Heaven help her, she was likely to commit murder tonight! Gabby shut her mouth and kept her eyes firmly ahead, on Vander and his horse. He led their caravan, with Lennier directly above the brougham and Yann in the sky behind it. Grayson, Chelle, and Rory were all positioned along the route to the address Dupuis had given them, and Marco was pacing the route in its entirety from the sky.
No other gargoyles had accepted Lennier’s invitation to help, and Luc had not returned to H?tel du Maurier by the time they had left. Which had led Gabby to believe her father was still in danger.
“If Dupuis is torturing my father again …” Gabby touched the pommel of her sword, hidden within her cape. Two more daggers rested in makeshift sheaths, one in each cloak panel, and a third was safely tucked inside the lip of her boot.
She hadn’t been allowed to see the severed finger when she’d arrived at H?tel du Maurier, but Ingrid had told her about it, saying Gabby shouldn’t look. For once, Gabby hadn’t argued.
“There’s no use worrying yourself. The only way to stop Dupuis now is to …”
Nolan’s words trailed off and Gabby waited for him to finish consoling her. The carriage light formed a bright aura around his dark profile, with steam curling off the hot glass lantern. Nolan stared straight ahead.
“Is there something the matter?” Gabby asked.
Nolan turned to her then. In the passing light of a streetlamp, Gabby saw his eyes. They looked at her in an empty, uninterested way.
“Nolan?”
Something was wrong with him. He turned back to the road and pulled hard on the right rein. The wheels cut sharply, veering off rue Tronchet and down a narrow branch road. Gabby braced herself to keep from sliding off the bench.
“This isn’t the way. Nolan, what are you doing?”
No reply came. He kept his gaze on the road ahead, slapping the reins and building speed, taking the carriage farther from the planned route.
“Nolan, stop!” she shouted. He didn’t so much as flinch.
It wasn’t him. Inside it wasn’t him.
She didn’t know who or what was at the reins, but it wasn’t Nolan Quinn.
Gabby reached inside her cape and grabbed hold of the sword’s handle.
It’s not Nolan, she told herself as the brougham careened down a second street and started back for the river. If some sort of possession demon had taken control of him, then would blessed silver work to draw it out again? Nolan had been right: she didn’t have nearly enough training.
She heard Ingrid pounding from inside the carriage, her muffled voice shouting. Her sister knew something was wrong. Marco would know, too. Gabby looked skyward, but the carriage jerked roughly. She had to do something. If Marco scented a demon inside Nolan, he wouldn’t be as hesitant to exorcise it as Gabby was. And he certainly wouldn’t do it gently.
Gabby pulled the sword from inside her cape and swiftly brought the blade edge down across the tops of Nolan’s wrists. It was a tap, really; hardly enough muscle behind it to slice a tender roast. Still, green sparks danced out of the flesh wound, and Nolan’s hands dropped the reins. He winged his arm and the point of his elbow jammed Gabby in the ribs, hard. The carriage wheels lurched to the right as they hit a raised sidewalk, sending the whole brougham into a dangerous tilt.
Gabby screamed, knowing what would come next. It had happened before in Vander’s phaeton, when the traitorous Alliance member Tomas had kidnapped Gabby and taken her to the Métro construction pit. They were going to crash and roll. Only this time, there wouldn’t be a slope of forgiving rock gravel and dirt to catch her.
She heard Ingrid’s muffled scream as the brougham, still speeding, teetered onto just two wheels. And then Gabby was out of her seat, falling toward the black pavement. She threw up her hands and hit—but not the ground. A pair of iron-strong arms slammed into her side, hooked around her, and swung her sideways out of her fall. She dug her fingernails into albino scales as the elder gargoyle, Lennier, threw out his white wings and dragged them to a stop.
Gabby clung hard to him and slowly looked up into his face. His scales had the luster of seed pearls, and his eyes—inexplicably human, even set as they were within scaled skin—were far gentler than Luc’s.
“Thank you,” Gabby whispered. Lennier’s lashless lids closed briefly in acceptance.
She rolled out of his grip and, with a shaky landing, watched him spiral up into the sky. She looked back toward the brougham, expecting to see a wreck. Instead, Yann was underneath the nearly sideways carriage, his thick, furry lion’s arms raised overhead to keep it from crashing to the street. He pushed until it landed again on all four wheels, then followed Lennier into the sky.
On her next breath, Gabby saw the empty driver’s box.
In the center of the street, a sprawled body.
“Nolan!”
He stirred and moaned, his cheek flat against the street. Gabby ran to his side as Vander’s horse closed in.
She turned Nolan onto his back. “Are you badly hurt?”
He groaned again. Blood seeped from gashes on his forehead and lip, and his coat was torn at the shoulder.