Ingrid sipped her punch in the corner of an apartment on rue Bonaparte. The place was stifling. At least two dozen people milled about in shuffling half steps throughout a scant three-room apartment. The walls were covered from ceiling to baseboard with oil paintings, some canvases still fresh. It was all enough to make Ingrid’s temples throb. She lifted her cup to her lips again and accidentally elbowed an older gentleman who had sidled up beside her. He grinned forgivingly before saying, “It speaks of my youth.” He nodded toward the canvas that hung in front of them both.
Ingrid hadn’t yet looked up at the oil painting, and when she did, she wished she hadn’t. It showed a woman at the beach. She was taking tentative steps into frothy seawater. And she was nude. How on earth could this remind him of his youth? Ingrid smiled dumbly and fluttered her lashes. Appearing dimwitted was but a small sacrifice to avoid the man’s attempt to discuss the artist’s oeuvre, which seemed to focus on the nude female body.
Ingrid knew it was art. She knew better than to blush and appear scandalized. But if she had to look at one more dimpled buttock or fleshy thigh, she thought she might chuck her punch at the nearest canvas.
The man moved away a moment later, and Gabby slid into his place.
“Dreadful,” she whispered.
“How many interpretations of a woman’s rump must we be subjected to?” Ingrid whispered back.
Meeting artists had to be one of the most tedious elements of preparing for her mother’s gallery debut. This was the third such salon this month, and while Gabby and Mama seemed to enjoy them, Ingrid wished to be anywhere else. None of it felt real anymore. Whenever she was out, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing around and noting that, most likely, no one else present had demon blood in them. They didn’t know about Luc’s kind or the Alliance or the Angelic Order. She held these secrets with a kind of reverence, and the weight of them felt more real and significant than any salon or social gathering could possibly be.
“We certainly have an endless bounty of bare rumps here to admire,” Gabby murmured into her punch before taking a sip. Her thick, dark plum veil hung diagonally across her face, as did the veils on all of her hats, exposing just one of her smoky quartz eyes, fringed by dark lashes.
Ingrid had heard all about what happened during the visit to the surgeon, including Gabby’s foray into the morgue, Nolan’s drawing the blood of a dead Duster, and Gabby’s successful slaying of a corpse demon. Gabby had only wanted to discuss those things; Ingrid’s mind, however, had stuck to how thoughtless their father had been.
Gabby’s scars weren’t small, but they weren’t grotesque, either. The hellhound’s claws had carved three deep curving lines into her cheek, but Benoit’s stitches had been neat.
Gabby had feigned indifference about the visit to the surgeon, but Ingrid had seen her sister hurt and humiliated before. She always blinked rapidly and shrugged too much. And that was when Ingrid had noticed something was wrong with Gabby’s shoulder.
“Is your wound better?” Ingrid asked.
Gabby lowered her glass. “Practically healed. I know the Alliance looks down on it, but Luc’s blood works miracles.” She eyed Ingrid cautiously. “Speaking of Alliance … have you heard anything more about Vander’s leaky fingers?”
Ingrid still couldn’t shake off the feeling of the viscous webbing: the itchy, sticky pull of the silk as it clung to her skin. Or how it had looked streaming from Vander’s fingertips. Constantine had demanded that Vander come to Clos du Vie for Ingrid’s next lesson. He required time to scour his books for a reason why Vander would have taken on Léon’s arachnae ability, if only to a minimal degree.
“I’ll see him tomorrow,” Ingrid answered. “Let’s get some air.”
She pulled her sister toward a pair of open doors that led to a narrow terrace. There was barely enough room for the two of them to stand side by side, but they could at least revel in the cold night air. Unfortunately, they couldn’t quite escape the crowd.
A man approached their balcony hideaway. He was middle-aged, with faint lines branching out around his eyes when he smiled at them. And he apparently knew they weren’t French.
“Good evening,” he said with a small bow.
“And to you,” Ingrid returned politely. He wore a crisp black suit with delicate stripes of gray.
“Are you an admirer of the artist?” Gabby asked with false enthusiasm.
“I am not.” He fastened his attention on Ingrid, his eyes so intense they practically shoved her. “You are Lady Ingrid Waverly of l’Abbaye Saint-Dismas.”
Ingrid blinked. She fought the urge to back up a step—not that she could go very far. “And you are?”
The man dipped into a bow so deep his forehead nearly reached his kneecaps.
“I am Robert Dupuis, Daicrypta doyen and primary research facilitator.”
This time Ingrid did step back. She dragged Gabby by the elbow, too, until they were fully outdoors on the two-foot-wide terrace. Dupuis laughed.
“I see André has told you about me, mademoiselle.”
“André?” Ingrid repeated.
“Monsieur Constantine,” Dupuis answered with a second roll of laughter. “Of course he would not have shared his given name with you. Far too informal for him, I suppose.”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed to wrathful slits. “You’re the one who wants to drain my sister’s blood?”
