The boy held the ends of the ropes binding Grayson’s legs. Ropes that kept moving. Strands joined, became one, and then split apart again. It wasn’t rope at all, Grayson realized.
“You’re Léon.” He strained to loosen the spider silk wrapped around his shins. The silk dripping from each of the boy’s fingers trembled in the slight wind. When Léon cocked his head, Grayson saw two hooked fangs protruding from his mouth.
“I followed you from the abbey,” the boy admitted. “She said you are both like me. You have the dust also.”
Like him? He’d murdered his whole family, hadn’t he? Grayson was about to argue but stopped.
He was like Léon. More than he wanted to admit.
“Tell her to stay away from the Daicrypta,” Léon said. He snapped his wrists to the side and detached the dripping spider silk from his fingers. “She tried to help me and I did not let her. Now I am helping her. I am helping all of you. Stay away from that place. Stay away from the man named Dupuis.”
Léon backed away from Grayson, who sat on the ground trying fruitlessly to pry the tacky silk from his pant legs.
“Wait! What happened to you there?” Grayson called. “Wait!”
But Léon was running from the square, his feet kicking up snow in his haste. Grayson swore beneath his breath and yanked one of the strands of silk with all his might. It was like stretching a length of rubber. The silk stayed put, leaving a pitchy residue on his fingers.
“Damn,” he hissed, just seconds before a gargoyle the color of jet landed on the snow beside him.
“I’m glad you can’t say anything right now,” Grayson said, knowing he looked like a complete fool. It was the second time in one week that Luc had been called to his rescue.
Luc snorted, his hot breath rolling from his snout in clouds of white steam.
“It’s funny, is it? Well, don’t bother shifting. I’m fine. It was a Duster. The one Ingrid tried to help,” Grayson explained, shuffling his legs in an attempt to loosen the insanely strong webbing. What was this stuff?
“He came with a warning.”
Luc’s great black wings unfurled with a resulting crack. His rocklike arm, covered in thick, shimmering scales, reached for Grayson’s legs. He sheared through the silk webbing with an easy slice of one talon. The binding fell away and Grayson leaped to his feet—just in time to see Chelle’s slender form glide through the open gates to the square.
“He wants Ingrid to stay away from Dupuis and the Daicrypta,” Grayson finished saying as Chelle hurried toward them.
“Grayson, is that you? What is going on?” she asked. A light popped on in one of the town house windows. Luc turned his beastly face toward it and dropped into a defensive crouch.
“Go, Luc. I’m fine,” Grayson said. With another snort—this one agitated instead of amused—Luc pushed off the ground and sailed into the sky. His wings beat down a rush of cold air that knocked Chelle backward. Grayson steadied her.
“I was heading back to rue Sèvres when I saw someone running from this square,” Chelle said, drawing Grayson into the shadows of the copse of trees. “What are you doing?”
“I was searching for you,” Grayson said.
Chelle blew out a gust of air. It ruffled her short bangs. “You were being demon bait, you mean.”
“It was Léon, a Duster. Not a demon. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could hold my own,” Grayson replied, though he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to untangle himself from Léon’s web.
“Come on,” Chelle said, and with a glance at the surrounding town houses—the lone light had been extinguished—she took his hand and moved for the gates.
Her fingers were small and delicate. Her hand fit nicely in his.
“Where is your other gargoyle?” Chelle asked at the same time Grayson opened his mouth and said, “About the other night …”
Grayson stopped. “What?”
“Your other gargoyle. Shouldn’t he have come, too?” she asked, searching the skies.
It was embarrassing enough having one gargoyle fly in to save him from something as ridiculous as a spiderweb. Chelle had a good point, though.
“I’ll ask him later. Listen, I want to apologize. The other night, when I … became … something else.”
Chelle’s boots ground to a stop, carving ruts in the snow. “You are sorry for protecting me from that hellhound?”
“Of course I’m not sorry for protecting you. That’s not what I was trying to—”
“Wouldn’t the hellhound have been happy to kill me?”
Grayson blinked, unsure when his apology had taken a turn. “It wanted to kill you more than it wanted its next breath. Your blood sang to it,” he whispered. “It sang to me. I’m a hellhound, Chelle.”
She considered this, her expression the serious mask she usually wore. But then her lips quivered and broke apart, and she was suddenly smiling.
She never smiled.
“There is no shortage of dangerous creatures in this world. Not all of them are demons,” she said, her smile faltering a moment as her eyes drifted back up to the sky.