She wanted Luc.
Ingrid turned her head toward the Seine to avoid Marco’s stare.
“I’m worried for Grayson, you know that,” she said. “I have to find him.”
“Human, your impatience is infuriating,” he growled, standing tall. “The only thing you’re going to find down there is a quick fissure straight to Axia’s hive.”
Ingrid let out a sigh and stood up. The crown of her head reached just below the starched points of his white collar. Marco wasn’t entirely wrong. She was certain there were plenty of fissures in the sewers that led to the Underneath. She was also certain that Axia, the fallen angel who had created all of the Dusters, had not forgotten about Ingrid and the angel blood still circulating through her veins. Axia wanted that blood back. It was hers, after all.
Axia had also given Ingrid and Grayson her angel blood at birth, unlike her other seedlings, thinking to safeguard it from the toxic Underneath should the Angelic Order ever banish her to that realm. After sixteen years, the angel blood had finally grown strong enough within the twins’ bodies for Axia to reclaim. With it, she could return to the human realm for something she called the Harvest. What that was, exactly, was still a mystery to Ingrid. It wouldn’t be good, that much she suspected.
Axia had already reclaimed Grayson’s angel blood. If she reclaimed Ingrid’s portion, she would be able to begin her Harvest.
“I’m not going to hide on sacred ground forever,” she said to Marco as she slipped her dagger back into her purse.
“And your brother isn’t going to come back to you until he is ready.”
Ingrid cinched her purse and curled her hands into fists at her sides. “He’s in trouble.”
Her brother’s hellhound blood had made him do horrible things. He’d killed a girl in London. Ingrid couldn’t imagine the guilt Grayson had to be suffering. What if he couldn’t live with it? What if he decided not to live with it?
“Think me cold and callous if you choose, but you are my human charge. He hasn’t been since he quit the rectory and started residing elsewhere,” Marco said. “I warn you: if you attempt to climb down that sewer hole again, I will strip off my clothes, coalesce, and fly you back to the abbey kicking and screaming. Trust me—you don’t want that.” His deadly serious gaze softened as he flashed his teeth. “Or perhaps you do. I am rather stunning when unclothed.”
Even poor light couldn’t hide her blush from his night vision. Marco picked up on the pinches of color and laughed.
“My mother should toss you out on your ear,” Ingrid said. “You are by far the worst butler I have ever met.”
Marco gestured toward the wide stone steps that led to the street. She groaned and reluctantly started walking toward them.
“Lady Brickton adores me,” Marco replied, following her. “And I am a marvelous butler.”
She supposed he was rather efficient. He had no excuse not to be, not with over four hundred years of various servant duties under his belt at his former territory. That didn’t mean Ingrid felt the need to praise him.
“Mama is terrified of you,” she said. Her mother knew what Marco was. She also knew that as the Dispossessed assigned to the abbey and rectory, he would not be going anywhere even should she dismiss him.
“Terrified is exactly how I prefer my humans,” he countered. “I need to work on finding a way to frighten you into obedience.”
“Threatening to remove your clothes was quite enough. I—” Ingrid’s retort fell silent on her lips as a man appeared at the top of the quay steps.
Since arriving under the bridge, she had only needed to pause for one vagrant who had shuffled by, wheeling along a wooden cart filled to the brim with his meager belongings. Ingrid had hidden in the shadows until he’d passed, the dark having been a much better veil a half an hour ago.
There was no avoiding this new stranger. The rising light cast him in shades of blues and purples, and Ingrid could tell by the cut of his trousers and heavy greatcoat that he was not some ragtag vagrant. She paused at the bottom of the steps, thinking to stand aside and allow him to descend first. This isn’t London, she reminded herself. This man wasn’t going to recognize her. Though she’d been in Paris for over four months, she wasn’t a true part of society here. No one but her mother would care that she was on a quay this early in the morning.
Marco stepped close behind Ingrid, his brawny chest brushing against her shoulders. Though he said nothing, she felt him rigid with menace as the stranger took the first few steps down.
“Relax,” she whispered, but at the tail end of her plea came a familiar sharp twang.