Vander nodded. If they knew one another, they must have been Constantine’s students. Ingrid had kept her sessions private, though she was never alone. Marco was usually there, or Vander.
“I wonder if they know Léon,” Ingrid murmured as one of the group’s members said something the others found amusing. The arachnae Duster had been the last person with whom Ingrid had seen her brother. Constantine, claiming a duty to protect student privacy, refused to tell her whether Grayson and Léon were still in contact. A simple no wouldn’t have violated any sort of privacy, which led her to believe the two young men were.
“There are scores of Dusters in Paris, Ingrid,” Vander said, crossing in front of her.
“And yet it’s a small community,” she countered, stepping aside so she could view the Dusters once again. They were walking as a group toward an arcade that would take them out of the Champs de Mars.
Ingrid slipped around Vander’s shoulder and started after them.
“The likelihood that they know Léon is slim,” Vander said, falling in after her. “Even slimmer that they know Grayson.”
Her brother had shunned lessons with Constantine before, but would he have completely segregated himself from others like him? She didn’t think so. If she could find Léon, she believed she would find her twin as well.
“Wouldn’t you agree that following them is safer than scouring the sewers?” Ingrid asked as she came upon the arcaded exit walkway between two exposition buildings. The group had crossed the street just beyond, and she picked up her speed. Vander easily kept up with her, but she could sense his discontent. She didn’t understand why he was so against approaching some fellow Dusters. All he needed to do was explain that he, like Monsieur Constantine, was able to view demon dust, and then Ingrid would simply ask if they knew another Duster named Léon, or perhaps Grayson.
She and Vander trailed the group across avenue de la Bourdonnais and up rue de Grenelle. They gained on them but couldn’t catch up completely. Unless, of course, Ingrid wanted to break into a sprint—something her cornflower-blue cotton walking dress, coutil corset, and heeled boots simply would not allow.
They had nearly come within shouting distance of the group when one of the young men opened a door set next to a fromagerie on rue Amélie. It would lead up to the apartments above the shop, Ingrid knew. The group filed inside, one by one.
Vander snagged Ingrid’s elbow, drawing her to a halt. He instantly let go, however, having consumed too much of her dust already.
“And if they do know Léon? If they can lead you to Grayson?” Vander pressed. He let out a pent-up breath as a bicyclist and his attached rickshaw cut by along the narrow street, the tires sliding uneasily along the slushy stones. “He’s part hellhound, Ingrid. He thirsts for blood. That can’t be easy for him to accept. Maybe he just needs more time.”
Did Vander not think she knew this? That she hadn’t considered all this and more, and that it was why she had allowed five weeks to pass without a single inquiry on her part?
“And has anyone—even Grayson—considered that perhaps I need my brother?”
She turned on her heel and approached the door, breathing in the ripe odor of the cheese shop. She needed to make her family whole again. For herself, for Mama, and for Gabby, who waited impatiently in London for news.
Vander didn’t stop her from opening the door, or from taking the first few steps up the stairwell that immediately presented itself. A scream split the air and Ingrid froze. Vander’s hand circled her wrist. A second scream and then a panicked shout sounded from the upper floors. Something heavy crashed, and more thuds and screams followed. The sounds spiraled down the stairwell, straight into Ingrid and Vander.
They rushed up the steps, their feet pounding the worn tile. Vander moved with rapidity and ease, while Ingrid dragged her short train and wheezed for air. Chelle’s trousers made complete sense right then.
The screaming ceased, but Vander and Ingrid continued to wind their way up three flights of stairs, past closed doors, the apartments likely empty of their residents during this weekday afternoon.
As Ingrid caught up to Vander, he held out his arm. The door at the top of the steps was wide open.
“Dust,” Vander rasped. “Not theirs.”
“A demon?” she asked.