of it. There was a small gap between her top front teeth that he hadn’t noticed before.
“I think you are more human than you give yourself credit for, Grayson Waverly,” she whispered.
He didn’t know where the courage came from—maybe it was from seeing that adorable gap between her teeth—but he reached up and cradled her cheek in his palm. His hand must have been freezing, because her skin was searing hot. Chelle’s eyes fluttered shut and she parted her lips. If it was
an invitation, Grayson wasn’t brave enough to accept it. He wasn’t sure of anything, not with Chelle.
Then it was over.
She tore her cheek out of his palm and batted his hand away. She stepped back and touched her face.
“Chelle—”
“My patrol is over,” she said flatly.
“I’ll walk you back,” he offered, knowing it was absurd. She was the one with all the sharp, deadly objects.
“No!” Chelle shouted, but it was from fright, not anger.
She turned on her heel and sped away from him as fast as she could. Almost as quickly as Léon had fled. Grayson was repelling all sorts tonight: cryptic Dusters, beautiful Alliance, irritated Dispossessed.
Maybe it was time to go home.
Luc approached the bowed roof of the carriage house at top speed.
Where was Dimitrie? He hadn’t heeded the last call to Grayson’s side earlier that week, or the one tonight. He hadn’t shown at the arcades, either, when the mimic had attacked Ingrid. Yes, the danger tonight had been trivial, but it had still curled around Luc’s heart like a fist and demanded that he go to his human’s aid. Was it the angel’s burns? Did shadow gargoyles not feel the same awareness or need?
Luc pleated his wings as he glided through the open loft door. Inside, it was roughly the same temperature as the outdoors. He didn’t care about the cold. His human skin was susceptible, but his scales weren’t. He touched down on the rough floorboards and felt a chiming at the base of his skull.
“Dimitrie?” Luc called before he’d shifted completely. The sound had been a gravelly shriek, though any Dispossessed would understand the goyle language.
“Do I have a surprise for you, brother,” came Marco’s voice from the innards of the loft. His muscled form strode into the moonlight, fully dressed.
Luc’s scales melted to flesh, his wings sinking back into his body and disappearing. He felt the prickling sensation over his scalp as hair grew out, fast as a wave of water.
Luc rolled the loft door shut. “Not tonight, Marco.”
He was in a foul mood. For the last two days Luc had felt like a fool, a feeling he deplored above all else.
“Oh yes, tonight. And every night from this one to the end of eternity,” Marco replied.
Luc grabbed his clothes from the cot where he’d been resting less than fifteen minutes prior and tugged on his trousers.
“You’re being annoying,” Luc said, not caring in the least if Marco thumped him for it. A set of knuckles to the jaw might actually make Luc feel better. He’d been such an ass telling Ingrid about Suzette. He had never told anyone, and he shouldn’t have started with Ingrid. He’d confessed everything, poured out his sins at her feet, and she had nearly been sick. Her sudden nausea had been mirrored within him, climbing up his throat, clenching his stomach. He’d never be able to forget the revulsion she’d felt for him as she’d raced from the carriage into the arcades.
“Just wait,” Marco said with a satisfied laugh. “I’m not saying anything more until—”
White light poured into the loft, drenching every corner with its molten heat. Luc collapsed beneath its crushing weight. Beside him, Marco fell into a relatively more graceful bow, his forehead nearly touching the floor. When Irindi finally spoke, Luc felt her voice reverberate up through his hands.
“It has been decided,” Irindi began, her monotone voice strumming Luc’s eardrums. “A second Dispossessed has been chosen to aid you, Luc Rousseau.”
He tried to lift his head, but it felt locked in place. It was a little late for the big announcement, wasn’t it?
“Dimitrie has been here more than a week,” Luc said.
“I am not aware of any Dimitrie,” she said. “You will share your territory with Marco Angelis. Your human charges are now his as well. Receive him accordingly.”
At Irindi’s words, Luc felt as if the floor were falling out from underneath him.
The hot angelic glow abruptly went out, leaving the loft in cold blackness. The weight on Luc’s shoulders lifted, but he stayed bowed over, knees on the floor. Beside him, Marco’s laugh rumbled low.
“I told you not to trust the boy,” he said, and then sprang to his feet. “Don’t bother looking for him—he was gone when I arrived. Irindi came to me earlier and instructed me to join you.”
“Then who is Dimitrie?” Luc rose slowly, his mind racing with tangled thoughts. The sharp edge of panic brought a wash of gooseflesh over his skin.
“He doesn’t belong here, that much I know,” Marco answered, strolling to the loft door and shoving it open once again. “He lied and took on a territory that wasn’t his. He’s either a glutton for punishment or”—Marco looked over his shoulder at Luc—“someone else wanted him here.”