“Not all of it, my dear,” he said, keeping his previous humor.
“You aren’t getting one drop!” Gabby shouted.
Ingrid clamped her fingers around Gabby’s arm. Now was not the time for her fire. If Luc felt her swirling temper and Ingrid’s alarm, he’d abandon the carriage and horses below and be on the terrace railing within seconds.
“Monsieur Dupuis, why have you followed me here?” This was no chance meeting.
“I do not come on an errand of malice,” he answered. “I am concerned for your safety and for the safety of those you hold dear. I trust you have heard of the two families murdered this week?”
“I know they were killed by Dusters, yes,” Ingrid said. Her initial alarm was quickly dissolving. This man couldn’t harm her, and not just because Luc was so close. Dupuis couldn’t touch her unless Constantine handed her over or she gave herself to the Daicrypta.
“Those who are infected with demon blood are at great risk,” he said.
“As are those put under your knife,” she returned.
The humor left his expression. “André Constantine has been gone from the Daicrypta many years, Lady Ingrid. Our research has vastly improved, as have our technologies. You need not fear me.”
She didn’t fear him. Their being alone on the terrace without the shadow of Luc’s wings was proof of it.
“The doyens and disciples of the Daicrypta know of the fallen angel, Axia, and her desires for your blood. Her blood, I might say,” he said. “If you allow it, I can remove that temptation for her.”
“By taking my blood,” Ingrid clarified. She felt Gabby tense at her side.
Dupuis shook his head. “By cleansing it.”
This gave Ingrid pause. He sounded so sure of himself and this procedure of his. What if he was right? It wasn’t as if the angel blood were doing anything inside her anyway. It kept her unusually healthy, yes, and she had been able to command a handful of Dispossessed, including Luc, a couple of times. But she didn’t need Axia’s blood.
“And my demon blood,” she said. “You would take that as well?”
She didn’t need lectrux blood any more than she needed angel blood. What might it feel like to be normal?
Dupuis bowed. “If you wish.”
Ingrid clasped her hands behind her back, fingers woven tightly together. Constantine knew only the Daicrypta’s past failures. What if there had been recent successes?
“Has a Duster named Léon come to you yet?” Ingrid asked. Dupuis lifted his chin sharply.
“No.”
She didn’t know what it was about that brief answer that rang so false, but she didn’t trust him.
“My sister won’t be coming to you, or to your bloodletting carnival, either,” Gabby said. “All of her blood will be staying right where it belongs, thank you very much.”
Dupuis waited, expecting something more from Ingrid. She stayed quiet, letting Gabby’s response be hers.
He shrugged. “You will come to me in the end.”
He fell into another deep bow and then folded back into the crowd. Ingrid stayed on the terrace. She leaned over the curved iron railing, peering three stories below to the street, and saw the black tops of carriages, an aerial view of waiting horses, but no Luc. She’d expected him to be on the curb, eyes turned up toward their terrace.
“Ingrid?” Gabby touched her arm. “Please tell me you aren’t considering that man’s offer.”
Ingrid lifted her eyes and met her sister’s exacting glare.
“Never,” Ingrid answered. “I promise.”
The lie slipped out like oil. It left a greasy feel in Ingrid’s stomach, too.
Grayson knew he was in trouble when the hellhound’s growls came through as words. No. That wasn’t the right way to explain it. The growls coming from the demon hound still sounded like rocks being ground between two stone wheels, but Grayson could understand what they meant.
He had shifted. Fully and completely, there was no mistaking it. No denying the truth. Grayson looked down at what had once been his hands and saw in their place a pair of bulky, sharp-clawed paws planted in the slushy pavement of the back alley. His arms had lengthened until the cuffs of his coat had been brought up tight around his elbow joints. Exposed was the thick pale yellow fur that had enveloped his body. He felt more fur rubbing uncomfortably beneath the clothing he wore, like an unwanted skin. But he was still human. He still thought like one.
Mistress will be pleased.
The notion chimed through Grayson’s head, and he knew it had come from the other hellhound stalking a slow circle around him. Mistress. Axia.
“She is not my mistress,” Grayson tried to say. It came out an abrasive snarl.
Behind him, a startled cry squeaked from Chelle’s throat. He turned sharply to peer at her. She had both hira-shuriken in her hands, ready for flight.
“Grayson?” Chelle’s voice quavered. He smelled it then, stronger and more potent than it had been before. Her blood. It sluiced through her, fast, hot, and fragrant.
The other hellhound groaned. It knew Chelle was frightened, and that made it joyous. Grayson felt its ravening thirst mirrored within him—and then, in an instant, he remembered.
The fog that had cloaked his memory was gone, and he recalled everything that had happened in that back alley in London: The girl’s gargling screams, drowned by her own blood as Grayson’s fangs ripped into her jugular. Her fingernails digging into his face and shoulders but slipping through thick, greasy fur without purchase. And here he found himself in another dark alley with another girl.
