“We don’t ask, then,” Grayson said. “We make them talk to us. We make them stop.”
“Mr. Burke is correct,” Constantine said. The words only spiked Grayson’s temperature. “To attack a gargoyle would be to incite a war. It is more important right now to focus on Axia and what her first move might be.”
The room was too hot, the air too thick. Grayson knew better than to utter another word, to shout that they clearly had more than one enemy to concern themselves with. He grabbed his coat from the steel examination table and pushed past Constantine. Vander might have called his name, but Grayson’s pulse had started beating loud in his ears, like it usually did before a shift.
He bolted from the room so fast, eyes down, that he barreled straight into someone. A smaller someone. A girl.
He grabbed Chelle’s arms to keep from knocking her flat onto the floor. She bucked off his hands as if he’d insulted her by thinking she needed assistance. Before he could say a word, she held a finger to her lips to hush him. Chelle pointed over his shoulder and then proceeded around him, past the half-closed door to the medical room. She didn’t wait to see if Grayson was coming. The girl was smart. She knew he’d follow her anywhere.
As he fell into step behind her, Grayson took stock of himself. He’d never come down from an urge to shift so quickly. Seeing Chelle had doused the anger and the heat better than any of Constantine’s mind tricks. Or perhaps it was the mersian blood already taking effect.
They ascended a spiraling staircase. The metal clanged under his feet, but not hers. She stepped quietly, as if she wore slippers instead of army boots. He let himself smile, thankful she wasn’t peering over her shoulder to see it. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Chelle had actually missed him this past month. She wasn’t a girl to pine. But having her trim waist and the flare of her trousers right in front of his face as they climbed the steps made him happy.
“Where are we going?” he whispered as they came to the top of the stairwell.
Chelle glanced over her shoulder. “I was listening to your conversation with the old man and Vander.”
“Eavesdropping seems rather sneaky for someone as frank as you,” he replied.
Chelle stopped at a pair of double pocket doors. His heart thundered when she shot him a playful scowl.
“I prefer to call it being pragmatic,” she said, rolling the pocket doors aside.
Automatically, the overhead lightbulbs inside the room—which was about the size of the rectory’s front sitting room and dining room combined—flickered on. They clicked and hummed, growing brighter as Grayson followed Chelle inside. For a moment, he forgot the pretty girl standing in front of him, blinded as he was by all the silver hanging upon the walls.
Swords, daggers, blades of every shape and size and purpose, all fastened to the room’s four walls in orderly rows. The silver, polished to perfection, reflected the electric light as well as a mirror would have.
“I’m willing to bet this is a demon hunter’s favorite room,” Grayson said, turning his gaze back on Chelle. He’d never seen her with any weapons other than her hira-shuriken—flat silver disks edged with sharp, curved teeth. She never failed to send those throwing stars through the air with unbelievable dexterity and precision. As if he needed any more reasons to adore her.
Chelle rolled back onto her heels and crossed her arms over her chest, gazing upon the displays of weaponry. She wasn’t well endowed, but Grayson never gave that part of her much thought. He liked how small she was, and more than once had imagined how her body might fit against his.
“It is an essential room,” she replied.
“And why are you showing it to me?” he asked. There was no point in trying to charm Chelle. Better to be direct.
She responded by walking toward a waist-high shelf running along the wall to the right. The shelf, enclosed by locked glass lids, resembled a jeweler’s display case. Grayson followed her. The case held another assortment of weapons. Daggers, swords, crossbow bolts, and even a few hira-shuriken. He noticed the sheen—dull pewter instead of reflective silver—and knew what they were.
“These are mercurite dipped,” Grayson said. He’d learned from Léon and Monsieur Constantine that the Alliance had these weapons. First dipped in mercurite and then heated over flames to seal and harden the coating, a weapon like any of these would be able to debilitate a gargoyle. Kill it, if need be.
“The Chimera caste is behind the Duster murders,” Chelle said. She’d overheard Constantine.
“Why just one caste?” Grayson asked. He hadn’t thought of the question before now.
She leaned a hip against the shelf, a real scowl set upon her lips this time. “One of the Chimeras wants to be elder, and this is his show of power and leadership.”
It wasn’t speculation. Chelle’s answer sounded confident.
“How do you know?”