On all fours, Grayson surged to intercept it. He moved faster than he’d thought possible, skidding to a stumbling halt in front of the hound. It weighed at least three stone more than he did and had the powerful flanks of a Belgian horse. It was the demon, not Grayson, but he didn’t stop to think about what the hellhound could do to him. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes firmly on the hound.
He didn’t need to say anything. If he could sense this hound’s wants, then it should be able to sense his. He would not allow it to attack Chelle. He moved toward the hound, his shoulders pressed into a flat, taut plane. If this beast came at him, so be it. He’d go down fighting, and Chelle might have enough time to run away.
Grayson felt the slap of wind just seconds before a gargoyle landed on the pavement beside him. Luc screeched at the opposing hellhound, one of his great black wings coming down protectively in front of Grayson’s transformed figure. Grayson knew Luc was only doing his duty, but it still pricked his pride. He could do this himself.
Grayson sidestepped the tip of Luc’s wing and advanced another few paces, receiving a warning screech from Luc in the process. The other hellhound’s growl faltered, then broke into a thin whine. The beast dropped low to the pavement, even lower than Grayson stood, and shambled backward. It had curled its great tail and tucked it between its legs. Was it submitting to him? Or to Luc? Grayson took another assertive lunge to be sure. With a final whine of dismay, the hound pivoted and disappeared into the shadowed turn behind a building.
And then Grayson was empty, the hellhound’s intrusive presence inside him lost. He let his shoulders sag, his rugged form suddenly too heavy to bear. How had he done it? That hellhound could have ripped him to shreds. And yet it had fled the moment Grayson had opposed it.
He collapsed to the pavement, hearing Chelle timidly call his name. He could still smell her blood, but its ripe fragrance was fading. He shivered as the sensation of a hundred fingers plucking at his skin, pinching and pulling and twisting, overtook him. He was going back to normal, and it felt like trying to stuff a foot into a shoe two sizes too small. He wasn’t going to fit back into his human form. How could he, when there had been such relief within this one?
“Grayson?” Chelle said again.
He lay still on the pavement, the wet snow melting through his clothes and chilling his skin.
The fur. It had disappeared. He had skin again, and as he ran his tongue over his teeth, he felt blunt canines instead of wicked fangs.
The two buildings lining the alley loomed over him, a strip of night sky between. Luc’s wings and long, dragonlike tail cut into view, sailing up, over the edge of the building, and out of sight. Luc had come—but Grayson hadn’t needed him.
Chelle’s pale face hovered into view, as did her razor-edged hira-shuriken.
“I won’t hurt you,” Grayson said, and though it was hoarse, it was his own voice.
She held still, eyelashes fluttering in consideration. She then sheathed her weapons and reached one of her gloved hands toward Grayson.
“How many times has this happened?” she asked once he’d stumbled to his feet. He was still shaking, and it made him feel like a palsy old drunkard.
“It hasn’t. Although … I think I’ve wanted to.”
His stomach churned. God, he wouldn’t be sick here, in front of Chelle. She’d just watched him become a monster, and now he stood in front of her with his clothes split at the seams in places; she didn’t need to see him vomit, too.
“When have you wanted to?” she asked.
Grayson closed his arms around himself, trying to still his shaking. “Whenever I’m angry.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “Whenever I smell blood. Which is … well, it’s pretty much all the time.”
Chelle dropped her gaze and played nervously with the brim of her cap.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Grayson said, wishing she’d look up at him again. She had to believe what he said. “I won’t hurt you, Chelle.”
She gave him what he wanted and met his stare. He wanted to promise her, wanted to ask her whether she trusted him enough to believe him. But there was no need. The way she looked at him, chin hiked, eyes softer than Grayson had yet seen, was her answer.
“I know, Grayson,” she said, taking him by the arm and leading him back toward the alley entrance. “I know.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was cold inside the landau, the sun not having risen high enough in the morning sky to warm it. In London, it would have been fodder for the scandal sheets for Ingrid to be out just after dawn without a chaperone. But here in Paris, the rules of the game had all changed. The only person who would have made a scene was her father.