But there was nowhere to go.
Ingrid came to a stop just in front of a stone fountain with a nine-headed Hydra waterspout. One of the snakelike heads had cracked and slid off and now rested in the dry basin.
She stared at the coarse gray stone serpent, its carved fangs having weathered to blunt ends. Just as Luc’s had, her body felt as if it was revolting. One moment, throbbing with desire, the next, squeezed tight with guilt. How could this world be real? How could any of it be possible?
She sank to the ledge of the basin and dropped her head into her hands.
“Your father must have met with difficulty for Luc to have flown off in such haste.”
Ingrid jumped up from the stone fountain. Vincent stood within the columned entrance to H?tel du Maurier. He had his black cloak folded around him, and in this natural light, his complexion appeared even whiter.
“And Lennier,” Vincent said, taking languid steps across the courtyard toward her. “He hardly ever leaves his territory. You must be feeling rather abandoned.”
She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Not at all.”
Vincent’s slow smile made her think of a slinking cat. The balcony door to the guest room was right there, in plain view. What if Vincent had seen her and Luc? But hadn’t Luc said he’d have been able to sense another gargoyle’s presence? Vincent must have only just returned.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Vincent stopped at the fountain and ignored her question. “Have you met many of my kind?”
She ground a heel into the gravel, prepared to run if need be. As if she could get far. The man could sprout wings, for heaven’s sake.
“A few,” she answered. Marco and Yann. Dimitrie and Lennier. Gaston, Constantine’s gargoyle. And of course, Luc.
“There are hundreds of us in Paris. Thousands the world over,” Vincent said, his attention turning toward one of the several pitted and cracked flowerpots rimming the base of the fountain. In one, a single white Christmas rose, though stunted, had managed to bloom.
Vincent ran his fingers over the fragile petals. “No one ever thinks of a garden in winter. When one chances upon such a thing, the flowers are a welcome sight, though an unnatural one. The Dispossessed are much the same. No one ever thinks of us. No one knows to think of us. And yet, here we are, at humans’ beck and call. Here to be plucked, to serve, and when we are no longer useful, discarded.”
Vincent lifted his eyes and held her gaze with unsettling frankness. He strangled the thin stem of the rose and pulled.
“Does that sound fair to you, my lady?” He rolled the stem between his fingers. “The Dispossessed you’ve met have done you a disservice by sympathizing with you so quickly. I assure you, dear human, they are in the minority.”
He sniffed the air, thinning out the waxy bridge of his nose. “I can smell your demon blood from here. Like fermented wine. It tempts, but not without the slightest hint of revulsion.”
Ingrid put a stopper on her fear. She could not be afraid of Vincent, not with Luc gone to help her father. She couldn’t give Luc a reason to turn back and help her instead.
“You won’t touch me.” Her voice surprised her. It was strangely calm and, even more strangely, confident.
Vincent tossed the Christmas rose to the ground. His smirk became a laugh.
“I would be doing Luc a favor in the end,” he said.
It happened then. Not a spark in her shoulder. It was something else. Ingrid started to feel … she didn’t know how to describe it. She started to feel full and heavy, yet incredibly light. Like all of her blood had stopped its natural flow through her veins and started to push down, hard, toward her feet and fingertips. Ingrid swooned, her eyes fluttering shut. The top of her body grew light and airy, the bottom swollen and gravid. And then even the engorged sensation filling her fingertips and toes had gone, and she felt totally and mercifully erased. As if there were nothing left of her at all.
Just like the night in the churchyard when Marco and Yann had cornered Grayson.
Ingrid opened her eyes, and even though it was still day, the space around her shone bright, as if the clouds had all peeled back and the sun had dropped closer to the earth. She blinked at the glaring whiteness. Looking down, she saw she was suspended in the air—and Vincent was on his knees, his chest and head pressed low against the courtyard gravel in a bow.
“Leave here,” Ingrid said. Her voice rang out hollow yet canyon-deep.
It wasn’t like last time, when she hadn’t understood what was happening. This was her angel blood coming to life after so long being dormant. Why now? Why not earlier, when she’d been in grave danger? She felt its power and saw its weight as Vincent, still bent forward in a bow, scuttled backward like a cockroach.