by Page Morgan
It had been a quiet two months, and Axia seemed to have forgotten about Ingrid. There hadn’t been a single attempt to reclaim Ingrid’s angel blood. Axia had said that if she ever got it back, it would give her enough power to challenge the Angelic Order. She would be an untouchable fusion of demon, human, and angel. But how she planned to wield her power was still a matter of speculation among the Alliance and gargoyles.
Ingrid had known the quiet wouldn’t last forever. Axia had already reclaimed the angel blood Grayson had harbored all his life, and if angel blood turned toxic in the Underneath, Axia had to be desperate for the rest of her blood. She needed Ingrid.
Perhaps she’d just made her first strike.
CHAPTER SIX
Gabby crushed the small note in her fist. The carriage wheels rolled along boulevard Saint-Germain, lurching up and sideways over frost heaves, jostling Ingrid, Grayson, and Gabby.
The note had arrived via messenger less than an hour before, just after luncheon. The envelope had been blood red, the single square of cardstock inside matching crimson. Red was the color of the Alliance, and it never failed to stir her, filling her head with a whooshing roar.
“Luc just passed Café Julius,” Grayson said, leaning forward and following the café with his eyes as they trotted past. He groaned. “Where are we going, Gabby?”
“I apologize for the ruse,” she replied. “Having you with us was the only way we could leave the house without Mama or Papa objecting.”
Grayson would have never agreed to a call on Alliance headquarters, but he would also have never turned down a chance to glimpse Chelle at the café. Gabby had done what she’d needed to do, and no accusatory glare from her brother would make her feel sorry for it. The note had made her too elated to feel guilty about anything.
Nolan had returned!
He was back from Rome and he wanted to see her. Immediately.
Fortunately, Gabby had been alone in the music room when the note arrived, tapping distractedly on the ivories of an old, out-of-tune piano. She hardly ever went to the music room—it was musty and the light was dim, and really, her musical skills were as poor as Ingrid’s French. However, in the forty-eight hours since her father had arrived, Gabby had been trying to find places to hide from him. No. Not just him, but the way he looked at her. He couldn’t meet her eyes, not without first frowning at her left cheek and the track of scars there.
She had reread Nolan’s slanted script and noticed, with a slight dip in excitement, that he’d requested that Ingrid and Grayson come, too. So it wouldn’t be a private reunion, then. It didn’t matter. Nolan was back, and she was more than ready to set eyes on him again.
“We’re going to Hôtel Bastian, aren’t we?” Grayson asked.
Ingrid bit back her grin, though not very successfully. “Don’t be angry with Gabby.”
“She used me to escape from under Father’s nose,” Grayson retorted.
“It was my idea, really,” Ingrid said.
At Grayson’s bug-eyed reaction, Gabby leaped in. “It’s not just Papa. Even Mama wouldn’t have let us go.”
Their mother knew about gargoyles; she knew that her twins possessed strange abilities, and that their friends Nolan and Vander were part of a group of people who stood against demons. But if she knew that her youngest daughter was training to hunt those demons, Gabby was sure that would be the line in the sand for Lady Charlotte Brickton.
“Nolan’s returned from Rome,” Gabby said, unable to mask her thrill. Her brother gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
“Bring out the marching band,” he muttered. Gabby ignored him. Ingrid did as well. At least the two of them were of the same mind. Plus, Gabby suspected her sister wouldn’t be too upset should Vander Burke be waiting for them there.
By the time they’d arrived, Grayson still hadn’t said anything. He didn’t move when Luc, whose expression was equally gloomy, opened the carriage door for them.
“At least walk us up?” Ingrid asked, calling on his chivalry. It worked. Grayson sighed and hopped out of the carriage behind them.
Luc shut the door and, as he usually did when dropping Gabby off at Hôtel Bastian, glanced up at the sloped black mansard roof that topped the five-story town house. As if expecting something or someone to be perched there, looking down at them. All Gabby could see was a decorative black iron fence scrolling along the roof.
