The Beautiful and the Cursed: Marco's Story (8 page)

Ingrid tugged her elbow free. “Grayson didn’t refuse the offer because he was suspicious. He refused because he’s afraid of what he is.”

Ingrid and Grayson might have both been given Axia’s angel blood for safekeeping, but the twins’ similarities ended there. Instead of gifting him with lectrux blood, as she had Ingrid, Axia had given Grayson the blood of a hellhound. Hellhounds were her dearest demon pets, massive dogs that hunted human prey at her command. And Grayson had, at least for a short while, become one of them.

From what Grayson had reported, Axia’s hellhounds could shift into human form in the Underneath, but not on the earth’s surface. That seemed to be something only Grayson had been able to do. He hadn’t shifted for weeks, however. Not since the days following their rescue.

But he hadn’t been his old self, either. Ingrid knew her twin well—or at least, she’d known him well once. Grayson had cut himself off from her lately, choosing to stay holed up in the rectory, refusing to acknowledge anything regarding this new world they’d been thrust into. She wanted him to come with her to Clos du Vie, but he wouldn’t budge.

“And you’re not afraid?” Vander asked. She felt him close to her shoulder, saw his breath in the frigid air.

Ingrid stopped walking and noticed how cold her toes were. Wickedly, she imagined Vander drawing her stocking feet to his lips instead of her gloved hands, his hot breath turning her into a raging furnace. But it was no use. She couldn’t escape his question.

“Of course I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Just not of Monsieur Constantine.”

Axia was stronger now that she had reclaimed the angelic blood Grayson had always harbored. She wouldn’t kill the Dusters, or as she called them, her seedlings. She had given them demon halves for a reason. Ingrid didn’t know what it was, or what Axia’s plans for them might be. She only knew that Axia wanted to use them in some way against the Angelic Order. Against the human race, too, she suspected.

Vander came to stand in front of her, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He locked her in the steady gaze he wore when he shifted from intellectual bookseller to deadly serious demon hunter.

“I promised you once, and I’ll promise you again now: I won’t let anything harm you, demon, human, or angel.”

She knew he meant it. She also knew she had other protection, which she didn’t want to think about just then. Not with Vander standing so close, looking so earnest. Instead, she thought of her sister, Gabby, and how she had gone the opposite direction from Grayson, wanting to soak up everything there was to know about the Alliance and Underneath demons—specifically, how to destroy them in face-to-face combat.

Vander held out his hand. He didn’t wear gloves like a refined gentleman would, and his fingertips were ink stained. He would have never been permitted into Ingrid’s social circle back in London. But as she took his hand, her chest filled with warmth and gratitude. Yes, Vander Burke had romantic feelings for her. Maybe she harbored the same feelings for him. First and foremost, though, he was her friend.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the orangery. Inside, balmy air wrapped their chilled bodies. The glass roof and walls drew in the sunlight, trapped it, and created a tropical zone. A maze of bamboo; glossy green palms; bright red, orange, and pink flowers; lemon and lime trees; coconut and mango, too. Constantine’s orangery should have felt like a miniature paradise. Unfortunately for Ingrid, every time she stepped inside it, she remembered
him
.

Luc.

His wavy dark hair, and the way he pushed it out of his eyes, which happened to be the brightest shade of green Ingrid had ever seen. His lashes, coal-black and thick. His expression of constant irritation. His creamy velvet skin as it checkered over into glimmering jet scales.

Vander could make a thousand promises to keep Ingrid safe, but it was Luc who was her true protector. It was Luc who could sense her every emotion as clearly as if it were his own, whether it was fear, excitement, or joy. It was Luc who knew where Ingrid was at any given moment, and who could be there within seconds should she require his help.

Luc was her gargoyle. And Ingrid was in love with him.

“Lady Ingrid?” Monsieur Constantine’s voice came from a clearing amid towering bamboo.

She walked through the cut path of green stalks, blindingly bright compared to the gray winter day outdoors.

“Oh—Mr. Burke.” Constantine frowned as he rose from his wicker chair.

Vander had apparently let himself onto Constantine’s grounds without announcing himself first.
How rude of him
, Ingrid thought with a grin. Vander saw it and flashed her a smile in return.

When she glanced back at her teacher, she saw that he was still frowning. The frown was directed not at them, however, but at the newspaper clutched in his hand. He sat back in his wicker chair.

