by Page Morgan
Vander’s hair was unruly, from the wind and from his having been drawn from his bed at so early an hour. It tossed like wheat stalks in a summer storm.
“No one has ever had anything as powerful or … or extraordinary as angel blood before,” he said. “You can’t just hand it over to a member of the Daicrypta.”
“What if I don’t?” she asked. “What if, after it’s done, I’m able to destroy it somehow?”
It was a grasping theory. Was angel blood even destructible? Did it look like blood or was it something else entirely? No one knew. This would be the first procedure of its kind, and that was why everyone was so scared.
Vander’s response was predictable and irritating. “It’s too risky.”
“He’s my father,” Ingrid said. It was as simple as that. He wasn’t perfect. In fact, he’d been acting like a pompous old goat. But he was still her father.
“I don’t care about your father.”
Ingrid balked at him. “How can you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth. It’s coarse, but it’s the truth. If I have to protect one of you, it will be you.” Vander took a few steps closer to her field of dust. Dawn crested the cityscape and shed fresh light on his old coat. “It will always be you, Ingrid.”
He was making his choice—who to stand behind, who to sacrifice. It was the right thing for him. Ingrid wouldn’t begrudge him his decision. That didn’t mean it was right for her, though. It wouldn’t be right to stay safely in the back of the line, protected on all fronts. If she allowed it, if she allowed something awful to happen to Papa, how would she live with herself for the rest of her days?
She’d rather have no days left than endure that. And if this was to be her last day …
Without stopping to think, without a thought for propriety or prudence, Ingrid rose to the tips of her toes and kissed Vander soundly. She had startled him, and she stumbled backward with him. Vander grabbed her arms and steadied their footing.
“What was that for?” he whispered.
She shrugged. “Just in case.”
Ingrid expected another question, a demand to know what she’d meant. He quizzed her silently, thoughtful eyes behind a pair of wire spectacles, slightly askew.
Vander brought his mouth to hers. It wasn’t an elegant kiss, or a tentative one like they’d shared in the library. This one was untamed. Ingrid felt it deep in her stomach, reaching low between her hips. Vander settled his hands around her waist and pulled her closer. This time she understood the prickling thrum in her arms and hands. Vander’s touch stirred her dust, and whether he wished for it or not, he claimed it for himself. How was it possible that his hands had the power to change her? As they stroked up her back, then dove again for her hips, Ingrid could pay little attention to anything but them.
When the roof door opened she was slow to pull away from him. Vander kept his hands around her waist.
A throat noisily cleared across the roof.
“My lady, Mr. Burke, I do apologize for, ah …”
Monsieur Constantine had arrived, and when Ingrid looked, she saw Marco towering behind him. They both came out onto the roof, followed by Nolan and Chelle. When Gabby appeared in the mouth of the doorway next, Ingrid eased out of Vander’s hold. Grayson emerged after Gabby, and then finally Luc. He wouldn’t look at her.
A sudden stirring of guilt ripped through her so fast and strong it made the roof feel as if it had tilted beneath her feet. Ingrid had never been so disappointed with herself. She shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have kissed Vander when she had already given her heart to Luc. Even if Luc were to hand it right back to her again and again, it would still belong to him.
She took a step away from Vander. It wasn’t fair to him, these things she felt for Luc. And she would always feel them.
“I am quite sorry about this, my lady,” Constantine said to her as he and the others spread out over the roof.
Her teacher took a seat on the edge of a raised garden bed filled in with snow and propped his hand on his cane.
“I did wonder if Monsieur Dupuis would stoop to violent means, but this tactic is rather surprising. And the senior Quinn’s involvement is distressing. I wonder what his goal is.”
Nolan looked as if he’d been gnawing on oiled leather for the last half hour. He had to be humiliated and furious and, like everyone else, utterly confounded.
“We don’t know anything for certain,” he said in a feeble attempt to defend his father. Carrick still hadn’t shown, and his connection to Dupuis, his having known Luc was to receive a second gargoyle, didn’t do him any favors.
