The Wondrous and the Wicked

by Page Morgan

  Not that time alone with Ingrid was something to wish away. She’d chosen him. Given herself to him, and even though he couldn’t claim her in the human way, she was still his. Passing the day and night in the quiet town home was giving him a taste of his fantasy, sweet as meringue and just as easily dissolved.

  Luc hadn’t been successful summoning Irindi earlier that morning. Never in the last three centuries had he called the angel to him—her presence was not something a gargoyle would actually request. He’d gone to the kitchen, out of Ingrid’s view and earshot, and whispered Irindi’s name. He’d closed his eyes and asked her to come to him. But the kitchen had remained cold and dark. It hadn’t surprised him—the angels held no love for humans or gargoyles—though he did regret having to tell Ingrid it hadn’t worked. He’d said he’d try again, but the pull of her corn-silk brows told him she’d already given up hope.

  Ingrid’s arm, tucked against Luc’s ribs, twitched. A small whine preceded a more violent shudder, this one seizing her whole body. Luc shushed her, bringing her higher onto his chest, but she was already awake, gaping at the fireplace and marble mantel with bewilderment.

  “It’s just me, Ingrid. You’re with me.”

  She blinked up at him, lips parted. “I—I saw flames. I heard screaming, and Grayson, he was … he was somewhere dark and cold,” she choked out, trying to lift herself up, off Luc. He held her firmly, not wanting her to go anywhere.

  “A nightmare,” he said. “That’s all.”

  Ingrid allowed him to guide her back to his side. She lifted her hand from his chest and flexed her fingers once, twice.

  “Is it back?” he asked.

  He didn’t want to leave her here alone, but if he had to fly to rue de Berri for more of Vander’s mersian blood, he’d do it. He’d do whatever was needed to keep Ingrid from falling under Axia’s spell again—if and when another one befell the Dusters.

  Ingrid put her hand on Luc’s stomach and fiddled with one of the metal buttons on his shirt. “No. I haven’t felt a single spark since we left Hôtel Bastian.”

  Her chin rubbed into his pectoral muscle as she looked up at him. “Luc, we can’t stay here much longer. My mother must be mad with worry, and Marco—”

  “He knows where you are, and he’s being smart to stay away. Those corvites are Axia’s eyes, and I get the feeling she wants to know where to find you.”

  “I’m just another Duster now.”

  Though he disagreed, Luc didn’t argue. “Your mother is safe with Marco.”

  “Still, we can’t stay here forever,” she said as her fingers accidentally popped open the button she’d been playing with. She apologized bashfully and started to button it again. Luc stilled her hand.

  “I wish we could,” he heard himself saying.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Ingrid slipped her fingers through the gap of his shirt. Her cool touch met his hot skin. His abdominal muscles hardened in reaction.

  “Wishes aren’t practical,” she replied.

  He smiled. “Says the voice of reason.”

  The base of Luc’s skull throbbed to life, pulsing out the signal of another gargoyle’s presence. He tightened his grip on Ingrid’s wrist and sat up.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Gargoyle.”

  She craned her neck to see into the dark corner of the room. The door was shut, insulating them from the rest of the cold house.

  “Marco?” she guessed.

  “Possibly.” Luc stood and tucked the tails of his shirt into his trouser waist. “Just in case it isn’t, stay here. And stay quiet.”

  Luc left the weak firelight and let his night vision take over. The hallway and stairwell were bright shades of gray and white as he walked toward the kitchen, his whole body on alert. He was certain the intruding gargoyle would be in there, and it was. Only it wasn’t Marco.

  “Gaston,” Luc said, as he entered the kitchen and saw the familiar grayed features of Constantine’s valet. Night vision didn’t allow much detail, but Gaston’s receding hairline and wiry build were unmistakable.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Gaston said. Luc heard the frustration in his voice and swallowed a pang of guilt.

  “I haven’t wanted to be found.”

  Gaston paid Luc’s reply no regard. “It’s Vincent. Something has to be done about him.”