“I’ll be here,” Luc said, as always. He no longer kept his eyes on Ingrid when he said those words, but Gabby still felt that the reassurance was meant for her sister alone.
They went inside and climbed the first three stories, the last twist in the stairs leading them to a heavy oak door with a grid of iron in the center. Gabby touched the slanted veil of her hat to make sure the moss-colored tulle covered her well. She couldn’t hide the hooked ends of the scars near her lips, but at least the veil obscured the worst of them. Perhaps Nolan wouldn’t see the scars straight away.
The square of wood behind the iron grid slid to the side and the top half of an unfamiliar face peered out at them.
“Name?” the stranger asked.
After a pause—who was this?—Gabby recovered the quickest. “Waverly,” she answered.
The peephole slammed. The chains on the door rattled. And then they were being ushered in by a tall, broad-shouldered young man. He wore a brown leather vest adorned with glimmering silver daggers, three strapped into individual sheaths on each side panel, and on the back, two swords in crossed scabbards.
“This way,” he said, and Gabby was reminded of the person who had first shown them into the Alliance headquarters.
Tomas’s face and neck had been badly scarred—worse than Gabby’s, by far. Tomas had turned out to be a traitor, and he’d been taken to Rome for his trial. Could this young man be his replacement? He led them down the short hallway and into the wide-open, loftlike apartment. He had a stealthy gait, the set of his chin and shoulders disciplined. He was a hunter, she knew.
Then Gabby saw the rest of the apartment. It was packed to the corners with people, mostly men. There must have been close to two dozen of them, ranging from Gabby’s age to men older than her father. Some were simply talking; others were hovering over tables, with maps and papers spread out before them; and another handful were passing around a particularly beautiful sword, each one admiring it with raised brows. They were all Alliance. The red sash worked one way or another into their clothing made that perfectly clear.
Gabby felt Ingrid go still at her side. Grayson had his arms crossed, his glower deeper than before. Gabby had definitely not expected so many people. Chelle had been living here alone the last few months, everyone else having been in Rome. It was such a change from before, when their voices had echoed off the exposed beams and plaster ceilings.
Gabby saw him through the shoulders of a crowd that had been standing in the open kitchen, huddled together in serious conversation. He met her gaze, and it was as if she had snared him with a fishhook and immediately commenced reeling him in. Nolan broke away from the others and came toward her, deftly avoiding a practice jab with the much-admired sword. He didn’t flinch, his focus steady. The rest of the apartment slipped away, and Gabby could only see him. His morning-glory eyes, his glossy black hair, the waves grown out and even more unruly. He came toward her with an easy swagger, sure-footed and mischievous rather than predatory.
The veil and what lay underneath it didn’t matter to him. She saw it in the coy grin lifting the corner of his mouth. Oh, how she’d missed him. How she’d missed just looking at him.
But before Nolan could reach them, someone from deeper within the apartment bellowed, “Ah! Here they are.”
The entire apartment went silent, and the invisible line on which Gabby had strung Nolan was severed. He stopped moving. His playful smile crashed.
A man made his way toward them through the crowd. Gabby didn’t need an introduction. She saw Nolan in every facet of him—his overwhelming height, his dark features and fa
thomless blue eyes. Nolan’s father, Carrick Quinn.
Apparently, the elder Quinn knew no introduction was necessary. He didn’t spare them one.
“Where is your gargoyle?” he asked.
For some reason, Gabby and Grayson automatically looked to Ingrid. Silly, since they both knew the answer.
“Outside,” Ingrid told him.
“Good. See that it stays there,” Carrick Quinn quickly replied. Out of the corner of her eye, Gabby saw Ingrid’s chin lift. It. Luc wasn’t an it.
“I won’t waste your time, or mine,” he went on, all business. “Recently, there has been a breakdown in proper Alliance command in this city.” There was no missing the pointed look he sent his son. Nolan ignored it, his eyes remaining on Gabby.
