Luc had been brooding behind Nolan and Gabby until then. “If the net fails or if it misses its mark, we can’t protect you. We can’t fight an angel.”
Vander took a sidelong glance at Luc. “It won’t miss its mark,” he said. “Not if I’m shooting it.”
Knowing Vander would be aiming the crossbow reassured Ingrid like nothing else could have.
Rory, who had remained silent and watchful, finally spoke. “Ye can’t approach her alone. She’d be suspicious of that.”
“I will not assign any of my men to guide you into this suicide mission,” Hans said to her. “Entering a boxed-in space such as the Champs de Mars with those buildings built up around it now would be like walking into a gladiators’ arena.”
Benjamin and Nadia ignored Hans’s declaration and made one of their own.
“We can stay out of sight but within earshot,” Nadia said, with Benjamin adding, “Should you require it.”
Ingrid nodded her gratitude while trying not to look at Luc and the muscles clenching along his jaw. His disapproval burned.
“I do not want you to do this, Ingrid,” Mama said. Soft lines fanned her eyes and lips as she frowned. “However, I trust your instinct. If you think this will work …”
Ingrid wished she could say something different to reassure her, but she didn’t like to lie. “I don’t know if it will.”
Mama absently patted her skirts and found Marco with her steady gaze. “You will keep her safe.”
Marco looked at Ingrid’s mother as if he’d never seen her before. Two vertical lines creased the skin between his brows as he frowned. “I will,” he said, and with a glance at the gargoyle at his side, added, “As will Luc.”
Mama pursed her lips, her hands stilling over her dark plum lace overlay. “Mr. Rousseau is not my daughter’s gargoyle.”
Ingrid crossed a look with Luc. His grimace was enough to pierce her. She was certain that her mother’s disdain hurt him as much as it did her.
“Let’s just say he’s self-appointed,” Marco replied.
Hathaway rested his hands on the handles of his swords, sheathed at his hips. “One vial, Miss Waverly. Hans will accompany your outing to the Champs de Mars and bear witness to the diffuser net display.”
Hans, utterly galled, speared the Directorate leader with a mutinous glare as Hathaway went on. “I don’t wish failure upon this harebrained scheme of yours. I just think it very unlikely to succeed.”
What to say to that? Hathaway was a cold man, but he was probably correct.
Hugh coughed to break the clouding tension and extended his hand to Ingrid. “Then it’s settled. Come, Miss Waverly. I believe you have some blood to collect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The blue-white-and-red-uniformed French Imperial Guard officers surrounded the Champs de Mars. As Grayson and the other Dusters approached the main exhibition halls from avenue de la Bourdonnais, the police did not open fire or attempt in any fashion to stop their small group from passing through the arched entryways that led to the enclosed esplanade. They simply backed up, staring at them while clutching their issued rifles and sabers. Grayson figured the enormous hellhounds flanking them were the primary reason for that.
The police had most likely already discovered that their bullets did not stop the beasts. If only they had known about blessed silver, Grayson thought as they traversed the long entryway. The seams the Alliance had sewn so tightly around their secret world had finally split. The mess wasn’t something Grayson could wrap his mind around just then. The only thing he could allow himself to think about was Axia and his plan to bring her to her knees.
He’d wanted this confrontation, he reminded himself upon entering the esplanade. He had cleared the line of trees, their limbs barely budding, and could now view the entire length of the Champs de Mars. To the left were the ornate fountains of the Chateau d’Eau and the glass ceilings of the Palace of Electricity, visible just behind the chateau. To the right, farther down the esplanade, stood the Eiffel Tower. Everywhere in between, along the wide gravel walk and the thin strips of snow-dusted grass, were swarms of demons and Dusters. The Dusters stood in tight clusters, the demons circling them. And not just hellhounds. Close to him, a thick, squat black beetle the size of a miniature pony scuttled back and forth in front of a group of six or so Dusters. The beetle’s long antennae crackled with blue spits of electricity. Bands of it reached from one antenna to the other, licking back and forth in constant bursts of light. It was a lectrux, he assumed, and the Dusters it was fencing in were a mixture of boys and girls. They were filthy and haggard, and their fear was so real Grayson could practically taste it.
The boy with the mop of red hair who had approached Grayson with the others on rue de Berri nudged him.