Every time Vander absorbed hellhound dust, he would take on some hellhound symptoms of his own. He’d been stoic about it at first but had eventually admitted to being able to smell the unmistakable tang of blood. And to feeling a thirst, too, Vander had said. Or perhaps it was hunger. He hadn’t been able to decide which. Grayson didn’t wish his symptoms on anyone, but he hadn’t been able to refuse Vander’s generosity.
He’d been sitting on the steps of rue Foyatier in Montmartre when Vander had found him. A bracing February wind had been rushing up the stone steps, cooling Grayson’s temper after his first visit to Monsieur Constantine’s chateau. Léon, another Duster, had convinced him to try at least one session. It hadn’t been so awful, Grayson admitted, until Constantine had started asking for details about what had happened the month before, in that Daicrypta courtyard in Montmartre. Why in the world had Grayson imagined he could command two hellhounds? The hounds had wound up killing Nolan Quinn’s father, and Grayson was to blame.
Rather than answer Constantine, he’d left Clos du Vie, and in the dark, Grayson had shifted into hellhound form. He’d run along the perimeter of Paris before sneaking down into the eighteenth arrondissement. Vander tracked Grayson’s dust from the Cimetière de Montmartre, where he had been dispatching a possessed cadaver. After promising not to tell Ingrid that he’d found him, Vander had offered to take some of Grayson’s dust. After one full day of smelling only air and not blood, of not feeling the slightest urge to change into his demon form, Grayson had gone to the rue Foyatier steps again. He’d hoped Vander would come. He had.
Vander buttoned his cuffs now and glanced up at him. “I wish you’d let me tell her.”
Grayson stood by the closed door. He slid his arms into his jacket even though he was still sweltering. A ten-degree hike in body temperature was considered normal when one was half hellhound.
“I’m not ready,” he said, his voice soft. “Not yet.”
“She misses you.”
“And I miss her.” The muscles along his shoulders tensed. He didn’t care for this part of his meetings with Vander. Today, the guilt cut more sharply than usual.
“She was under that bridge this morning looking for you,” Vander said, standing up. He’d told Grayson about the attack while he’d been absorbing his hellhound dust. “She was going to go into the sewers. You know what could have happened to her in there.”
Grayson rubbed his palm over his cheek and tamped down the urge to give in—to go back home to Ingrid and Mama at the rectory. He didn’t want to stay away. He was doing it to keep them safe. For the past few weeks, Vander had been taking the edge off Grayson’s urges, but the effects were temporary. They always came back. Sometimes it happened slowly, over the course of one or two days. Other times they rushed back like an ocean tide after less than twelve hours. He was a mess of sporadic hunger and guilt, of hope and injured pride. He couldn’t control his demon half without Vander’s help, and in all honesty, Grayson didn’t trust himself yet.
“Are you sure she wasn’t hurt?” Grayson asked.
“I haven’t seen her yet, but Nolan said there’s not a scratch on her.” Vander had been acting cool toward him today, and this was the reason. He didn’t know where Grayson and Léon had been living, but he wanted permission to at least tell Ingrid that her twin was safe. Grayson knew his sister, though. She’d push for more information. He also knew Vander was too far gone in love with Ingrid to put up a decent fight—he’d give in and tell her everything.
When Grayson remained quiet, Vander let out an irritated breath and took his coat from one of the wall pegs.
“I’m meeting Ingrid in twenty minutes,” he said, shrugging into his long, faded winter coat. Even if Vander had money, Grayson didn’t think he’d spend it on a new coat or suit. For a brief moment, he thought of his father, Lord Brickton, and what the stuffy old goat’s expression would be if he learned his daughter was planning to marry a poor reverend.
Not that Vander had proposed yet.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want to meet anymore,” Grayson said as Vander crouched to slide a long, narrow trunk out from under his bed. “I know it isn’t easy for you to keep secrets from Ingrid or to feel what I normally feel because of this damn blood.”
Vander twirled the small dial of a lock set into the trunk. Left, right, then left again. The hinges sighed their release.
“I want to help you, Grayson.” The trunk opened to reveal an impressive collection of blessed silver weaponry nestled in form-fitting velvet cushions of midnight blue. Vander removed the hand crossbow he usually wore underneath his coat, two silver darts, and a light rapier.
“Besides, I don’t exactly mind recovering from our meetings,” he added with a wry grin.
His “recovery” involved seeing Ingrid and entering into her dust field just enough to drown out the hellhound symptoms. Lectrux abilities were apparently much easier to live with.
“Where are you meeting?” Grayson asked.