Marco peered out toward the rectory. “Where is Lady Ingrid?”
Luc went to his cot and sat down. He needed to think. He needed to know why Dimitrie would have come here, or who would have sent him.
“Forget Ingrid for a moment.” A demand for Marco to stay away from her rolled to a halt on the tip of Luc’s tongue. Receive him accordingly.
Hell and damnation.
“We need to find out who Dimitrie is,” Luc said.
“And we will,” Marco replied. “The very moment he returns. Though I can’t promise I’ll ask very nicely.”
Whatever the reason, Luc suspected it had to do with Ingrid. Perhaps even with Axia—could she have sent Dimitrie here somehow? And all this time Luc had allowed him to be close to Ingrid. He closed his hands into fists and surfaced her scent.
She filled him with alertness. She wasn’t asleep. Luc went to the loft door and saw something he hadn’t before: the lights were on in the rectory’s front sitting room and in the servants’ ell. And Ingrid was crossing the churchyard for the carriage house.
Marco saw her coming.
“This will be much better than hibernation,” he murmured.
At least Marco couldn’t harm her now. Luc wouldn’t have to worry like he did before. But what if Marco felt something … more for her, the same way Luc did?
“You’re a Wolf,” Luc said, thinking of all the dog gargoyle statues scattered along the abbey roof. “Only Dogs should be guardians here.”
Marco held up his hands. “Then there must be a handsome wolf gargoyle hidden somewhere amongst all those ugly dogs.”
Ingrid’s call traveled from below just then. “Luc?”
Marco moved toward the loft stairs in anticipation.
“Are you here, Luc?”
She appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes landing on Marco first, then on Luc’s half-dressed form. She stood inert, as if both sights were unexpected hazards.
“Lady Ingrid,” Marco greeted her, his eyes a touch too intense.
He was scenting her. The angels had to be laughing at Luc just then. Your human charges are now his. Irindi had given Marco exactly what he wanted, and there was nothing Luc could do to change it.
“Where were you?” Ingrid said to Luc as she edged carefully around Marco, clutching the top of her cloak around her throat. “Grayson’s missing from the rectory and my father wanted the carriage. Dimitrie said he couldn’t find you.”
Luc took up his shirt and began to pull it on. “Grayson had a run-in with Léon.”
Ingrid gasped. “Oh God, is he hurt?”
“Léon just tangled him up in a bit of silk webbing and gave him a warning for you to stay away from the Daicrypta. Grayson’s on his way back right now.”
She watched him button his shirt. “Wait. You went out.”
“Of course I did,” Luc replied, tucking his shirt into the waist of his trousers.
“Dimitrie didn’t,” Ingrid said thoughtfully, almost to herself. “Not until ten minutes ago, at least. He took my father out in the carriage instead.”
Luc crossed a glance with Marco. He didn’t care for Lord Brickton, but he also didn’t want the imposter anywhere near one of his humans.
“
I don’t understand,” Ingrid said. “If you were called to Grayson’s side, why wasn’t Dimitrie?”
Luc didn’t want to tell her that he’d been taken for a fool. Marco, on the other hand, had no reservations. He sauntered away from the top of the stairs, arms crossed.
“Because the boy lied to all of you,” Marco said. “He isn’t your gargoyle.”
Luc’s chest felt air-light when she looked to him first, and not Marco. Luc nodded.
“It’s the truth. Irindi knew nothing about Dimitrie. He was never assigned to the abbey.”
He belonged somewhere else. A gargoyle always had a territory, even shadow gargoyles. The question of where Dimitrie’s territory was pricked at Luc like a warning.
“But you do have a new gargoyle,” Marco added.
Ingrid held Luc’s gaze. Her corn-silk brows furrowed, and a twist of apprehension knotted itself deep in Luc’s stomach. Her apprehension, not his.
She knew who it was, and she gasped his name.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Marco.”
Ingrid had felt the difference the moment she’d entered Luc’s loft. Before, Marco had tended to look at her as if she were something to eat. Now, his eyes looked upon her with a fierceness that reminded her of Luc’s.
“At your service,” he murmured, and she imagined him making a low, mocking bow. A quick glance over her shoulder showed him doing just that.
“But then why has Dimitrie been here?” she asked, a cool glove of worry sliding down her ribs, enclosing her stomach. Luc’s chest expanded, as if he felt her worry, too. “Why has he pretended to be our gargoyle?”
“I plan to ask him as soon as he returns.” Something in Luc’s voice told Ingrid she didn’t want to be there when the inquisition occurred.
She drew her cloak tighter. It was freezing outside and in, and yet there were Luc and Marco without coats. Luc, without shoes.
“It won’t be for a while yet. My father and Dimitrie will likely be out until dawn searching for Grayson,” she said. Luc looked away, turning his ear as if he’d heard something.
