Nolan clapped a hand to his head. “Of course you are. Storming the castle in true Gawain fashion, are we?”
Rory, who had been quietly observing them as he leaned against the brick wall, now spoke. “Ye’re both acting on emotions. Look at it rationally—we’ve no idea about the innards of the building, how many guards or their positions, where they’ve been holding yer da, or where Ingrid’s been taken. The two of ye would be charging headfirst into disaster.”
Every word of that was true, and yet Rory’s caution only made Gabby more desperate to go inside. As reckless as it might be, at least she would be doing something. Sensing that the effect of his words had been the exact opposite of what he’d intended, Rory pushed off from the wall and came toward her.
“Laoch, I know what’s in yer heart.” He touched her gently, his hand a loose cuff around her wrist. Gabby stilled. “But making danger for yerself won’t help Ingrid or yer da.”
He held on to her. His stare demanded something that his touch didn’t. He wanted to know she understood.
“Then we need another way,” Gabby said.
Polished silver flashed at their side as Nolan withdrew his broadsword. Rory released Gabby’s arm abruptly and stepped back as two figures, cloaked in shadow, approached from across the quiet street.
“Who goes there?” Nolan called.
One of the figures held up his hands. In one hand was a cane.
“A friend,” Constantine replied in a hushed tone.
Nolan kept his sword steady. “And your companion?”
Vander brought his crossbow up. “A Duster.”
Constantine came closer, though the second person held back, reluctant.
“Léon,” Vander said.
Chelle, already with her hands at her red sash, took out two of her throwing stars. Rory moved with the same stealth, leaving only Gabby without a weapon in hand. She didn’t rush to follow their lead—instinct told her this Duster wasn’t a threat.
“Wait!” Léon mirrored Constantine and held his hands in surrender. His tall, lanky build made him seem younger than the rest of them somehow.
“The boy returned to me this evening.” Constantine laid a gloved hand on Léon’s knobby shoulder. “After hearing what he had to say about this place, I thought it wise to find you immediately. You cannot enter that building.”
Ice locked Gabby’s chest as solid as a winter harbor.
“Ingrid is already inside,” she replied.
And her father, though shouldn’t he have been released by now?
Léon put his hands down slowly. “Then you must get her out.”
Gabby’s thoughts exactly.
Nolan lowered the tip of his sword. “Which would require us to go in. Weren’t we just ominously told not to do that?”
“Léon has knowledge of the layout of rooms,” Constantine told them, ignoring Nolan’s sarcasm.
“And I know where they will be taking her,” Léon added.
“Time is of the essence, Mr. Quinn,” Constantine said.
Gabby turned to Nolan, who seemed to be contemplating an apt reply. Since when did he make all the decisions? This was her sister. Her family.
“Can we get in without being seen?” she asked Léon, wary of him and yet desperate enough to hope that he meant well. She didn’t know him. He had murdered his family. But he had tried to warn Grayson, and he was here now with another warning.
“It’s possible,” he replied, his haunted eyes drifting up toward the tangled branches of the nearby trees, where Lennier and Yann still hid, waiting. Léon jerked his chin. “Monsieur Constantine told me about them. He said we might need them, and he is right. We can’t do this without wings.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ingrid had expected the Daicrypta mansion to be just as inhospitable inside as it appeared on the outside. Judging from the blocky, weathered limestone complete with parapets and towers, she’d envisioned large, drafty halls, arched wooden doors, and torchlight.
She had not imagined what opened up before her now.
Ingrid stepped inside a carpeted guest chamber decorated with creamy silk wallpaper and drapes, fine beveled mirrors, potted palms, a slim writing desk and chair, and small-scale replicas of all six Lady and the Unicorn tapestries. The elegance of the room far surpassed that of her own at the rectory.
“I hope it’s suitable,” Carrick said as he entered behind her. Everything about the place had been alarmingly tranquil as they had wended their way to the second-level guest room.
Though Dupuis had not joined them, a number of disciples, as Constantine had called them, had come to stand in open doorways as Ingrid had gone past. They had stared at her with unabashed curiosity. They were picturing her blood, most likely. Wondering how it would look trapped in glass vials rather than in her veins.