Join me. Mistress desires it.
Grayson knew that the hellhound had been commanded to rip into Chelle—and that Axia wanted Grayson to take part.
He swallowed the spate of saliva that had pooled in his mouth, and closed his eyes. His body felt right. Utterly right. The new state of his muscles and bones was pure relief. He’d been fighting them, denying them the change for too long. But the other hellhound’s lusts, throbbing through Grayson like a tremor, weren’t right. They were base and cruel, and he didn’t give a damn what Axia desired.
“Stop,” Grayson said, stunned once again to hear his voice roll out as such an inhuman growl.
The hellhound turned its flaming eyes toward him. It wanted to know why. Behind him, Chelle’s boots scuffed nervously along the pavement. Grayson looked and saw that the fear had gone out of her eyes. She was ready to fight. The hellhound must have sensed it, too, because it abandoned its focus on Grayson and darted forward, straight for Chelle.
On all fours, Grayson surged to intercept it. He moved faster than he’d thought possible, skidding to a stumbling halt in front of the hound. It weighed at least three stone more than he did and had the powerful flanks of a Belgian horse. It was the demon, not Grayson, but he didn’t stop to think about what the hellhound could do to him. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes firmly on the hound.
He didn’t need to say anything. If he could sense this hound’s wants, then it should be able to sense his. He would not allow it to attack Chelle. He moved toward the hound, his shoulders pressed into a flat, taut plane. If this beast came at him, so be it. He’d go down fighting, and Chelle might have enough time to run away.
Grayson felt the slap of wind just seconds before a gargoyle landed on the pavement beside him. Luc screeched at the opposing hellhound, one of his great black wings coming down protectively in front of Grayson’s transformed figure. Grayson knew Luc was only doing his duty, but it still pricked his pride. He could do this himself.
Grayson sidestepped the tip of Luc’s wing and advanced another few paces, receiving a warning screech from Luc in the process. The other hellhound’s growl faltered, then broke into a thin whine. The beast dropped low to the pavement, even lower than Grayson stood, and shambled backward. It had curled its great tail and tucked it between its legs. Was it submitting to him? Or to Luc? Grayson took another assertive lunge to be sure. With a final whine of dismay, the hound pivoted and disappeared into the shadowed turn behind a building.
And then Grayson was empty, the hellhound’s intrusive presence inside him lost. He let his shoulders sag, his rugged form suddenly too heavy to bear. How had he done it? That hellhound could have ripped him to shreds. And yet it had fled the moment Grayson had opposed it.
He collapsed to the pavement, hearing Chelle timidly call his name. He could still smell her blood, but its ripe fragrance was fading. He shivered as the sensation of a hundred fingers plucking at his skin, pinching and pulling and twisting, overtook him. He was going back to normal, and it felt like trying to stuff a foot into a shoe two sizes too small. He wasn’t going to fit back into his human form. How could he, when there had been such relief within this one?
“Grayson?” Chelle said again.
He lay still on the pavement, the wet snow melting through his clothes and chilling his skin.
The fur. It had disappeared. He had skin again, and as he ran his tongue over his teeth, he felt blunt canines instead of wicked fangs.
The two buildings lining the alley loomed over him, a strip of night sky between. Luc’s wings and long, dragonlike tail cut into view, sailing up, over the edge of the building, and out of sight. Luc had come—but Grayson hadn’t needed him.
Chelle’s pale face hovered into view, as did her razor-edged hira-shuriken.
“I won’t hurt you,” Grayson said, and though it was hoarse, it was his own voice.
She held still, eyelashes fluttering in consideration. She then sheathed her weapons and reached one of her gloved hands toward Grayson.
“How many times has this happened?” she asked once he’d stumbled to his feet. He was still shaking, and it made him feel like a palsy old drunkard.
“It hasn’t. Although … I think I’ve wanted to.”
His stomach churned. God, he wouldn’t be sick here, in front of Chelle. She’d just watched him become a monster, and now he stood in front of her with his clothes split at the seams in places; she didn’t need to see him vomit, too.
“When have you wanted to?” she asked.
Grayson closed his arms around himself, trying to still his shaking. “Whenever I’m angry.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “Whenever I smell blood. Which is … well, it’s pretty much all the time.”
Chelle dropped her gaze and played nervously with the brim of her cap.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Grayson said, wishing she’d look up at him again. She had to believe what he said. “I won’t hurt you, Chelle.”
She gave him what he wanted and met his stare. He wanted to promise her, wanted to ask her whether she trusted him enough to believe him. But there was no need. The way she looked at him, chin hiked, eyes softer than Grayson had yet seen, was her answer.
“I know, Grayson,” she said, taking him by the arm and leading him back toward the alley entrance. “I know.”