“I’ve come back from Rome with plenty of Alliance ready to set things to rights. With what we’ve learned about the fallen angel Axia and this much-too-vague Harvest of hers, we cannot allow for even the slightest dip in our standards,” he said. His Scottish burr was just as soft and unpronounced as Nolan’s.
“You and you,” Carrick said, stabbing a finger toward Ingrid and then Grayson. “The Alliance is still interested in the two of you, even though you both declined an urgent request for your presence in Rome. You”—he stabbed his finger toward Gabby—“I have to ask that you leave.”
Gabby stilled and felt a stupid expression slacken her jaw. “I—I beg your pardon?”
Chelle’s petite figure emerged from between two taller Alliance men, followed by Vander.
“The Alliance insists that you forget everything you’ve learned about us these last months,” Nolan’s father answered without an ounce of remorse. “My son made a mistake bringing you into our circle, informing you of our practices.”
Nolan stood rigid, the only change in his expression the downward slant of his brows. Open your mouth! Gabby wanted to shout. Say something! Even Chelle’s and Vander’s lips were sealed, though their eyes were bright and clearly troubled.
“This is an underground society, one that has been built upon a solid foundation of Alliance families around the world. Your sister and brother possess certain abilities that—if controllable—could aid our hunters, just as Mr. Burke has done. Otherwise, we do not make it a regular practice to take in first-generations. Not without good reason, at least.”
So Gabby had nothing to offer. No demon gifts, no special abilities. Nothing but her own will and a glimmer of fighting skill.
Without a parting word, or an apology, Carrick Quinn nodded once to show he was finished and folded back into the stunned crowd. Gabby’s whole body shook with embarrassment and fury. Forget the last few months? Forget the Alliance and everything she’d learned? Was the man absolutely insane? There was no way she could forget. It was like asking someone to forget what a crack of thunder sounded like, or the sum of two plus two. It was just there, and there was no getting rid of it.
She didn’t want to be rid of it. The Alliance was supposed to be her chance. This was what she’d been working for, training for. And as pathetic as it sounded, even to her, this was where she’d thought she’d be accepted.
Nolan came forward as the others went back to their conversations. No doubt they were already forgetting her. Gabby blinked, her eyes stinging. No. She would not cry, not here in front of everyone.
Nolan stopped a foot away from her. Before, she had pictured throwing her arms around him, feeling him catch her and return the embrace. Maybe even stealing a kiss. That fantasy reunion shriveled.
“I’ll come to you,” Nolan whispered so low that no one else could hear.
He wasn’t going to fight for her.
Gabby backed up without a word. Her heels trod on something solid and she felt a pair of hands grip her waist. Spinning around, she found herself looking up into the face of the young man who had opened the door for them.
“Will ye be all right?” he asked. The question startled her. She didn’t know him, and yet he sounded genuinely concerned.
Gabby had no answer. She shook her head and bit her lower lip to fend off a new threat of tears. She rushed past him, away from her sister and brother. If the Alliance didn’t want her, well, then she wanted no part of it.
Ingrid started after Gabby as she barreled down the entrance hall. Nolan’s father had been horrible, and Ingrid’s eyes burned with anger.
Grayson caught her elbow. “I’ll go.” He looked around the apartment as if it were infested with vermin. “I don’t want anything to do with this place anyway.”
Chelle stepped into his path. “We can help you. That’s all we’ve been trying to do.”
Grayson huffed a laugh, but Ingrid knew her twin was miserable, not amused.
“Unless you can help me get rid of my demon dust, there isn’t a damned thing you can do.” He followed in Gabby’s wake.
Ingrid spun on her heel in time with the slam of the front door. She saw Carrick Quinn across the apartment, his back to her.
“How could you be so awful to her?” She hadn’t shouted, but her voice carried.
Nolan’s father held still. Vander clasped Ingrid’s hand, implying a warning in the way he pulled her closer. She unthreaded her fingers and pushed herself forward.
“You can’t discard my sister so heartlessly. She isn’t worthless.”
Ingrid forced her lips sealed before she could go on about how hard Gabby had been training. A slip like that would have landed Chelle in scalding water.
