There were two of them this time. He breathed in their musky odor and his skin shivered like horseflesh throwing off flies. This was it. At least Chelle wasn’t there to see it happen.
Grayson ducked farther into the shadowy alley and arched his back. Letting go didn’t hurt. It felt good. It was a release, like taking off shoes that pinched, or wet, cold clothing. As his body fell forward, muscle and bone shifting and moving like liquid into their rightful places, Grayson heard what the hellhounds wanted.
Come with us. Mistress says it is time.
Grayson kept his eyes on the sleek, pale fur of his bulging paws, each one easily the size of a Christmas ham. He smelled things he hadn’t before: the wet limestone of the buildings shouldering him, the rotting carcass of a roast fowl in a row of metal trash cans, a sickly sweet rose perfume drifting from an open window above.
His mistress wanted him, and he had a sudden urge to acquiesce. Like an undertow, it sucked and pulled, making him want to roll over and submit. It was nearly as strong as the urge to shift, and just as hard to resist. But Grayson could resist. If he tried hard enough, he could.
No, he thought. Immediately, the apprehension of the other two hellhounds crept inside Grayson. He looked up and saw their cloudy brown shapes and glowing coal eyes. They were nothing but bond servants. Dogs to be commanded. They had no thoughts of their own, no needs or desires or goals except for those of their mistress.
Grayson was different. He saw that now. He had changed form, but if he tried he could keep his human side intact. He was willing to bet Axia hadn’t anticipated that.
She wanted Grayson to lead her hounds. She’d given him this curse at birth. She’d made him what he was. From the first breath he’d ever taken to this one right now, Axia had designed him to belong to her.
He breathed in and realized even angels made mistakes.
If Axia wanted Grayson to lead her hounds, he could do just that. Just as Axia wished, he could be their master.
But she would not be his.
You will serve me, Grayson thought, and took a bold plunge toward the two creatures. He didn’t have Luc at his side this time. He didn’t need him. The hellhounds backed off, letting out thin whines. Their eyes lowered toward the pavement and they crouched in submission.
Grayson craned his furred neck to see out into the wide boulevard. Ingrid would be passing by soon. What better way to help her than with a couple of Axia’s pets at his beck and call?
“I’m going in.”
Gabby slid back against the eight-foot brick wall enclosing the Daicrypta grounds just before one of the four muscled guards would have seen her peeking through the iron bars of the front gates. The building was a small medieval-looking palace atop the butte of Montmartre, and it seemed appropriately fortified.
“No, you are not,” Nolan said. He stood at the curb, rubbing his hand over one of his hastily bandaged wrists. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the way to Montmartre. The few times Gabby had tried to capture his attention, he’d looked away from her, his jaw set.
“My sister is inside, and we have no idea where Luc is,” Gabby argued, her voice hushed.
Yann had shifted into human form long enough to explain that a demon—not Luc—had snatched Ingrid into the air, and that Marco had gone after it. Ingrid and Marco had arrived safely at the Daicrypta, Yann later reported, and had been led inside. Vander had been chastising himself ever since. The mimic demon had been posing as Luc, and Vander had not known. The mimic’s dust had been a shade of light blue, like a gargoyle’s.
“I agree with Nolan. You should not go inside. Besides, Marco is with her,” Chelle said. She and Rory had joined the caravan as it had wended up the hilly eighteenth arrondissement, but so far, they hadn’t met Grayson. Gabby couldn’t worry about him just then. She was far too preoccupied worrying about Ingrid.
“Marco is not Luc,” Gabby said. It was an obvious statement, and she wasn’t sure the others would understand what she meant by it. She wasn’t entirely sure she did.
Luc had protected all of them at one point or another, but it was Ingrid he preferred. Gabby had known it from the beginning, and she was certain she hadn’t been the only one, human or gargoyle, to see it. Within the branches of the leafless trees lining the street were two sets of gleaming eyes. Watching. Waiting for someone to say more about Luc and his human girl.
Gabby kept her lips pressed together.
Vander had his crossbow loaded and ready at his side. The closest streetlamp, hanging from a curlicue of iron ten yards away, gave off clouds of yellow steam. Vander’s eyes shone with purpose.
“I’m going in with you,” he said.