The Wondrous and the Wicked (32 page)

He left Vander’s apartment building, his mind focused on the contents of his pockets: the blood and one of Vander’s blessed silver daggers. His entire weapons cache to take down the most powerful being on the planet fit in his two trouser pockets. Grayson laughed. This plan of his was crazy and desperate and far too
malleable. He needed to find Axia, and yet if he succeeded, he would place himself within her reach. It could work. Or he could wind up dead.

Another gang of looters caught his attention across rue de Berri. They were looking directly at him. Grayson held up his hands as he walked, as if to say
Go on about your business.
They followed him, though, and their quiet procession sent the hairs along the back of his neck prickling. A glance over his shoulder showed that there weren’t just men. Two girls, oddly enough in fashionable tea gowns, were part of the group as well. They were all young, no older than twenty, and they looked terrified.

Grayson stopped walking, one foot off the curb and in the street. He kept his hands in the deep coves of his pockets, his fingers rubbing the smooth curves of the needle’s plunger and the handle of the dagger. The others stopped walking as well. He knew what they were.

“You’re Dusters,” he said.

One of them, a tall boy with a flop of curry-red hair, stepped forward. “Mistress is waiting for you.”

Mistress?
Grayson swallowed hard and stared at the boy. Their clothing was torn, the seams stretched to show white thread, and there was blood. Rusty red stains ran along the girls’ hems. But these Dusters didn’t appear to be under any kind of spell right now.

“Why do you call her that?” Grayson asked.

One of the tea gown girls combed her dirty fingers through her hair, which was loose around her shoulders in a style that no proper young lady would be caught wearing beyond her own bedroom. “You are supposed to lead us,” she said, her English heavily accented.

Grayson turned fully toward the group. “You’ve seen her? Spoken to her?”

The red-haired boy and the girl exchanged an uncertain glance.

“She speaks to us,” he said, palming the hair out of his eyes before touching his temple. “In here.”

Grayson nodded, remembering what Ingrid had said about Axia’s voice calling to her Dusters.

“Right now?” he asked.

The group slowly shook their heads, eyes coasting toward one another to be sure they were all in agreement.

“Do you know where she is?” Grayson pushed.

The girl spoke again. “The Champs de Mars. It is where we are all gathering.” Her chin quivered and dimpled. “She commanded us to find you. We have to take you to her.”

The girl’s quivering chin explained that there had been a promise of punishment should they not succeed. Grayson understood how she must have felt. He knew just how terrifying Axia was firsthand.

“I’ll come,” he said, knees trembling as he spoke. “But you don’t need to follow her. There is someone … someone who lives in that building, over by the church.” Grayson pointed out Vander’s place. “He might have a way to help you escape, the same way I have.”

The red-haired boy pushed back his hair again, and two other boys straightened their backs and shoulders.

“Escape how?” one asked.

Grayson started to pull one of the vials from his pocket, when a strong scent of decay tickled up his nostrils. The other Dusters must have smelled and recognized it as well; they stood at attention and drew themselves into a huddle.

Two hellhounds—real hellhounds—emerged from an intersecting street. Grayson doubted he would have been successful in convincing these Dusters to leave Axia anyway. There was no chance at all now. The hellhounds stalked forward, curling up
around the group of Dusters so closely that one beast’s greasy tail swished the seat of a girl’s tea gown.

“Mistress is in the nest,” the red-haired boy said, his voice strangled. “Follow us.”

Grayson rolled the glass vial of blood in his palm, still concealed in his pocket. He let out a breath. “I can do this,” he whispered, and he fell into step behind the other Dusters.

The orangery at Clos du Vie was a complete disaster zone when Gabby and the others arrived. The Bois du Boulogne, usually a peaceful spot for strolling, had been graveyard quiet as their caravan had wound through on the way to Constantine’s home. Vander and Rory had led the way in Vander’s wagonette, followed by the Waverlys’ landau, Gabby, Ingrid, Mama, and Nolan inside. The Roman and Paris Alliance, joined by Benjamin and Nadia, had brought up the rear of the caravan with their few carriages.

The silence inside the landau had been nearly as fragile as that outside in the parkland. Something had broken between Vander and Ingrid back at the rectory, and all of them were feeling it. And then there was Nolan to worry about. What would Gabby do if none of this worked? What if the Alliance took him back to Rome and charged him with treason? What if the net did work and they took him anyway?

