Luc hadn’t known. He and Vander Burke weren’t exactly chatty.
“It doesn’t matter,” Luc said, and it didn’t. The Seer could do as he wished. Though for some inexplicable reason, the fact that Vander would become an ordained man sat heavy in Luc’s stomach.
He ignored it, throwing the attention from himself back to Marco. “Have a nice nap.”
“It won’t be for a while yet,” Marco said, attempting to sound indifferent. It wasn’t working. Luc could tell Marco didn’t want to slip into the cold, dreamless sleep of hibernation. “Go back to your humans, Dog.” He started down the hallway, shoulders pressed down and chest thrust out. “And don’t trust the boy.”
Luc stopped grinning. “What?”
Marco kept walking toward the cherub-topped newel posts that marked the stairwell.
“Dimitrie. I know a liar when I see one.” Marco took the stairs.
Helpful as ever, Luc thought. He’d already known not to trust Dimitrie. But there was something satisfying in knowing Marco shared the sentiment. He was older, and though it pained Luc to admit it, he had unrivaled senses. Marco was a predator—sharp, skilled, and dangerous. So had he caught on to Dimitrie’s secret of being a shadow gargoyle? Or had he sensed something more?
Grayson needed to get out.
His muscles shook beneath his skin, burning as if he’d just finished an hour of vigorous calisthenics. Sweat rolled from his unbuttoned collar down his chest and back. He was in his room, pacing before the window, and he felt caged. Trapped, the same way Axia had trapped him in that damned hive. Only now it was his father who’d done the trapping.
Ingrid, Gabby, and Mama had all gone out to some artist’s salon, and though Grayson and Lord Brickton had also been extended invitations, the old duffer had refused on both of their behalves. Too many bohemians, his father had mumbled, and then, with a piercing look at Grayson, he’d added, and temptations.
Grayson had considered arguing. He’d gotten dressed and nearly left with his sisters and mother. The salon would be crowded, though, and hot, and Grayson knew how easy it was for people to work themselves up over art. His mother certainly did. It made the pulse race. The blood run swift and fragrant.
Perhaps being alone in his room was for the best.
He crouched and ran his hands through his hair. It was damp from sweat. His bones. God, they hurt more than ever before.
A scattering of dirt struck his window. Grayson stood up and a second rain of dirt and snow pelted the glass. He went to it and shoved the window open.
His room overlooked the rear of the rectory, and standing directly below his window on the back lawn was Chelle. He couldn’t see her face, but the moon lit her slender figure and distinct cap.
“What the devil are you doing?” he called.
“Shhh!”
Grayson waited for her to say something more, but instead she crossed her arms and hugged herself against the cold.
“If you’ve come to serenade me, I believe your next move is to sing,” he said, knowing it would only vex her. He couldn’t help himself. He liked seeing her vexed. And talking helped him forget the state of his body.
“I am not serenading you,” Chelle hissed. She then groaned and threw up her hands. “Never mind!”
She started to stomp away.
“Wait,” Grayson called lightly. He couldn’t shout. The servants’ ell was too close, and his father’s study was only two rooms down near the corner of the rectory.
Chelle kept walking.
“Girls,” Grayson muttered, and swung his foot over the ledge of the open window. The second floor wasn’t terribly far from the ground. If he hung from the ledge and dropped, he probably wouldn’t even sprain an ankle. Besides, it wasn’t as if attractive girls threw pebbles at his window every day.
He dropped and landed with surprising agility. The action eased the ache of his muscles slightly, and the cold air in his lungs helped bring down his temperature. Chelle must have heard his feet breaking the snow. She turned back, shook her head in aggravation, and then signaled for him to follow.
It felt good to move, even if he had no clue why Chelle had come to him. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. She was here, wasn’t she?
Chelle didn’t speak until they’d left the abbey grounds. It was past ten, well after dark, and the streets were starting to empty.
“I’m patrolling the Latin Quarter tonight,” she said.
“Alone?” He searched behind them and up ahead, but he didn’t see Vander’s tall frame anywhere.
“I don’t get a partner every night, and I don’t need one, either,” she answered, prickly as a hedgehog.
“And you were wooing me at my window because …?” he said.
“Certainly not because I felt I needed a partner!” Chelle sped up. “I thought you might be useful.”