“I’d rather die than become one of your pets.” As soon as he’d spoken the words, he felt as though a door had slammed behind him. He’d crossed over some threshold. Some understanding within himself. There would be no turning back.
The black wings of another corvite circled over Axia’s head, and then the demon bird’s claws settled on the soft mound of golden curls draped over her shoulders. The bird growled. Axia canted her head just enough to hint that whatever the demon had said had been significant.
She twitched her shoulder and the corvite flew off.
“Grayson Waverly, while I am as dissatisfied with you as I am with my mersian seedling, I see no reason to weed you out yet.”
She took a few steps to the left and angled herself toward him, as if to impart some confidence. “I can remove your demon blood just as easily as I bequeathed it.”
Grayson stilled. The pure hatred he’d felt for Axia slipped. He felt something he hadn’t since she’d taken him to her hive before: reliance. A knowledge that he was a prisoner, had always been a prisoner, and that she had always been the gatekeeper. She was telling him this for a reason. To Grayson, it sounded curiously like the beginning of a bargain.
“Why would you do that?” he asked. “Don’t you need your seedlings for this war of yours?”
Her radiant skin was difficult to look at. It produced the same abrasive glare the surface of a pond did at sunset.
“I require obedient seedlings,” she answered, and continued with a loose sweep of her hand. “As you can see, I have many here. Many more will come. You say you would rather die than become my pet?”
Axia tacked to the right and stepped directly in front of Grayson. He cradled the barrel of the needle in his pocket and slipped his fingers into the twin holes of the plunger. She was close. But close enough? He eyed the hellhounds on either side of her, knowing if he made his move now, the hounds would rip into him. The tremor of his wrist did nothing to inspire courage. He would rather die than become her pet, but that didn’t exactly mean he wanted to die.
He stayed quiet, hoping she would continue without his answer. She did.
“Tell me, Grayson Waverly.” Axia said. “Who else would you so willingly sacrifice?”
Gabby ran her hand down the velvety blaze of one of Constantine’s bay mares. The stables were quiet and warm, drenched in late-afternoon sunlight. She hadn’t been able to take pacing the library, or any other room in the chateau. Ingrid and the others had left for the Champs de Mars a half an hour before, and only Gabby, Constantine, Hathaway, and Lady Brickton remained at Clos du Vie. Mama had even formally accepted Clos du Vie as her home, absolving Marco from any need to leave Ingrid’s side.
Nolan had pulled Gabby aside while the others had been loading into the carriages and Luc and Marco had been preparing behind one of the conveyances to coalesce into true form. He hadn’t pleaded with her to stay at Constantine’s. He hadn’t reminded her how dangerous walking into Axia’s new hive was going to be. Gabby had seen his request in his eyes, had felt it in the glide of his fingers along her scarred cheek. He’d kissed her in front of everyone—even Mama—before jumping into the driver’s box of Vander’s wagonette.
The bay mare in the warm stables snuffled and stomped one of its hind legs. Gabby nearly laughed. She felt like making the same complaint.
“It’s not fun being left behind, is it?” she asked, rubbing the mare’s snout once more before leaving her be.
Gabby had worn her cloak but had removed it, her Prussian blue day dress warm enough for the gathered heat in the stables. Her cloak hung on a peg driven into a beam near the doors, and as she ambled along the weathered floorboards, hands clasped behind her back, she saw a glint of silver from within the folds of the cloak. She always kept the pommel of the sword Nolan had given her at a high polish, though it had been some time since she and Rory had last sparred.
Gabby crossed to the cloak, withdrew the sword, and as usual, admired the craftsmanship. Nolan would not have given it to her had he not believed that she would one day wield it well. Perhaps he was too protective, too coddling, but she also knew he was right. When she and Rory had come across the mollug demon on the London docks and Rory had simply handed her the diffuser net, expecting her to figure it out on her own, she’d been furious. And scared. She wasn’t ready yet. But she would be someday.