The Beautiful and the Cursed: Marco's Story (2 page)

No one came to Hôtel Dugray to visit him. Yann and René, the two Dispossessed Marco had recently aligned himself with, would never pay him such a public visit. He surged toward the open door to his small office with mounting unease. As soon as he stood on the threshold, his unease vanished, replaced entirely with annoyance.

Marco stepped inside and shut the door. “You.”

Vander Burke, the Alliance Seer, stood before the office’s single window with his hands clasped behind his back. The Alliance was an underground society of hunters, trained to track down and destroy the demons that crawled up from the Underneath to prey on humans. The Alliance didn’t hunt gargoyles, but they weren’t exactly friends either.

“Marco,” the Seer replied. He wasn’t nervous around gargoyles. Most Alliance were, but not this one. He acted as if just another human had entered the cramped office and not a shape-shifting monster.

Marco went to his desk and pulled out his chair. “Is there a reason you have crossed onto my territory, Seer?”

He sat down and slouched deep within the chair. Vander kept his hands behind his back, his hat upon his head. The boy had no respect. Or perhaps, as signified by the shabby linen frock coat and threadbare waistcoat he wore, Vander Burke simply didn’t have the breeding.

What he
did
have, Marco knew, was a blessed silver weapon underneath that long, frayed coat. He might look like a peasant, but he was a skilled hunter. Marco wouldn’t underestimate him.

“I didn’t plan to visit Hôtel Dugray today,” the Seer said, his American accent irritating. Marco could speak English and his native Italian, along with French, Latin, and Spanish, but he couldn’t stand the coarse American accent.

Marco drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Then tell me, Seer, why the unfortunate turn of events?”

Vander readjusted the wire spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. “It involves two of your human charges.”

Marco resisted the urge to straighten in his chair. “Elaborate.”

“You know of my ability,” Vander started.

Marco rolled his eyes. “We call you Seer for a reason, do we not?”

For unexplained and rather curious reasons, Vander Burke could see the colorful dust that demons left in their wake. Demon dust, the Seer called it. There was no cause to disbelieve this claim of his. Since he joined the Alliance in Paris, demon slayings had gone up exponentially, which was of course something Marco and the rest of the Dispossessed couldn’t complain about.

“I was out for a walk this morning when I came across a trail of dust,” the Seer said.

Marco stopped drumming his fingers. “I won’t care about anything you say until you mention my humans again, so get to it.”

“The dust was clinging to two young women. I followed them, and”—Vander held out his arms—“I wound up here.”

Marco took a slow, deep breath. If demons had been on his territory, he would have smelled them. They stank to high heaven. “Are you suggesting demons in human disguise are here, right under my nose, and I am ignorant to their presence?”

Vander pursed his lips and took a step away from Marco’s desk. “What I’m telling you is that two of your humans have arrived home with demon dust clinging to them.”

“They had contact with a demon?”

Marco had felt nothing that morning. No alarm. No fear.

Vander hesitated, ducking his chin. “Yes. Or … it could be something else.”

Marco stood up fast. His chair rolled back and hit a case of bookshelves. “I don’t have the leisure of extra time today. As you might have noticed, we are preparing for a ball. Say what you have to say.”

“I want to see those two young women again. I’m researching a new … 
development
in demon dust for the Alliance. Since this is your territory and they are your human charges, I wanted to ask your permission to observe them further.”

A new development in demon dust. Marco knew the Seer wouldn’t part with any more information than that. The gargoyles and the Alliance had a shaky union and lent one another aid in some situations. But they didn’t swap secrets.

“Which humans?” Marco asked.

“I don’t know their names.”

“I didn’t expect you to know their
names
,” Marco growled, coming out from behind his desk. “Describe them.”

The Seer weathered Marco’s impatience with a sour grin. “I’d be delighted to.”

Sarcastic ass.

“Two ladies, under twenty. One clearly a servant, the other her mistress,” he said. “The lady had brown hair, the servant had red.”

For the second time that day, a single word brought Marco to a standstill. First, it had been “visitor.” Now, “red.”