Ingrid searched for her mother, but the countess hadn’t taken the trip to the roof. “Where is Mama?” she asked Grayson and Gabby.
“Resting,” Grayson answered. “And just so you’re aware, she agrees with our decision to find another way to bring Father back. Although I’m tempted to forget all about him.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” Ingrid looked to Gabby for assistance, but her sister was inspecting a trellis woven through with withered black tomato vines.
“He’s a bastard,” Grayson said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I know we have to get him, all right? I’m just tempted not to, that’s all.”
Luc and Marco stood apart from the crowd. Probably without even realizing it, they had come to stand side by side, looking like sentries with their arms crossed over their broad chests.
“There is no other way,” Luc said. “The Daicrypta grounds are well guarded, and the place is sprawling. Marco and I couldn’t go in there on our own and expect to come out.”
“I believe Luc is correct,” Constantine said.
“There has to be.” Gabby stood with her feet wide apart, as if getting ready for a sword fight. “My sister is not turning herself over to this madman!”
Ingrid had moved even farther away from Vander’s side, but she still felt his intense stare.
“No. She isn’t,” he said.
Ingrid bristled. She knew it only came from a desire to keep her safe, but she didn’t like Vander—or anyone—making a decision for her.
“What if we do nothing?” Chelle put in. “What if we act as if Dupuis’s note never arrived?”
Constantine stood up from the raised bed edge, leaning heavily on his cane. “It would be most unwise to underestimate Dupuis, or to take his threats lightly. He will harm Lord Brickton should Lady Ingrid refuse this summons.”
“So I won’t refuse it,” Ingrid said, turning away from Vander when he took an angry step toward her.
She’d already made up her mind.
“Ingrid, stop,” Grayson said, his fingers loosening the collar of his shirt. “It’s only been a few hours. We have time.”
“And we’re wasting it right now,” she retorted. “I’m going to get Papa out of there, and then I’ll deal with whatever happens next.”
Grayson and Gabby set in on her immediately. Each pitched their voice above the other to be heard, but they were essentially saying the same thing: that she was insane and rash and making a ludicrous decision. She was simply waiting for their throats to give out on them before she attempted to make her argument.
Luc stepped away from Marco’s side and silenced them both. “I’ll take you.”
He was finally looking at her, his gaze steady and cold.
“You … you will?” She hadn’t expected the offer from anyone, let alone Luc.
“He won’t,” Vander growled. “You are not going to drop her off at Dupuis’s door.”
Luc spared Vander a withering glance. “Do you actually believe I would leave her, Seer? I’ll stay with her the entire time. If Dupuis or his occult practices threaten her life, I’ll be there to end his.” Luc returned his steadfast gaze to her. “And to take Ingrid home safely.”
Vander started to protest again, but Nolan held up a hand to interrupt. “We haven’t discussed Axia yet.”
It would have been nice not to ever discuss the fallen ange
l again. The mimic demon’s portrayal of Axia’s pale serpent had been enough of a reminder to last Ingrid a very long time.
“Axia won’t allow Ingrid to discard the one thing she needs to make her a full-fledged angel again,” Nolan explained. “She has to have demons watching Ingrid at all times. There must be one corvite for every ten ravens in Paris. As soon as she hears what’s happening, she’ll make her play for Ingrid.”
Damned corvites. There had been black birds roosting on every roof as far as Ingrid could see from the top of Hôtel Bastian. The corvites could have been listening.
“So we should expect demon obstacles on the way to Montmartre,” Marco said with a little too much pep. “My first day as your gargoyle is certainly proving to be entertaining, Lady Ingrid.”
Luc didn’t bother to turn and look at Marco. “I am taking her,” he said.
“Two gargoyles are better than one, brother.”
Ingrid had had enough bickering. Decisions needed to be made, and she needed to get moving. Now.
“Luc can fly me over,” she said, though the last time she’d flown over Paris with Luc she had been terrified.
“No,” he said quickly. “Corvites aren’t the only demons with wings. I can’t fight with you in my arms.”
