Gabby cut the sword through the air and sank into a defensive crouch. Rotating on one heel, she spun and slashed the blade in a clean stroke, then, taking hold of the handle with both hands, practiced one of the offensive moves Rory had shown her. The sword was the perfect size and weight for her, showing yet again just how well Nolan knew her. Gabby imagined him with her, circling her as she thrust and cut, calling out instructions or correcting a blunder, his eyes sharp and his lips turned up in a mischievous smirk. He would be thinking about kissing her, no doubt. And she would chastise him for distracting her.
Gabby heard a soft thump as she punctured the air in front of her with the tip of the sword. She held still, her heart beating fast and making her breathing loud. The noise had sounded as if it came from overhead. She stood tall, her sword falling until the tip brushed along the hay-strewn floor.
Another thump came, this one louder than before. Something had landed on the roof. Gabby’s eyes drifted up. She stared at the beamed ceiling and the curved rafters and for a fleeting moment convinced herself it had only been a pair of birds.
Her throat felt unnaturally dry as she regripped the handle of her sword and eyed the doors. She’d shut them behind her to keep out the cold, but she hadn’t thrown the heavy wooden bolt into place. Instinct, base and immediate, urged her to hide. To duck into one of the empty stalls or climb into the hayloft. She imagined Nolan issuing another piece of advice: Trust your instinct, lass.
Gabby swung herself into the nearest stall just seconds before the stable doors crashed inward. They sounded as if they’d been blown open by a black-powder explosion. The stall belonged to the chestnut she’d been petting. Gabby retreated to a rear corner of the stall, the mare whinnying and stomping.
“I know you’re in here.”
Gabby’s stomach bottomed out at the sound of the canyon-deep voice that filled the stables.
“Did you believe I would forget?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a tremulous breath. The total silence allowed her to hear the soft rush of a gargoyle coalescing.
Yann had come for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Champs de Mars had been totally surrounded by armed citizens and the French Imperial Guard by the time Ingrid, Hugh, Nolan, and Rory had approached the exterior of the exhibition buildings. They’d come on foot, Luc having stopped the landau two blocks distant in an attempt to go unnoticed by Axia and her demons. He had argued, once again, against Ingrid’s leaving his side. And Ingrid had been reluctant to, as well. She couldn’t show her unease, however, considering the whole plan had been her idea.
Eventually, Luc and Marco had assented that they could not be part of Ingrid’s small party when she entered the Champs de Mars. The demons there would only trigger their impulse to coalesce and to shield Ingrid from danger, when danger was exactly what Ingrid needed to find. She needed to get close to Axia and distract her long enough for Vander to sight a clear shot from where he would be hiding with an unenthusiastic Hans.
A trio of uniformed military policemen stepped into their path, just in front of an arched entrance to the Champs de Mars.
“Vous n’avez pas permission d’entrer,” one of the policemen said, his eyes alighting on the vest of blades worn by Rory, who had left his coat purposely unbuttoned.
“Listen to me carefully,” Nolan said, his attention fixed on the flat roofline of the exhibition halls. “Bullets are useless against these creatures. You need silver blades, and you need to have them blessed.”
The trio of policemen glanced skeptically at one another, then back at Nolan and the broadsword he’d just drawn from his hip scabbard.
“Steel or iron won’t work. It has to be silver.”
The policeman switched to English. “And who are you?”
Nolan finished inspecting the roofline and met the man’s eyes. “Someone who has fought these things before and won. Let us through. We’re here to help.”
The absence of his ever-present sarcasm made Ingrid feel the sheer magnitude of what was to come. She wished for more confidence. She wished for the sputter of electricity beneath her skin. Instead, all she had was the erratic thumping of her pulse, a knot in the pit of her stomach, and a curious light-headedness as the policemen parted to allow them to pass. As she followed Nolan closely, Rory and Hugh behind her, she heard a man giving orders to search for silver weapons. Another was muttering a prayer for the souls walking toward their own deaths. Ingrid wished she hadn’t heard that part but praised herself for at least knowing more French than she used to.
The long, tunnel-like entrance took them past entrances to the exhibition halls and out into the esplanade, a rectangle closed in on three sides, the fourth capped by the Eiffel Tower. A fiery sunset glow, hazed by smoke and clouds of ash, pinked the white plaster fa?ade of the opulent Chateau d’Eau. The smokestack on the far right end of the Palace of Electricity, directly behind the chateau’s scalloped roofline, caught her attention. A gargoyle perched atop the stack. It was Marco, she realized, with a slight dip in her spirits. Luc would not have been able to fly up there without help. He couldn’t fly at all, and not for the first time, she wondered how he would get to her if she needed him.