  “I agree.” Luc glanced around the kitchen impatiently. The cupboard doors. He could use them as firewood.

  “During yesterday’s disorder he and his supporters killed a dozen Dusters, perhaps more.”

  That didn’t sound anything out of the ordinary. It was Vincent, after all, and he abhorred the Dusters.

  “They’ve flown by day,” Gaston continued. “Coalescing within sight of humans, causing the Dispossessed to appear as nothing more than another kind of demon that the humans now desire to kill.”

  Luc had done the same during the attacks, though he hadn’t acted as Vincent and his Chimeras seemed to have done.

  He approached one of the tall cupboards and, with a fast jerk, ripped the wooden door from its hinges.

  “You believe it’s time to stop him,” Luc said, reaching for another cupboard door.

  “It’s time for you to stop him,” Gaston corrected him. “I’ve spent the last day bringing together the Wolves, Dogs, and Snakes, and we’re ready. We can strike en masse and end this.”

  Luc wrenched down the second cupboard door and set it on top of the other. “You’re the leader here, Gaston, not me.”

  What Luc wanted was to go back upstairs and throw the cupboard doors on the fire so Ingrid could stay warm. So her fingers wouldn’t be so cold.

  “They want you, Luc,” Gaston said. “They want you because of the reasons you don’t want the role of elder.”

  Luc turned from the next tall cupboard and looked at Gaston. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Despite his next blasphemous words, Gaston’s expression stayed just as wooden as it always was. “You want to be human. Believe it or not, many of us do. You’re the only one who’s been brave enough to show it openly, and to do so without shame or fear. You’ve brought about a change, Luc. And to everyone’s wonder—my wonder, even—it’s a change we’re ready for.”

  Luc forgot the cabinets. He forgot the cold and his swirling night vision. “That’s impossible.”

  “Lennier changed our world hundreds of years ago, but he never let go of the old ways and the old rules. The next elder has every right to change what he sees fit. Vincent would take us in one direction, and you in another. Claim the role of elder and no one will question you. We’ll gladly follow.”

  Luc felt as though he’d been backed up to the edge of a cliff and, with one touch, sent over. What Gaston was saying—if it was true, if it was how the Wolves and Dogs and Snakes he’d banded with really felt—could alter the Dispossessed entirely. The line between feeling human and being a gargoyle was thin, and difficult to tread. However, if Gaston could be trusted—and yes, Luc did trust him—there were many Dispossessed willing to follow Luc along that thin line.

  He met Gaston’s impervious gaze. “Organize everyone and be at common grounds within the hour.”

  Gaston gave a curt nod and was gone.

  Vander had prepared Grayson for the worst in the moments before the Roman Alliance troops found their way into the fourth-floor medical room. They would know Grayson on sight, Vander had said—the Directorate would have acquired likenesses of the Waverly twins long ago—and their orders could very well be for immediate elimination.

  Grayson had stowed one of Chelle’s hira-shuriken in his coat pocket and kept his hand closed lightly around it, ready, as the barrage of feet approached the surgery. Not that the six-pointed star would have done more than buy Grayson an extra breath or two before what Vander had so delightfully called “elimination.”

  Three Alliance, wearing identical black coats buttoned to the chin, black tight-fitting trousers, tall polished black H
essians, and crimson caps, had come through the door with their weapons in hand but had not moved against either Vander or Grayson. They’d simply waited until two more fighters arrived behind them before taking Grayson by the arm and escorting him into the basement of Hôtel Bastian. Which was where he sat now, nearly twenty-four hours later.

  The basement stretched the length and width of the town house, but it wasn’t a spacious place. Grayson had already smacked his forehead against a few hewn beams along the ceiling, shaking ancient dirt and coarse plaster into his eyes. There was no light at night and precious little during the day. What light there was filtered in from two small, arched-brow windows cut out of the foundation bricks. He’d already considered the windows as avenues for escape, though neither would have accommodated his head, let alone his shoulders.

