Constantine jabbed his cane at Léon as if it were a saber. “Monsieur Dupuis is lying to you, Léon.”
“You lied to me!” Léon shouted, and with a grating shriek let go of the pipes. A pair of long, hooked fangs had erupted from his top gums by the time he hit the walkway. They were thin and black and reached to the underside of his chin. Léon went for Constantine’s shoulder with them.
The old man had spry reflexes. He bashed his cane into one side of Léon’s face. It stunned the boy long enough for Nolan to shove Constantine aside and connect the flat of his broadsword with Léon’s shoulder. He didn’t want to hurt Léon, or he would have angled his sword quite differently.
Vander pounced on the Duster from behind. He pinned Léon’s arms and kept him from taking another leap for Constantine. But the boy’s hands were still free, and Ingrid watched with wonderment as each fingertip secreted what looked like a white bead. The beads grew larger and rounder and then dripped from his fingers.
Léon flicked his wrists and ten ribbons of thick white silk spewed toward Nolan. The webbing lassoed him, twisting and weaving until Nolan’s arms were bound to his sides.
“Stop, Léon!” Ingrid shouted.
Then something began to happen to her own fingertips. They prickled and stung, the shudders of electricity dancing wildly from her shoulder to her hands. She hadn’t called on it, and yet here it was, as unwelcome as ever. She closed her eyes and tried to use the imagery Constantine had taught her: Plunging her arms into snow. Or into icy water. But a moment later the current was still live and kicking inside her.
Her fingertips throbbed and swelled with need. If the electricity came out here, now, it might travel anywhere. Strike anyone. Unless she could direct it. Give it someplace to go.
Her ears rang with panic, cutting through the roar of the sewage river. Ingrid’s eyes sprang open. The water! She threw herself toward the webby railing and leaned over the edge, her hands reaching for the aqueduct. A warm shudder rippled through her as forks of lightning flowed from her, driving into the brown water. The river of sewage turned into an electrical tide, illuminating the tunnel in bursts of skittering white light. It crackled and hissed, and Ingrid’s eardrums itched. And then it was over. She sagged against the railing, feeling drained yet again. Tears of frustration rimmed her eyes.
Ingrid rested her head against the railing before remembering the sticky webs encasing it. She pulled back and swiped at her forehead as Constantine hustled to her side.
“My lady, are you hurt?”
She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. “I just … I couldn’t stop it.”
Constantine patted her shoulder. “Electricity begets electricity, I am afraid. Once you begin generating it, the current must be very difficult to quell. Come.”
He left her side.
All sounds of the struggle between Léon and Vander had fallen silent. Vander still held the boy’s arms pinned, but Léon now stared blankly at his raised fingers. The tacky liquid had stopped seeping from them.
“How—? It … it stopped,” Léon whispered. Vander freed him.
“You can control it,” Ingrid said, jealousy hot in her chest.
Léon curled his fingers into his palms, tucked his fists to his stomach, and ran. He dodged Vander and disappeared like a shadow into the sewer tunnel. After a few seconds, Ingrid couldn’t even hear the slap of his feet against the cement.
“Burke,” Nolan said, still wrapped tight in Léon’s webbing. “If you have a moment? I feel like an idiot over here.”
Vander sheared the threads binding Nolan, the webbing falling again with a heavy, wet smack. Vander then reached up and massaged his upper lip.
“Are you hurt?” Ingrid asked.
“Léon might have thrown his head back,” Vander answered. “It’s nothing.”
“Who is Dupuis?” Nolan asked as he peeled leftover threads of silk from the buttons of his coat.
Ingrid turned toward Constantine. “He visited you recently.”
Her teacher didn’t react to her knowing this detail. He simply gestured in the direction of the entrance with a flick of his cane and began retracing their steps. Ingrid fell in behind him.
“I hadn’t taken Gaston for such a gossip,” Constantine said, laughter lifting each word. “Indeed, Monsieur Dupuis and I are acquainted, though it does not rank among my fondest acquaintances—he is a member of the Daicrypta.”
Ingrid kept walking, waiting for more of an explanation, but Vander and Nolan both stopped.
“The Daicrypta?” Vander asked.
“Why would any of them visit you?” Nolan tagged on.
“Wait—” Ingrid held up her hand. “What is the Daicrypta?”
The skittering of claws sounded above them, along the cast-iron pipes.
“Keep walking,” Vander advised, and then explained, “They’re demonologists.”
Like Constantine. “So they study demons?”