Since the glass walls and ceilings of the orangery had been riddled with gargoyle-sized gaps and the vegetation had been hit with what looked like hurricane-force winds, Constantine’s butler had led their party to the largest room that could accommodate them: the library. The musty scent of aged paper and oiled leather hit Gabby as soon as she stepped into the room, where ceiling-to-floor shelves of dark mahogany paneled walls and forest-green upholstered furniture seemed to muffle all sound.

Monsieur Constantine and Hugh Dupuis sat upon one of
three sofas arranged in a bracket in front of a marble fireplace. Each man held a teacup and saucer and was in the process of sipping when the heavy black boots of the Roman Alliance slapped against the parquet floor.

Constantine set down his cup and saucer and leaped to his feet. “Lady Brickton, it is an exquisite pleasure to see you once again.” He strode across the library floor, completely ignoring the Alliance members spreading out around the room, and reached for Mama’s hand. He kissed the back of her black lace glove.

“Monsieur, I don’t know what to say. All of this is beyond my comprehension,” Mama replied.

“You are not alone, madame, I am sure.” Constantine released Mama’s hand and shifted his gaze to Hans and Hathaway, who stood to her left. “I am not as ecstatic about your return to my home, gentlemen. However, I believe I know why you have come.”

He turned slightly to indicate Hugh, who was still sipping his tea on the sofa. His short legs were crossed and about six inches or so from the floor. Gabby also noticed the familiar weapon flat on the sofa cushion at Hugh’s side.

“There it is,” Benjamin said. “The weapon Miss Waverly described.”

“
That
is the net?” Hans asked. His brusque manner was unable to ruffle Hugh’s composure. He set his cup and saucer on his lap without a tremor.

“It is a crossbow, actually,” he said. “The net is the bow’s projectile.”

“Don’t get smart with me, halfling,” Hans retorted.

“Would you prefer me to be stupid? Perhaps then we might have more in common.”

Hans took a step toward the sofa, a move that finally caused a reaction. Hugh slid forward, tea splashing onto the china saucer as he got to his feet.

Rory shouldered his way in front of Hans and barred him from taking another step. “Easy.”

The word was a warning, not counsel. Hans looked too stunned by Rory’s intrusion to do more than blink and part his lips.

Hugh cleared his throat. “This is one of our original diffuser crossbows, not the latest one we’ve crafted using angelic blood,” he said quickly in an obvious attempt to draw attention away from Rory and Hans. It wasn’t working. “Would you like to see it?”

“I do not hold much confidence in this net of yours,” Hathaway said, moving around Rory and Hans as if the two men were not even there. “However, I have given my word to Miss Waverly that I shall assist her in her attempt to use it against Axia. Immediately following, whether the attempt succeeds or fails, the remainder of the angelic blood will come into my possession.”

Hugh looked to Gabby, who nodded. Ingrid latched on to Gabby’s arm. “You promised him the blood?”

Gabby and Ingrid had tried to catch up on the ride from the rectory to Clos du Vie, exchanging all that had happened to each of them over the past few days. Gabby, however, hadn’t admitted what the cost for the Alliance’s help would be.

Nolan leaned forward until his mouth was near Gabby’s ear. “Bargaining skills,” he sang in a whisper.

She huffed and started toward Hugh’s birdcage, set upon the portmanteau, behind the sofa. Nolan shadowed her.

“Vander wants Axia to know he’s using his mersian blood as a sort of cure against her,” she said, reaching the cage and tugging off the black cloth draped over the sleeping corvite. It startled, ruffling its slick feathers and letting out a growl.

“We need to use your bird,” she said to Hugh.

He sighed. “It is a demon, not a bird.”

“But it
can
carry a message to Axia, correct?” Gabby persisted. “You said the corvite can only answer yes-or-no questions for you, but to Axia, the bird can relay more?”

Hugh approached the cage, and the corvite hopped closer to the bars near where he stood. He stuck his fingers through a gap and stroked the corvite’s long black beak.

“It can,” he said.

“What is it?” Rory asked, reacting to the unspoken caveat weighing down Hugh’s words.

Hugh retracted his hand. “It may also deliver the message that we are attempting to lure her out for capture.”

