Chelle stepped into his path. “We can help you. That’s all we’ve been trying to do.”
Grayson huffed a laugh, but Ingrid knew her twin was miserable, not amused.
“Unless you can help me get rid of my demon dust, there isn’t a damned thing you can do.” He followed in Gabby’s wake.
Ingrid spun on her heel in time with the slam of the front door. She saw Carrick Quinn across the apartment, his back to her.
“How could you be so awful to her?” She hadn’t shouted, but her voice carried.
Nolan’s father held still. Vander clasped Ingrid’s hand, implying a warning in the way he pulled her closer. She unthreaded her fingers and pushed herself forward.
“You can’t discard my sister so heartlessly. She isn’t worthless.”
Ingrid forced her lips sealed before she could go on about how hard Gabby had been training. A slip like that would have landed Chelle in scalding water.
Vander didn’t try to take Ingrid’s hand again, but he did lean close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
“This isn’t wise. You don’t want to cross—”
“So you’re the lightning girl,” Carrick Quinn interrupted, finally turning to look at her.
She didn’t know why, but having this man whittle who she was down to those two words stabbed like an insult.
“My name is Lady Ingrid Waverly,” she replied, attempting to keep her voice even.
Carrick waved his hand in the air before him. “Your name isn’t important. Neither is mine, or my son’s, or that man’s over there.” He loosely wagged a finger, indicating pretty much everyone. “What matters is what you can do. Whether your talent be wielding blessed silver, tracking demons, keeping peaceful negotiations between us and the Dispossessed, healing wounded fighters, or, in your case, handling a supernatural power.”
He’d come closer as he’d been speaking, masterfully captivating the eyes and ears of every person in the apartment.
“So, lightning girl,” Carrick repeated, lingering on the epithet just to goad her. “Show me what you can do.”
Ingrid’s natural reaction was to laugh. Show him? What, just conjure up a little lightning right then, right there? She looked around and realized it was no joke.
“You want a demonstration?” she asked, her gaze flicking to Nolan, then Vander. The two of them stood like sentries on either side of her, their chins slightly raised, their jaws set, but they were watching Carrick, not her.
“We wanted a demonstration in Rome, but considering you declined our invitation …,” Carrick said, opening his arms as a gesture for her to begin.
Ingrid rubbed the tips of her fingers together, feeling the smooth friction of her kid gloves. She’d done it. Just the other morning, she’d made the sparks fly down from her shoulders. The electric charge had overrun her arms, filling them up the way water gushing from a tap would fill a bottle. When the water reached the mouth of the bottle, it would geyser, the same way her electricity would geyser from her fingers.
The tips of Ingrid’s ears began to burn. Everyone stared at her, even Nolan and Vander, waiting for her to fulfill Carrick’s request.
“It’s not always so easy,” she said softly.
“Why not? It’s a part of who you are, isn’t it?” he asked with all the sympathy of an asp being prodded with a stick.
Ingrid opened her mouth to argue with him, but he was right. It was a part of her. It also belonged to her. Not to him. Not to the Alliance or anyone else. She exhaled, her decision final.
“I won’t give you a show,” she said, her eyes tearing up from holding his scorching stare for so long. “I have nothing to prove to you.”
Vander’s fingers brushed the back of her arm, as if poised to clutch her and draw her away in a flash. The stunned, and then furious, expression contorting Carrick’s face made her think Vander wasn’t overreacting in the least.
But a few measured breaths later, the flush upon his cheeks lightened. If possible, his stare softened. “Very well, Lady Ingrid. We shall all wait until you deem us worthy of your light.”
Carrick swept into a low, mocking bow before snapping his fingers at a few other Alliance and brushing past her.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ingrid said to Vander as he hooked her elbow and led her toward the rear of the apartment, along the corridor of curtained makeshift rooms.
Nolan followed them. “We know what you meant, and my father does as well.”
“He’s a manipulative old rooster,” Chelle said, catching up with them. “He’s hoping to make you feel guilty.”
“The only one who should feel guilty is him,” Ingrid said, exasperated. “The way he threw Gabby out … he humiliated her.”
She was probably sitting in Luc’s carriage at that very moment, sobbing. Or, more likely, plotting her revenge.
Released from Carrick’s hold, Ingrid wanted to return to the carriage.
“He’s getting worse,” Nolan muttered to Chelle and Vander.