He relaxed. “Then it’s the perfect place to train. Hunting demons is about stealth. You’ll acquire it all the better if we manage to practice right under your parents’ noses without being discovered.”
She had backed up to the window while he’d been whispering. The wind leaked through the gaps and gusted against her nightgown. Nolan followed her. She could smell the wintry night air that clung to his coat.
He wanted to kiss her. His eyes gave it away as they kept skittering down to her lips. He took her chin with his thumb and forefinger and then cupped her scarred cheek. Nolan said nothing as he dragged his hand down to the curve of her jaw, along her neck, and to her exposed collarbone. His fingertips traveled along the lace top of her nightgown, his touch leaving a needful burn in its wake.
But they still hadn’t spoken on the other important subject that had been keeping her awake.
“I don’t want the surgery.”
Nolan didn’t flinch. She wondered what it would take to surprise him.
“You don’t need it,” he replied.
“But the scars,” she started, determined to be honest. They were alone, in her bedroom, and she was in a nightdress and barefoot. If she couldn’t be honest now, when could she? “They’re ugly. Don’t tell me they’re not.”
“I think you know me well enough to know I won’t lie to you,” he said, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind her ear. “Scars aren’t pretty. I’ve got plenty of them myself. What they are is a story, and each one is a record. Each one’s a victory. When I look at your scars I remember how close you came to being taken from me. And then I remember that you weren’t. That makes it my victory, in a roundabout way.” He leaned closer and rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. “And I think you also know me well enough to know how much I love my victories.”
She did know him. At least, she’d thought she did. But she kept seeing the polished pewter darts and daggers. Nolan was a good man; she couldn’t imagine he would use them to drive gargoyles into submission. But even good men could be wrong.
Gabby turned her cheek and reached for the latch. She swung the window open for him. “Be careful” was all she managed to say. Nothing clever or alluring. She wasn’t feeling either of those things just then.
Nolan handled the snub with his usual pride and climbed onto the sill. He paused, as though he might say something more. But then he lowered himself, scraping lightly against the stones as he scaled the rectory before hopping to the ground and walking away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He probably should have gone back inside, straight into Gabby’s room, and punched Nolan Quinn in the jaw. Crouching near the stables, Grayson had seen Nolan cross the churchyard, pick his way up the side of the rectory, and slip inside his little sister’s room with all the stealth of a bandit.
Grayson had closed his eyes and breathed in the frosty night air instead. He didn’t have the fortitude to play protective big brother, not tonight. One spike of his pulse and he’d shift. He didn’t dislike Nolan Quinn enough to risk attacking him in hellhound form.
He’d waited another minute before stealing out from behind the stables and jogging off the sacred ground. Instantly, he’d breathed easier. Perhaps that was the problem. It made sense, actually. Holy ground might not be the best place for someone who was mostly demon.
The Saint Germain-des-Prés streets were sleepy and, aside from a few snoring vagrants, deserted. He didn’t know if Chelle would be out on patrol, but aimless searching was better than pacing his room like some caged tiger. Even if he had been able to speak to her during the disastrous dinner at H?tel Bastian, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Sorry for turning into a hellhound? I promise I didn’t want to eat you?
He ambled into a small residential square and started to lose hope. The moon reflected off the hard layer of snow, ice crystals winking everywhere. Four iron benches sat arm to arm in a diamond shape around a copse of trees. He wasn’t ready to go back to the rectory yet. The place made his chest feel tight, like he was trying to breathe honey instead of air.
Grayson sat on one of the benches and looked up at the town houses that surrounded the square. The windows were all dark, everyone inside sleeping soundly and safely in their beds. None of them fearing a slip in their temper or the moment their skin sprouted fur.
He felt a tug on his ankle, and then, faster than he could look down, he was being jerked off the bench and onto the packed snow. Grayson tried to move his legs and jump to his feet, but they were bound. A strange kind of white rope had lassoed him from ankle to knee. He rolled onto his back and found a boy looming over him. The moon was so bright over his shoulders it blacked out the stranger’s face.
“You are Ingrid Waverly’s brother? The one with hellhound blood?” he asked before Grayson could speak. He had a French accent and his voice shook.