There was a commotion near the entrance to the library. The Roman Alliance parted their meticulous line of troops along the wall to allow two more guests. Luc and Constantine’s gargoyle, Gaston, both in human form and clothed, entered. Marco, who had been standing quiet and disinterested in the far corner of the room, gravitated toward them.

Gabby noticed Ingrid’s cheeks betraying her embarrassment over the earlier unfortunate incident in her bedroom; however, her sister remained focused.

“Axia might be confident enough to allow us to try,” Ingrid said. “She told me she cannot be ensnared, and she might be telling the truth. She moved so quickly it was almost as if my eyes couldn’t keep up with her. I kept seeing a sort of mist dissolving in the spot where she’d last been.”

This seemed to pique the interest of both Constantine and Hugh.

“A mist, you say?” Hugh repeated. At Ingrid’s nod, Constantine rubbed the dart of a beard he wore on his chin.

“And in the Underneath, you say she had fangs? She drank from you with her mouth?”

“Like a serpent,” Ingrid said. “A crypsis demon.”

“No crypsis moves as fast as that,” Luc interjected from the back of the library, which only inspired daggered glares from both Mama and Vander. Luc at least had the decency to appear slightly uncomfortable.

“Luc is correct,” Constantine said. “This mist you speak of, Lady Ingrid, and the forked tongue and fangs … it sounds as if Axia has taken the blood of a severix demon.”

A grumbling broke out among the Alliance.

“Oh dear,” Mama could be heard saying above the din. “That doesn’t sound very good at all.”

She accepted Constantine’s proffered hand and eased herself onto one of the sofas.

“It is not,” Hugh confirmed. “A severix can split itself from its actual form so quickly that it leaves an ethereal ‘fade’ behind.”

A rise of panic blocked Gabby’s throat. “Axia told you she couldn’t be captured?”

Ingrid held out her hands. “That’s what she said, but I did stab her. I caught her by surprise.”

Gabby swallowed, this revelation about Axia sticking hard.

“Their fades aren’t powerful in the least, but when a severix casts multiple fades in a short handful of seconds, it can be nearly impossible to keep up with. Severix demons use their fades to confuse their prey,” Constantine added.

This was not what Gabby wanted to hear. Even if Axia was lured out into the open, she very well might be too fast to be caught by a net of any sort.

“Good. So we can abandon this ridiculous plan,” Hans said, turning his back on Rory and rejoining Hathaway.

“No.” Vander hadn’t said a word since leaving the rectory. The muscles in his jaw flexed now as he walked toward the corvite in its cage. “It’s flawed, but it’s the only plan we have.”

“Burke, you’re hardly in a position to make decisions,” Hans said. “Your refusal to bring in Dusters as the Directorate has ordered is about to land you in the basement at Hôtel Bastian.”

“Don’t be an imbecile,” Vander spit. “There are exponential numbers of Dusters being created with every attack. Bringing them all in is an impossible task.”

“Then we’ll have no choice but to treat them as demons!” Hans shouted.

Gabby threw up her hands. “Enough! Hugh, please give the corvite its message for Axia.”

Hugh unlocked the cage door and swung it open. “There is no need. It has been listening to this entire conversation, Miss Waverly.”

The corvite’s twiggy black claws closed around Hugh’s forearm and he drew it from the cage. Rory crossed the library to the double glass-paned doors leading onto the grounds and opened them.

Hugh ran his index finger along the bird’s beak and whispered something against its domed skull before thrusting his arm up. The corvite flapped its wings and beat its way into the sky.

Constantine punctured the silence. “And now?”

Hugh shut the doors and returned to the fireplace, his shirtsleeve torn and spotted with blood from the demon’s claws. He hadn’t been wearing the leather falconry gauntlet this time.

“I’ve instructed the corvite to return once the message has been delivered. Until then … we simply wait.” He clapped his hands together. “Who fancies a game of whist?”

Not surprisingly, there were no takers.

Hans belted out orders to his fighters while Hathaway did the same to his men.

“There is still the rest of the city to protect,” Hans explained as a third of the Alliance fighters began filing out of the library. “The fewer able bodies left here to be inactive, the better.”

It was clear that he didn’t believe Axia would come. This was nothing but a waste of time to him. Perhaps it was, Gabby thought, allowing her own conviction to flag.