He pinned Vander with a glare. “Are you certain it was red hair?”

“Yes.
Very
red,” he said with a quirk of his brow.

Grace
. She must have gone out with Lady Arabella that morning. Marco would have sensed it had they crossed paths with a demon. But then, Grace had been upset after returning. She’d been unhappy a lot lately.

He went to the door and opened it. “Come back tomorrow evening for the ball. Take a set of footman’s livery from the hallway and wear it.”

Vander came forward. Marco held up his hand. “Leave your Alliance friends at home. And tomorrow evening, should you see dust around my humans, you
will
tell me what is going on. Is that understood?”

Vander kept his bespectacled eyes level with Marco’s glare. He wished for the Alliance brat to tremble in his boots, but he was apparently far too naïve. He believed Marco would not harm him.

“Understood,” Vander at last replied. He bowed his head slightly, just enough to imply respect, before slipping out into the busy corridor.

# # #

It had been centuries since Hôtel Dugray had been illuminated by torchlight.

The foundation, built more than five hundred years earlier, had originally supported a tavern. That place, constructed of wood, had burned less than a decade after completion, and a second structure of limestone block had been erected to replace it. That was when the gargoyle waterspouts had been carved into the roofline.

Marco still pondered the question of whether divine intervention had led the architects to include such fanciful drainage spouts on the home. Or was the Angelic Order simply having fun with their gargoyle slaves, assigning them to whatever buildings or structures happened to sport
les grotesques
?

One never knew with the Order. They were as inscrutable as they were harsh.

Marco climbed the dim, cramped servants’ stairwell that led to the fifth and final floor of the town house. The electric bulbs in the stairwell were sparse, but Marco didn’t need them. His night vision showed the darkness in gray, white, and black.

The top floor belonged to the female domestic staff, which was overseen by the formidable housekeeper, Signora Bianchi. Marco’s rule officially ended once he ascended past the main floor; he, his footmen, the baron’s valet, and the grooms were lodged in basement rooms. Mrs. Bianchi had banned the male sex from the top floor, no exceptions. But considering this was his territory, Marco would go where he damn well pleased.

Besides, he needed to see Grace.

Marco’s feet whispered along the carpeted corridor. He called up a number of cataloged scents, matching the girls with the rooms he passed. All asleep, or very close to it. He came to the last door on the right and listened with his whole body. Beyond the door, Grace’s roommate, Patrice, breathed in a restful rhythm, her heartbeat slow and relaxed.

Grace, on the other hand, was not in bed. She wasn’t in her room at all.

Marco didn’t need to draw up the hot-buttered-rum scent that always made him thirsty. He knew exactly where to find her: the roof.

At the head of the corridor a casement window led to a small balcony. Marco saw a slim hair comb wedged between the two panes of glass, propping the window open. He climbed out and returned the hair comb before ascending the short stack of metal steps that led to the flat roof.

She was sitting on a rattan chaise. Marco had dug the tattered seat out of the carriage house and flown it up here one night last summer after he’d discovered that Grace liked to stargaze on the roof. She’d inquired once if Marco had been the one to bring it there, but he’d feigned ignorance. Grace hadn’t believed him, of course, though she’d accepted the gift without another mention. She sat in the chair now, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her long hair in a thick braid tied off with a ribbon. In her lap was a small sketchbook, and in her hand, a pencil. Though Grace saw him, she said nothing as he walked toward the chair. She continued to draw, eyes peering up for a moment before looking back at her paper. The full, pearly moon provided all the light she needed.

Yet again Marco attempted to reason out his behavior when it came to Grace. He had heard tell of gargoyles that favored one human charge over their others. They were usually infant gargoyles, though, newly Dispossessed and still adjusting to the cruel reality that they would never—
could
never—be with a woman again.

Marco was no infant. He could appreciate women’s beauty, but his fire for them had been snuffed out long ago. Why desire what one cannot have? He had tortured himself long enough. No, he wasn’t attracted to Grace.

“The Pegasus constellation is my favorite,” she whispered, her pencil connecting lines between the stars she had been busy charting. “What is yours?”

