“Let me ask Constantine who this Dupuis is. If he refuses to tell me, then perhaps I won’t go back. But for right now …” She shook her head, not sure she could explain it. “I have to go. I have to do something about this.” She rubbed her hands and then clasped them together in front of her skirts. Her life had been in peril tonight, and she’d failed to protect herself. Conjuring the lightning on her own the other morning at Clos du Vie must have been a fluke.
The cords in Luc’s neck stood out as he tensed. He cocked his head and seemed to be listening to something in the distance.
“Dimitrie?” she asked.
“Your lady’s maid. She’s anxious. You should go back.”
The adjacent bell tower blocked the view of the rectory, and yet Luc was connected to the people inside it. Connected to Cherie. Because of her scent, Ingrid thought, remembering what Dimitrie had told her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “About our scents?”
Luc hesitated. He didn’t seem to like that she knew about this ability of his. But it was fascinating the way he could tap into someone’s consciousness using something as natural as his sense of smell.
When Luc continued his silence, Ingrid added, “He said my scent was delectable. What does that mean? What exactly do I smell like, food?”
Luc smiled. “No, not food. It’s sweet grass, the kind that flowers in the summer, and if you tug up a strand and chew on it, it tastes sweet, almost like vanilla. And then, underneath that, your scent is like rich, black soil. Earth that will grow anything seeded there.”
Ingrid knew she had been the one to ask, but she hadn’t expected Luc’s reply to be so intimate or detailed. It was almost as if he could taste her, rather than just scent her. He turned away from her after a moment.
“I’m not used to sharing my secrets with humans,” he grumbled.
“Dimitrie was probably only trying to be friendly,” she said.
Luc leaned both elbows on the ledge and peered down. “A waste of time.”
Ingrid jerked back, stung, especially after the tender way he’d described her scent. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll learn it’s much easier to be heartless.”
She stumbled toward the stairwell and took the first step down. Luc seized her arm before her foot could land and pulled her back up onto the walkway. His hand lingered, his fingers tight around her elbow.
“I don’t trust him,” he whispered.
She recalled how young Dimitrie appeared. “He’s just a boy.”
Luc, his hand still clasped around her arm, shook his head. “He’s a gargoyle.”
Trust between the two Dispossessed seemed like it should be a given, considering they both held guardianship over the same humans.
“But he’s our gargoyle, isn’t he?” Ingrid asked. “He’s compelled to protect us just like you are.”
Luc let go of her only to take her shoulders this time. His strength didn’t surprise her, but the way he pressed her shoulders together did. There was passion in it. Urgency in the downward slant of his brow, his pale lime eyes lit as if from within.
“I am your gargoyle,” he whispered, his breath sweet and warm against her lips.
This was what Ingrid had been wanting. This was what she’d been missing. Luc, showing her that he actually cared. Not the cold, aloof, emotionless Luc. This one.
“Your heart is racing,” he said, taking a long, discouraging step away. He dropped his hands and Ingrid listed to the side, against the belfry wall. She felt cold, her temperature dropping along with her heart and stomach.
“If I can feel it, so can Dimitrie,” Luc explained. “Go. I’ll watch you from here.”
She didn’t want to leave, but she knew she couldn’t stay. Luc wouldn’t be able to see her to the rectory, of course. Not in the normal sense. But he could watch her just the same.
Ingrid took the tower steps down, rotating slowly, her legs suddenly tired and weak. She went easily through the abbey, her vision having adapted, then across the courtyard to the rectory. She felt Luc’s eyes on her the whole time, even after she’d closed the front door and started up to her room. He could watch her whenever he pleased, she supposed. He could stay with her all night, if he wished.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps he kept her scent with him at all times, and that was the reason why he hadn’t wanted her to know about it. It was ridiculous how much the notion stirred her.
I am your gargoyle.
Yes, he was. But that wasn’t all he was. By the way Luc had held her, saying those words like a vow, he’d let slip that he still considered himself something much more.
CHAPTER NINE
Grayson wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew there was blood nearby. A lot of blood. Freshly spilled.
He’d crossed the Ile de la Cité to the Right Bank and had started wandering through a few middle-class neighborhoods and squares. He wore his suit and tie from that evening’s dinner, his coat draped over his arm. The heat was unbearable, like blue-hot coals being stoked inside his stomach and chest. He’d cooled down a little since leaving Ingrid on the rectory lawns, but the flecks of ice were still a relief against his sweltering skin.