  And heat? Forget about heat. His fingers had gone stiff, and they ached, even when he cupped them against his mouth and blew hot air. His feet were ungainly blocks of ice. And to make matters worse, the Roman Alliance fighters had seen Chelle’s wounded leg. Even though Vander had said nothing about her having dust, they had known.

  It was happening all over Paris, Hans had explained. They’d seen people falling insensible with fevers after being wounded by a possessed human. They were taking no chances. So Grayson was not alone in the basement. Chelle was with him, as were four other unfamiliar Dusters Hans and the others had rounded up.

  Grayson crouched before her shivering figure. “Still toasty warm?”

  She’d risen from her stupor an hour after they had been locked in the basement. When the fog of unconsciousness had cleared, she’d shrugged out of the coat Grayson had draped over her shoulders. She was fine, she’d told him. Then, upon hearing the reason for why she had been imprisoned, she’d screamed at Grayson to leave her alone. She’d gone off into a dark corner and stayed there until past dawn. Grayson had heard her soft sobs, the rattles of tear-soaked breaths, but had left her alone, as ordered.

  Chelle had eventually come over to his spot beneath one of the windows, but she had still refused his coat.

  She combed her short black hair behind an ear now, lifting her chin with her usual display of stony dignity. “They are treating us like animals.”

  Behind him, deeper in the basement darkness, one of the other Dusters, newly made like Chelle, moaned. They’d already exchanged names and fears and theories regarding how long they were going to be kept caged like this. With nothing remaining for them to discuss, they had all retreated into their own corners to brood.

  “You aren’t an animal,” Grayson said, the pale blue light that trumpeted dawn coming in through the window. “You’re one of them, Chelle. That will count for something.”

  The truth was, he wasn’t so sure it would.

  “If they were going to kill us, they would have done it already,” he added, still attempting to ease her worry.

  Chelle continued to shiver. Grayson slid his hand underneath her short, straight bangs and pressed his palm to her forehead. Scorching hot.

  He brought his hand back and started to remove his coat.

  “Keep it on, Grayson. We are both freezing,” she hissed.

  “You have a fever,” he argued. She sat forward and grabbed his arms to stop him from shedding his coat. She made a little growl in her throat and tugged him toward her. He shifted his fall at the last moment so that he landed on the hard-packed dirt beside her.

  “What are you—”

  She cut off his question, though not with words. She did it with her body. Chelle swung both of her legs over Grayson’s thighs and wriggled herself onto his lap. He sat rigid as a scarecrow as Chelle’s arms traveled inside his coat, under his arms, and circled around his back. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

  A hot tide rolled out from someplace low in his stomach. No. Lower than that. Grayson let his arms enclose Chelle and shifted her weight on his lap.

  “I can move back to the floor—” she started to say.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Chelle let out a warm breath against his neck.

  “What do you think they have done with Vander?” she asked.

  Grayson brought up his knees, cradling Chelle closer.

  “They need his sight,” he answered.

  She rocked her head along Grayson’s collarbone. “He’ll never give the Dusters up.”

  If that was the case, Grayson expected Vander would be joining them in the basement shortly.

  “You know,” Grayson said, wanting to lighten the subject to something more suitable for lap snuggling, “if someone unlocked the basement door right now, I’m not sure I’d be willing to leave.”

  Chelle’s head popped up from his shoulder, and in the hazy blue light, he saw a smile transform her usual grimace. The gap between her top front teeth had seemed adorable to him the first time he’d seen her allow herself a smile. Now, however, it struck him in the gut as alluring.

  “You should have left with Luc and your sister,” she said.

  Grayson feathered her bangs back from her forehead with a careful brush of his fingers. He had taken a risk, allowing himself to be captured. The mersian blood could wear off while he was locked up in this cellar hole, and he could fall under Axia’s command or just start to scent and crave Chelle’s blood. But he couldn’t have run.

  “I wasn’t going to leave you,” he said. “I failed you on the bridge with Yann. I don’t regret stopping you from killing him.” He needed to be clear about where he stood. “I just regret making you a promise I couldn’t keep.”