Ingrid avoided the death glares Gabby and Grayson were sending her. Gabby had taken up pacing the roof and Grayson had unbuttoned his collar most indecently. They both must have known there was no point in protesting any longer. The decision was made.
“So what do we do?” Ingrid asked.
Luc looked uncomfortable. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t making him happy.
“We go to common grounds,” he answered. “And we ask the Dispossessed for help.”
Hôtel du Maurier was no place for a human girl, especially one most gargoyles would consider diseased with demon blood. Luc had understood the risks when he decided to take Ingrid there—only Ingrid. Vander Burke had stormed over that condition, but Luc had ignored him. He’d found it relatively easy and unexpectedly satisfying, too.
He and Ingrid had left for Hôtel du Maurier midmorning, and now he stood on the threshold of Lennier’s second-level apartments looking directly into the face of the gargoyle he’d least wanted to see: Vincent, the sour-faced Notre Dame guardian.
“You again,” Luc said coolly.
Vincent saw Ingrid and flared his nostrils. “Is this your demon girl? How dare you bring her here?”
Ingrid had stayed on Luc’s heels as they’d made their way through the abandoned and dilapidated town house. Now she’d just about adhered herself to his back.
Luc pushed against the door, nudging Vincent out of the way. He kept a hand on Ingrid’s wrist and pulled her in behind him.
“I thought you protected Notre Dame,” Luc said. “And yet this is the second time I find you playing the role of Lennier’s butler.”
Vincent’s cheeks hollowed as he shifted his narrow jaw, his color rising from beeswax to pale rose.
“Your human is welcome, Luc, but tell us why the two of you have come here together,” Lennier said from his usual chair before the fire, basking in the warmth.
“The gargoyle I brought earlier, Dimitrie, told us lies. He wasn’t assigned to the abbey. He’s part of the Daicrypta, and they now have one of my humans imprisoned,” Luc said, his hand a shackle around Ingrid’s wrist. He had a feeling she didn’t mind the closeness, not with Vincent’s hooded eyes watching her.
“Another angel’s burn for you, then?” Vincent said with a distinctly pleased sneer.
“He hasn’t been harmed yet,” Luc ground out.
Why was Vincent even here? Lennier didn’t keep friends, and he didn’t make allies among the other castes the way some did. Luc watched Vincent stride around the room, his head held high, as if he lived here.
“What do you need, Luc?” Lennier asked, genuinely concerned. That was what set the elder gargoyle apart from all the others, even Luc. He truly did want to help whenever and wherever he could.
“We will not help free your human charge,” Vincent said.
“We don’t need help freeing him. I’m going to take care of that myself,” Ingrid said, her voice tremulous. She was angry. Luc could hear it, feel it. She didn’t like Vincent or the way he scared her.
Vincent turned his back on her, a purposeful snub, and walked to a window that overlooked the inner courtyard.
“Luc?” Lennier prompted.
“We expect the fallen angel Axia to intercept us in some way. Either through her hellhounds or the other demons she seems to have control over in the Underneath,” he answered. “She won’t want Ingrid to reach the Daicrypta.”
Lennier rose from his chair, his long, craggy fingers tightly gripping the armrests. “Why not?”
“I’m going to let the Daicrypta drain the angel quotient of my blood,” Ingrid answered.
It was good that she still believed this.
Luc was sure Lennier believed her, too; she said it with conviction. Of course, there was no chance in hell that Luc was going to allow Dupuis to drain one drop of Ingrid’s blood. He just needed to get her there, free Lord Brickton, and then escape with both his humans.
“You ask for added protection,” Lennier summed up.
“We have some from the Alliance,” Luc said. “But we could use more.”
Vincent spun away from the window. “These are your humans. As such, they are your burden, not ours.”
“It is an opportunity to work with the Alliance,” Lennier said, his watery blue stare floating toward Vincent.
