“The rumor is that gargoyles are doing this,” Léon said as they came upon the busy Champs-élysées.
Grayson hadn’t met many gargoyles, but he couldn’t imagine Luc would have anything to do with killing Dusters. If Marco had not become bound to Ingrid, the Wolf might have developed an appetite for Duster blood. Not now, though. Yann, a griffin chimera that had attempted to kill Grayson once, couldn’t be trusted. He’d been Lennier’s comrade and likely still craved retaliation against Gabby.
“If that’s the case, we’re bird bait,” Grayson muttered. Léon huffed a laugh.
“But if you had your dust like you should …,” he said, not needing to finish his thought.
Grayson stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped around an ankle-deep puddle of slushy gutter water.
“I want to be human, Léon.”
Léon was the only one who knew about Grayson’s meetings with Vander. The other Dusters he’d gotten to know through Constantine’s lessons were like Léon—practically proud of their demon dust. They acted as if they felt special instead of just strange. They didn’t understand how the blood ate away at Grayson.
“You cannot be, mon ami,” Léon replied softly.
Grayson hadn’t told his friend about Vander’s latest theory or the blood test. If it worked … if Vander’s blood could cancel out Grayson’s demon blood, even if for a little while … it could be the answer to everything.
They crossed the boulevard and Grayson turned left, heading toward Place de la Concorde. Léon drew to a stop.
“Are you not coming back to the room?” he asked. “Pierce and the others are meeting us there soon.”
He and Léon had moved into a crummy little place on the left bank a few blocks away from the Eiffel Tower and the mass of exposition buildings erected around the Champs de Mars. It was one room, with no running water and a single brazier for heat, but without funds, it was the best the two of them were able to afford. Their Duster friends preferred the place to their own homes, considering most of them still lived with their families.
“In a while,” Grayson answered. A ball of nervous energy tightened in his stomach. “I need to try to find someone.”
He felt slightly guilty that it wasn’t Ingrid. However, Vander was about to meet with her anyway. Fresh out of dust, Grayson didn’t want to waste any time. Ingrid and Mama had not been the only people he’d been avoiding. Or missing.
“The Alliance girl,” Léon guessed.
Grayson’s smile came involuntarily. “Her name is Chelle.”
Léon rolled his eyes. “I know her name, you fool. You talk about her even when you sleep.”
“I do not,” Grayson said, but Léon was too busy laughing.
“You are like one of Shakespeare’s plays. All tragic and star-crossed and depressing. She does not even like you, mon ami.”
Léon was right about that. Chelle didn’t like him. There had been one moment, though, when she’d seemed as if she might be softening toward him. A moment when, if Grayson had possessed the nerve, he might have kissed her. But that was before he’d confessed to ripping out a girl’s throat back in London.
Chelle was going to skewer him. He still had to see her, though: her clenched jaw and dark, flashing eyes. He yearned to hear her impertinent voice commanding him to go away.
“You are going to humiliate yourself,” Léon said.
Grayson shoved him hard enough to send him into one of the icy gutter pools. Léon swore in French, still laughing.
“I know I am, but I’m tired of looking at your sorry face all the time,” he called, racing away before Léon could counterattack.
Léon waved in surrender, kicking his legs and shaking out his soaked trousers and shoes. As they parted ways, Grayson swallowed the urge to turn around and walk back to the shabby room with his friend. It would be easier than seeing Chelle. But if he could control himself this time with Chelle, perhaps he’d try stopping by the rectory soon.
Ingrid didn’t need him. She was safe with Marco and Vander. But he needed her. And he needed to prove that he could be the Grayson she remembered and trusted.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Champs de Mars didn’t usually look this way. At least, that was what Vander was telling Ingrid as they strolled down the crushed-gravel esplanade toward the iron behemoth that was the Eiffel Tower. Vander, who stood more than an arm’s length from Ingrid, gestured to the palatial three-story buildings surrounding them.