  Chelle turned her head away from Grayson’s fingers as they threaded through her hair once again. “So you stayed, you allowed the Roman troops to take you, because you felt guilty?”

  He filled the basement with a sound that didn’t belong there: laughter.

  “No,” he said, still smiling. Feeling bold. What more did he have to lose? “I stayed because I’m mad about you.”

  She stared up at him, eyes narrowed, the scowl settling back into place. He waited for a string of harsh words. He waited for rejection. It was all right. It was Chelle. She wasn’t the sort of girl to melt into a puddle from a confession of ardent admiration. She was the sort of girl who challenged such confessions.

  So when Chelle leaned her head against his shoulder once more and let out a shaky breath, Grayson wondered which parallel dimension he’d been plunged into.

  “I don’t want to be this way,” she said, gasping on the last word as she fell apart into a sob. “I don’t want to be a Duster.”

  Chelle crying seemed so foreign a notion that for a moment, he sat stiffly. He recovered, however, and pulled her tighter against him.

  “I don’t want to be this way, either,” he said instead. They were locked in a basement with strangers most likely hanging on every word of their private conversation. But why shy away from honesty now?

  “I killed someone. I murdered her. And I’m relatively sure I enjoyed it. It doesn’t matter how many days pass; the guilt keeps digging in. It keeps carving away. I’ve reached the point where it feels as if I’m walking around with a gaping hole in my stomach.”

  Chelle hadn’t hurt anyone. Yet.

  “Your blood can’t mix with Vander’s, but he can still help you. He can take away some of your dust and make things easier for you. Provided we get out of here,” he added.

  Chelle lifted her head and pressed her lips against Grayson’s cheek. They were wet with tears. He turned toward her, instinctively, and her lips brushed against his. She kissed him, her fingers inching up his neck, running through his hair, against his scalp. Grayson shifted her closer, not caring if she felt his reaction to her. He didn’t care about the cold floor or the other Dusters listening. He didn’t care about much of anything beyond the salty taste of Chelle’s lips, the feel of her hands as they departed his scalp to stroke his neck, then the front of his shirt, and then—oh God—low against his stomach.

  He tensed. Chelle must
have felt it, for she stopped kissing him long enough to laugh.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable, Lord Fairfax?”

  Usually, hearing someone address him by his proper title annoyed him to no end. When Chelle said it, though, with her voice purposefully seductive, it made him catch his breath.

  “Yes. And I’ve decided I never want to be comfortable again.”

  Chelle tipped her lips to his. Of course, that was when the basement door gave a shuddering rattle.

  She tore her mouth away and leaped to her feet. Grayson followed, albeit a bit more slowly. His body didn’t quite want to shed its reaction to Chelle so swiftly.

  “Qui est là?” one of the other Dusters shouted, and approached the short set of steep stairs that led to the basement door.

  Two more of the other Dusters followed. The door opened.

  “Move away from the bottom of the stairs,” a man with a deep, cavernous voice ordered. He spoke in English, but his words had a strong Italian accent. This was one of the Roman Alliance members.

  “Why have you imprisoned us?” the same Duster asked, this time in English.

  “Let us go! You cannot keep us here!” another shouted.

  “Move back into the cellar, or you will not receive your rations for the day,” the Alliance member repeated.

  Grayson’s stomach cinched at the memory of the rations from the morning before. Bread, water, thin soup. Not nearly enough to carry them through a long, frozen day.

  The Dusters, cowed by the idea of not receiving their food and water, slunk away from the stairs, back into their shadowy corners. The Alliance member took the steps down, slowed by vigilance. He held a large tray, and Grayson could hear the contents rattling upon it.

  He crouched to set the tray on the basement floor. Chelle, still standing, suddenly arched her back and screamed. She crashed to her knees. From other parts of the basement came more groans and cries of pain. Grayson sank to Chelle’s side, his hand hovering over her back.