“Now who’s distracted, laoch?”
The lick of his sword hadn’t hurt, but it shamed her into making a forward thrust of her own. His blade clashed against hers, and they glided, their silver blades singing together as they circled each other. They were both grinning like fools. With every step Gabby took around the dry dock with Rory, the awful visit to Mirabelle’s faded, and her keen longing for Paris, her sister, and Nolan diminished—at least for the time being.
Rory’s smile, something he seemed to save for these practice sessions, wavered and then fell. He withdrew his blade from hers, and the loss of his equalizing pressure made Gabby stumble. He pivoted on his heel and faced the sliding warehouse door that he and Gabby had closed less than ten minutes before. It was open now.
“Show yerself,” Rory ordered.
Someone else was here? Gabby stepped to the side for a better view of the door. Rory’s sword slashed up and barred her.
“I thought you said this place was abandoned,” she whispered, worrying that they’d been caught trespassing.
“It is.”
A tickle of premonition ran along her spine and Gabby spun around. A man stood near the dry dock’s access point, his back to the mud-colored Thames. Rory pivoted again, holding his swords down and behind him, out of view. Gabby did the same.
“State yer business here,” Rory said. No questions. Just a command.
The man stood with arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked indignant, as if he had every right to be there. Perhaps this was private property after all.
The man moved out of the opening and onto the raised floor beside the slipway. Without the bright gray sky behind him, Gabby could better see his features. He had a light ginger beard and mustache, and he wore a clean suit. Nothing fine; rather, the plain cut of a house servant.
“I wanted to see the one who killed the Paris elder,” the man said. His eyes locked with Gabby’s.
Rory’s blades purred through the air as he brought them into view again. Gabby’s grip on her sword’s handle weakened, her breath suddenly short.
“Gargoyle,” she rasped, though only loud enough for Rory’s ears. He gave a slight nod.
This man was a Dispossessed. She’d known there would be gargoyles in London. The Alliance here had said they were on decent terms with the local Dispossessed. She just hadn’t met any of them yet.
“Now ye’ve seen her,” Rory replied coolly.
The gargoyle continued to look past Rory, his attention solely on Gabby.
“I’ve got more to say.” He looked and sounded as human and British as Gabby. But he wasn’t human. Not anymore. She knew that in less than five seconds, this man in front of her could shed his skin and become a massive and deadly beast.
“Then say it,” she said, regaining her grip on the smooth mother-of-pearl handle.
“It’s about Lady Ingrid Waverly and the attack on her this morning. I’ve had a communication from Marco, of the Paris Wolves.” Before either Gabby or Rory could ask how, he explained. “I had a territory in Paris once. Got reassigned back here, but we’re still in contact.”
Rory’s arms remained steady, his twin blades poised.
“He sent a warning for you not to return under any circumstances,” the gargoyle continued. “Your presence would only put your sister in more danger.”
Gabby had been Marco’s human for a mere forty-eight hours, and yet somehow he still knew she would wrestle with the notion of coming home. His foresight vexed and impressed her in equal measure.
“So yer saying the Paris Dispossessed still seek vengeance for what happened to Lennier?” Rory asked with a gloating, sidelong glance toward Gabby. She huffed and looked away, not liking that he’d been right earlier. Perhaps it would never be safe to return to Paris.
“Of course they do. If an Alliance member rubbed out our elder, we wouldn’t quit seeking vengeance.”
Gabby clenched her jaw. “I’m not Alliance.”
She wouldn’t bother trying to explain to this gargoyle that killing Lennier had been an accident. Her worst mistake ever. Lennier had helped her find Ingrid. He’d saved her from getting mangled in a carriage wreck, too. Lennier hadn’t deserved a dagger to the heart, and Gabby still felt sick with guilt every time she remembered the way he’d crashed like a stone to the earth, shedding his albino scales to adopt the flaccid and pale skin of an old man.
But what did this gargoyle care? He’d come to deliver a message. If he was anything like so many more of the Dispossessed, he’d rather wash his hands clean of humans entirely.
The gargoyle came around another beam, to the edge of the slipway. He pressed his light ginger brows together and looked down at her. “The blessed silver blade in your hand says differently. You hold that, and in our eyes, you’re Alliance.”
Rory finally lowered his swords. Gabby trusted his senses. If he believed this gargoyle wasn’t going to attack, then she would believe it as well.