Vander didn’t try to take Ingrid’s hand again, but he did lean close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
“This isn’t wise. You don’t want to cross—”
“So you’re the lightning girl,” Carrick Quinn interrupted, finally turning to look at her.
She didn’t know why, but having this man whittle who she was down to those two words stabbed like an insult.
“My name is Lady Ingrid Waverly,” she replied, attempting to keep her voice even.
Carrick waved his hand in the air before him. “Your name isn’t important. Neither is mine, or my son’s, or that man’s over there.” He loosely wagged a finger, indicating pretty much everyone. “What matters is what you can do. Whether your talent be wielding blessed silver, tracking demons, keeping peaceful negotiations between us and the Dispossessed, healing wounded fighters, or, in your case, handling a supernatural power.”
He’d come closer as he’d been speaking, masterfully captivating the eyes and ears of every person in the apartment.
“So, lightning girl,” Carrick repeated, lingering on the epithet just to goad her. “Show me what you can do.”
Ingrid’s natural reaction was to laugh. Show him? What, just conjure up a little lightning right then, right there? She looked around and realized it was no joke.
“You want a demonstration?” she asked, her gaze flicking to Nolan, then Vander. The two of them stood like sentries on either side of her, their chins slightly raised, their jaws set, but they were watching Carrick, not her.
“We wanted a demonstration in Rome, but considering you declined our invitation …,” Carrick said, opening his arms as a gesture for her to begin.
Ingrid rubbed the tips of her fingers together, feeling the smooth friction of her kid gloves. She’d done it. Just the other morning, she’d made the sparks fly down from her shoulders. The electric charge had overrun her arms, filling them up the way water gushing from a tap would fill a bottle. When the water reached the mouth of the bottle, it would geyser, the same way her electricity would geyser from her fingers.
The tips of Ingrid’s ears began to burn. Everyone stared at her, even Nolan and Vander, waiting for her to fulfill Carrick’s request.
“It’s not always so easy,” she said softly.
“Why not? It’s a part of who you are, isn’t it?” he asked with all the sympathy of an asp being prodded with a stick.
Ingrid opened her mouth to argue with him, but he was right. It was a part of her. It also belonged to her. Not to
him. Not to the Alliance or anyone else. She exhaled, her decision final.
“I won’t give you a show,” she said, her eyes tearing up from holding his scorching stare for so long. “I have nothing to prove to you.”
Vander’s fingers brushed the back of her arm, as if poised to clutch her and draw her away in a flash. The stunned, and then furious, expression contorting Carrick’s face made her think Vander wasn’t overreacting in the least.
But a few measured breaths later, the flush upon his cheeks lightened. If possible, his stare softened. “Very well, Lady Ingrid. We shall all wait until you deem us worthy of your light.”
Carrick swept into a low, mocking bow before snapping his fingers at a few other Alliance and brushing past her.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ingrid said to Vander as he hooked her elbow and led her toward the rear of the apartment, along the corridor of curtained makeshift rooms.
Nolan followed them. “We know what you meant, and my father does as well.”
“He’s a manipulative old rooster,” Chelle said, catching up with them. “He’s hoping to make you feel guilty.”
“The only one who should feel guilty is him,” Ingrid said, exasperated. “The way he threw Gabby out … he humiliated her.”
She was probably sitting in Luc’s carriage at that very moment, sobbing. Or, more likely, plotting her revenge.
Released from Carrick’s hold, Ingrid wanted to return to the carriage.
“He’s getting worse,” Nolan muttered to Chelle and Vander.
Chelle reached out and touched his arm. “There is nothing you can do.”
Nolan covered her hand with his, gave it a squeeze, and then walked away. Chelle angrily murmured something in French before rearranging her cap, pushing back her shoulders, and rejoining the others. Ingrid and Vander stood alone in the corridor.
Vander held a finger to his lips and parted a curtain, indicating that he wanted Ingrid to go inside. She should have been more reluctant—these were obviously bedrooms. But her feet moved quickly and Vander shut the curtain behind them. He sighed.