Gabby’s scars weren’t small, but they weren’t grotesque, either. The hellhound’s claws had carved three deep curving lines into her cheek, but Benoit’s stitches had been neat.
Gabby had feigned indifference about the visit to the surgeon, but Ingrid had seen her sister hurt and humiliated before. She always blinked rapidly and shrugged too much. And that was when Ingrid had noticed something was wrong with Gabby’s shoulder.
“Is your wound better?” Ingrid asked.
Gabby lowered her glass. “Practically healed. I know the Alliance looks down on it, but Luc’s blood works miracles.” She eyed Ingrid cautiously. “Speaking of Alliance … have you heard anything more about Vander’s leaky fingers?”
Ingrid still couldn’t shake off the feeling of the viscous webbing: the itchy, sticky pull of the silk as it clung to her skin. Or how it had looked streaming from Vander’s fingertips. Constantine had demanded that Vander come to Clos du Vie for Ingrid’s next lesson. He required time to scour his books for a reason why Vander would have taken on Léon’s arachnae ability, if only to a minimal degree.
“I’ll see him tomorrow,” Ingrid answered. “Let’s get some air.”
She pulled her sister toward a pair of open doors that led to a narrow terrace. There was barely enough room for the two of them to stand side by side, but they could at least revel in the cold night air. Unfortunately, they couldn’t quite escape the crowd.
A man approached their balcony hideaway. He was middle-aged, with faint lines branching out around his eyes when he smiled at them. And he apparently knew they weren’t French.
“Good evening,” he said with a small bow.
“And to you,” Ingrid returned politely. He wore a crisp black suit with delicate stripes of gray.
“Are you an admirer of the artist?” Gabby asked with false enthusiasm.
“I am not.” He fastened his attention on Ingrid, his eyes so intense they practically shoved her. “You are Lady Ingrid Waverly of l’Abbaye Saint-Dismas.”
Ingrid blinked. She fought the urge to back up a step—not that she could go very far. “And you are?”
The man dipped into a bow so deep his forehead nearly reached his kneecaps.
“I am Robert Dupuis, Daicrypta doyen and primary research facilitator.”
This time Ingrid did step back. She dragged Gabby by the elbow, too, until they were fully outdoors on the two-foot-wide terrace. Dupuis laughed.
“I see André has told you about me, mademoiselle.”
“André?” Ingrid repeated.
“Monsieur Constantine,” Dupuis answered with a second roll of laughter. “Of course he would not have shared his given name with you. Far too informal for him, I suppose.”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed to wrathful slits. “You’re the one who wants to drain my sister’s blood?”
“Not all of it, my dear,” he said, keeping his previous humor.
“You aren’t getting one drop!” Gabby shouted.
Ingrid clamped her fingers around Gabby’s arm. Now was not the time for her fire. If Luc felt her swirling temper and Ingrid’s alarm, he’d abandon the carriage and horses below and be on the terrace railing within seconds.
“Monsieur Dupuis, why have you followed me here?” This was no chance meeting.
“I do not come on an errand of malice,” he answered. “I am concerned for your safety and for the safety of those you hold dear. I trust you have heard of the two families murdered this week?”
“I know they were killed by Dusters, yes,” Ingrid said. Her initial alarm was quickly dissolving. This man couldn’t harm her, and not just because Luc was so close. Dupuis couldn’t touch her unless Constantine handed her over or she gave herself to the Daicrypta.
“Those who are infected with demon blood are at great risk,” he said.
“As are those put under your knife,” she returned.
The humor left his expression. “André Constantine has been gone from the Daicrypta many years, Lady Ingrid. Our research has vastly improved, as have our technologies. You need not fear me.”
She didn’t fear him. Their being alone on the terrace without the shadow of Luc’s wings was proof of it.
“The doyens and disciples of the Daicrypta know of the fallen angel, Axia, and her desires for your blood. Her blood, I might say,” he said. “If you allow it, I can remove that temptation for her.”
“By taking my blood,” Ingrid clarified. She felt Gabby tense at her side.
Dupuis shook his head. “By cleansing it.”
This gave Ingrid pause. He sounded so sure of himself and this procedure of his. What if he was right? It wasn’t as if the angel blood were doing anything inside her anyway. It kept her unusually healthy, yes, and she had been able to command a handful of Dispossessed, including Luc, a couple of times. But she didn’t need Axia’s blood.
“And my demon blood,” she said. “You would take that as well?”
She didn’t need lectrux blood any more than she needed angel blood. What might it feel like to be normal?