Marco stood beside the rattan chaise, his arms crossed. He didn’t bother to look at the sky. “There is nothing up there that interests me.”

Grace laid her pencil flat and leaned her head back. “Not even God?”

A laugh rumbled deep in Marco’s chest. “We aren’t on the best of terms.”

She straightened in her seat and tucked in her legs to make room at the foot of the chaise for Marco.

“And is there anything down here that interests you, Mr. Angelis?”

Her whisper stopped Marco from taking a seat. She would sometimes do this. Flirt with him. Marco had found that if he ignored it, she stopped. He disliked the idea of disappointing Grace, but she always recovered quickly.

Besides, he knew too well that stars were not the only objects in the night sky. Any number of gargoyles might circle overhead at any given moment.

“Right now, I’m interested in why you were crying this morning. Why you’ve been upset all week.” She parted her lips to speak, but he cut her off. “And do not say you cannot tell me. Neither of us is leaving this roof until you do.”

She sealed her mouth and closed her sketchbook.

“I know it has to do with Lady Arabella,” Marco supplied, vaulting one of his brows.

Grace sighed. “Do you want me to be fired, is that it? If she finds out I’ve told you, or anyone else, she will see to it.”

He had never thought the baron’s daughter very cunning. She had beauty, money, and a title, but little more to offer. Marco would not have cared so much about Arabella’s secret if not for that demon dust.

“Grace, I can protect you.” The words were more honest than he could ever explain. “But I need to know where you were this morning.”

She threw her legs over the edge of the chaise and stood up. She began to pace, the blanket trailing behind her like a queen’s robes.

“I don’t know who he is,” she finally said, her back to Marco. “I don’t know where she met him, but he is clearly unsuitable. My lady is … I can’t easily explain it.”

So Lady Arabella had been meeting a man. How pedestrian.

“Try,” Marco pressed, moving toward her.

She saw him from the corner of her eye. “My lady is different since meeting him. I’ve never seen her so enamored with someone before.” Grace stopped pacing and faced him, looking relieved to be sharing this secret. “But I don’t understand why she is so obsessed. I usually watch from the carriage while they sit in a square or at a café. Their meetings are brief and chaste, but there is something wrong about him.”

Of course there was. Marco could guess exactly what, too.

He flexed his fingers to distract himself from the tension running up his spine. The mere image of a demon coming close to one of his humans made his gargoyle form yearn for release. For that was what this “man” had to be. And only the most powerful demons could take on a human guise.

“She met with him again this morning?” he asked.

The complaints about musty clothing made sense now. The demon stink must have seeped into whatever she was wearing during her visits.

Grace nodded, one side of the blanket slipping low over her shoulder.

“Yes. To deliver an invitation to the fête tomorrow evening. She has told no one that he is coming. I don’t know why it must be such a secret. There will be at least a hundred guests, if not more.”

A demon was coming to the party. Well, that would liven things up a bit.

At Grace’s drawn expression, Marco had the urge to reach out and tug the blanket back up around her shoulder. He wanted to tell her not to worry so much and to get some rest. His fingers twitched at his sides.

A dull throb at the base of his skull stopped him.

“Go inside, Grace,” he murmured. She frowned.

There was another gargoyle watching them.

Marco held out his arm and pointed toward the stairs. “Go to bed. Your lady’s secret trysts are hers to manage as she sees fit.”

Grace blinked at him. “But, Marco, there is something wrong with—”

“Grace,”
he ground out. She jerked her head back and he lowered his voice. “Please.”

He wanted her off the roof. Out of the watching gargoyle’s view.

Grace complied, stalking toward the metal stairs. “A lot of good telling you did me.”

She cast off the blanket and draped it over her arm as she descended the steps. Her dressing gown covered nearly every inch of her body except her slender neck, pale as a column of alabaster. Marco decided it, too, could be considered pretty.

He held his breath. The chime at the base of his skull faded. Whoever had been watching had grown bored.

Exhaling, Marco followed in Grace’s footsteps, down the metal steps to the casement window. The panels were sealed shut; the comb that had been lodged between them earlier was gone.