“The Alliance,” Vincent scoffed. “They would make us their pets, complete with leash and collar. Abide by their laws? Suffer their punishments? We are not on this earth to serve the Alliance, and yet that is exactly what they want. They want our obedience, our fealty, and they want to take it by force. Well, they will not have mine. I will not lower myself to assist them, either. Them or a half-breed girl.”
“That’s a relief,” Luc said. “It would have been awkward having to tell you that you weren’t invited anyway.”
Vincent’s lips thinned as he struggled to come up with a response. Failing, he crossed his long, musty-smelling cape tightly across his front and, with a curt bow toward Lennier, left the apartment.
Ingrid released a pent-up breath against Luc’s shoulder, her nose brushing against him. He let go of her wrist, feeling absurd that he’d been so worried about Vincent’s presence. The Notre Dame gargoyle was a rotten crab apple with antihuman sentiments, and just like a rotten crab apple, he could be taken care of with one solid boot stomping.
“I hear rumors that Marco has joined you at the abbey.” Lennier’s raspy voice somehow made the chilly apartment feel colder.
“He has,” Luc answered. Gargoyles gossiped more efficiently than servants, it seemed.
“I will tend to things,” Lennier said, and Luc knew that he’d succeeded, at least at this first junction.
The elder gargoyle gestured toward the open doorway leading to the inner rooms. “Rest. We will wait until night has fallen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
From his seat by the fire, Lennier closed his eyes as if he meant to nap. Ingrid knew it was a dismissal.
“But we can’t just wait. Nightfall isn’t for hours yet,” she said.
Lennier kept his eyes shuttered. After Vincent’s show of hatred, Ingrid supposed Lennier’s response was rather kind.
She knew having more gargoyles on her side was essential, and that they wouldn’t be enthusiastic about flying in daytime skies, but any number of things could happen to her father before nightfall.
Luc silenced Ingrid with a finger to his lips and then waved for her to follow him. He walked through the open doorway, entering a sparely furnished dining room. Did the Dispossessed eat or drink? She’d never seen Luc do either, but then, she didn’t see any of the servants eating or drinking.
They walked a short, lightless hallway located off the dining room befo
re Luc found where Lennier wanted them to go.
It was a bedroom, with a four-poster bed and a single glass door to a terrace overlooking the courtyard. The hearth was cold and black, and there wasn’t so much as a splinter of wood in sight to build a fire. The chimney couldn’t support one anyway, Ingrid figured. If anything, they’d smoke out a nest of squirrels or mice. There were blankets on the bed, at least, though they were sun-faded and an unfashionable chintz.
Ingrid hovered near the door, watching Luc take a turn around the small guest room. “I don’t feel like resting,” she admitted.
He stopped to peer outside. “There isn’t much else you can do until Lennier says it’s time to leave.”
“And we must do what Lennier says?”
“He’s our elder,” Luc said, his brows vaulted. “And the elder is king of the Dispossessed. It’s how things are done.”
Ingrid stepped over a battered hooked rug, charred along the fringe from lying so close to the hearth. Hôtel du Maurier gave off such a sad aura, as if it had been bottled up and sealed off while it waited for a family to return to it. From what she had seen, no family had lived here for many years. Perhaps it had been decades. Lennier was the master of the house, and she was certain he liked it abandoned.
“Who was that other man?” Ingrid asked.
Luc grumbled and came away from the window. “Vincent. A Notre Dame gargoyle. They’re all like that.” He leaned against one of the bed’s lusterless posters and crossed his arms. “Forget him. He’s nothing.”
Ingrid wasn’t as confident about that as Luc seemed to be. Vincent had made her nervous in ways Marco and Yann never had—and they hadn’t exactly been nice.
“Is this place dangerous?” she asked. It felt like it should be.
The whole estate seemed set apart from the rest of the world. Luc had led her to it through the Luxembourg Gardens, the entrance arcades tucked into a corner of the park. Ivy and vines camouflaged the arched entrance, and the town house itself, dilapidated as it was, could have easily been overlooked.
She didn’t belong here. This was a place where men could freely transform into beastly figures. A place where unfamiliar rules held sway.