“I can’t,” Grayson said. “If my sisters are in there, I’m going in, too.”
Chelle gritted her teeth and let out a frustrated grunt. “Do you think I wish to stand out here twiddling my thumbs on the sidewalk, Grayson Waverly? Don’t you think I would rather be inside with Vander and Nolan doing something useful?”
A clamor rose suddenly from within the walled estate and the three of them shot to the gates and peered around the ivy-wrapped wall. The front doors to the mansion had been thrown wide, and three men scrambled into the circular drive.
“Father,” Grayson murmured, watching as the Earl of Brickton, stripped down to his trousers, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves, swung a Grecian vase wildly at one of the two men chasing him. The vase hit the man’s temple and he staggered, clutching his head.
Grayson’s father saw the closed front gates and doubled back, bolting away from the circular drive and out of sight.
“Damn.” Grayson leaned against the wall. He hadn’t forgotten about his father, but he hadn’t really cared, either. Hadn’t worried about him the way he was worrying about Ingrid.
He turned back to Chelle and Rory and stopped. The hellhounds were gone.
A yelp, then a low growl sounded from behind the wall.
“They jumped it,” Rory said, glaring at Grayson. “Was that yer command?”
No. Grayson grasped the sides of his head, his insides turning to fire as the urge to shift consumed him. He had to stop them. They were under his command.
“I thought—” he started to say, barely able to breathe.
He heard his father scream and his muscles and bones twisted and popped. He threw back his head and a growl ripped from his throat. Before he’d even finished shifting, Grayson had sprung into the air and over the Daicrypta wall.
Ingrid watched with dread as Dimitrie closed the door and threw a heavy bolt into place. He set his crossbow on one of the steel tables, and with carefully controlled motion, turned to her. “My human told you to undress.”
She backed away.
“Touch her and I’ll slice off your fingers and feed them to you,” Marco grumbled, still immobile on the floor.
Dimitrie laughed at the improbable threat as a hand wrapped around Ingrid’s ankle. She shrieked and kicked her leg, but Carrick Quinn’s fingers clung like briar thorns. He was still on the floor, his face a mask of agony.
“Forgive me for … what I’ve done.” He gasped before letting her go. She spun away, and Dimitrie caught her in his gangly arms.
Carrick fought to rise to his knees. A cough ripped from his throat. Blood flew from his mouth and splattered onto the floor.
Ingrid stopped struggling.
“He needs help!” she cried to Dupuis. The Daicrypta doyen was still fiddling with the machinery.
Carrick was a traitor, yes, but he was also Nolan’s father.
“The mercurite poisoning is incurable, I am afraid,” Dupuis answered, uninterested. “If he is lucky, the internal bleeding will finish him off within the hour. Dimitrie?”
Dimitrie grabbed the collar of Ingrid’s blouse and wrenched the fabric apart. A handful of abalone buttons scattered, leaving bare skin and the lace top of her camisole exposed.
While Marco roared another vow to tear off more of Dimitrie’s appendages, Ingrid sank her teeth into the gargoyle’s forearm. It took Dimitrie by surprise, though she doubted it hurt. He only pushed her away and swore.
“Forget the clothes!” Dupuis snapped his fingers. “Get her on the gurney.”
The bulbs overhead brightened again, their shrill hum rising to a scream. Ingrid squinted up at the glowing orbs of shuddering white light. She needed her electricity. Needed it now. She stared at the hot white glass and the wires inside strained to brighten. Ingrid gasped as dual currents clawed down her arms and prickled at her fingertips.
“Stop her,” Dupuis ordered. The lightbulbs had drawn his attention. They hummed louder, grew brighter. Dupuis’s look of alarm told Ingrid exactly what he didn’t want her to realize: the power-draining machines weren’t pushing the bulbs to their limits. She was.
“Dimitrie, now!” Dupuis shouted.
The gargoyle leaped forward and clamped his hands around her shoulders. She seized his arms in return, and where her fingers dug in, flickering braids of electricity tasseled out. She saw them quiver over his shirt; felt them tunnel through his flesh, into his nerve endings. The straining lightbulb above them popped and went black. Dimitrie shook, sick gurgling noises low in his throat. Ingrid screamed when he shot back, out of her grasp, as if blown by a heavy gale. He landed hard on the floor and didn’t move.
Ingrid’s knees buckled. She landed on one, her hands flat against the floor. Her palms stung, the muscles in her arms trembled, and yet this time, something was different.
She still felt it. A tickle just beneath her skin. It wasn’t much. But it was there.