“Monsieur Constantine?” Ingrid said, edging closer to the table. He didn’t often smile and rarely allowed a laugh, but he didn’t usually glower. Constantine’s expressions were always as gray as the clothing he wore—all different hues of gray, from gainsboro to silver to platinum. The color suited him perfectly.

“It is this morning’s paper,” Constantine stated, his fingers crushing the edges.

“Is it very bad?” she asked.

Her teacher set the paper down and smoothed the wrinkled pages. “I am afraid so. A family was found dead in their home.”

Ingrid blinked, unsure how to respond.

“Their bodies were intricately wrapped in a mysterious silken thread. ‘Sticky,’ the reporter wrote. A
sticky
silken thread.”

Ingrid glanced questioningly at Vander. He raised his chin.

“As in
cocooned
?” he asked.

A meaningful look passed between the two men. Ingrid had taken off her gloves and unbuttoned her cape. She draped them over the back of a wicker chair and sat down.

“The police found the work of a demon?” she asked.

Constantine folded the paper in half and laid it on the table. “No. They found the work of a Duster.”

Ingrid stared at him, her mind at a gallop. Vander dropped his hand to the armrest of her chair armrest and gripped it tightly.

“A Duster?” he echoed.

Constantine sat down and reclined in his chair, its wings enfolding him. “My student, Léon Brochu. He has the blood of an arachnae demon. It appears the victims were his parents and younger brother.”

A swirl of nausea cramped Ingrid’s stomach. A Duster had murdered his own family. “But why?”

“The boy only came to me twice,” Constantine answered. “He hadn’t been handling his gift well, and from what I observed, it bubbled to the surface much like yours does—with emotion.”

Ingrid knew how that could feel. If Léon had slain his entire family, it could have been because of any raging emotion: fear, embarrassment, anger. She closed her eyes, trying not to see the memories of the fire she had once started—a lifetime ago, it seemed—in London. It had been a mixture of emotions that evening, humiliation especially, that had sent hot sparks from her fingertips. The nearby drapes had caught fire, and by the time the flames had consumed the ballroom, with people fleeing for their lives, Ingrid’s closest friend, Anna, had been badly burned.

Ingrid knew what it was to lose control. But this Duster had killed his family. She ached for him. For them all.

“And Léon?” Vander asked. “What happened to him?”

Ingrid opened her eyes and found Constantine’s gaze on her. As if he knew where her mind had taken her.

“The police are searching the city,” he answered. “But I doubt they are looking in the right place.”

Vander let go of the armrest and braced himself against the table, glaring at Constantine. “Tell me he isn’t here. Duster or not, he’s wanted for murder.”

Constantine sat forward, his mustache twitching with defiance. “I would give refuge to any Duster in need of it, monsieur, but Léon Brochu is not at Clos du Vie.”

Ingrid stood up and rested her hand on Vander’s shoulder. She was certain he would give refuge to any Duster who needed it, too, all ethics aside.

“But you do know where he is?” she asked.

Constantine gave a curt nod. “I would like to ask for your help,” he said, his gaze still on Ingrid. “Léon feels very alone, my lady. I’ve always respected the Alliance’s request to keep their existence from common knowledge, so Léon knows nothing of them, or of the Dispossessed, as you do. Most Dusters are unaware of these things. They only know that they are different. Most do not know there are others out there like them. I believe Léon might respond better to another Duster”—he made a short bow—“especially one of the gentler sex.”

Vander snorted, unimpressed. But Ingrid stepped forward. She didn’t consider herself gentle, but she understood what Constantine meant. “I want to help.”

She was lucky, all things considered. She had found out about the Alliance, about demons and gargoyles, all before Vander told her she had demon dust. She had known right away that she fit in somewhere. Léon and the rest of the Dusters out there didn’t have that.

Vander rolled his shoulders. “Fine. If Ingrid’s going with you, so will I. But if this boy poses any sort of threat—”

“He is a good boy,” Constantine interrupted.

“A good boy who murdered his family,” Vander retorted.

Ingrid took Vander’s hand, lacing her fingers tightly with his. It surprised him into silence.
Mission accomplished
, she thought with a slight grin.

“We’ll help,” she said again.

Her teacher pushed back his chair and stood, his gray eyes flickering with unusual vigor. “Excellent. Tell me, then—is either of you familiar with the Paris sewers?”