“Ye shouldna be here alone wi’ him,” Rory said softly, though not so softly that Hugh and Carver could not hear.
“I pose no threat to her—romantically or otherwise,” Hugh said, and Gabby knew what he said was true. He wouldn’t harm her, and he had not shown a glimmer of interest in her the way other men might have. Well, before her accident, at least.
Rory took a tentative glance over his broad shoulder, toward Hugh. The two locked stares, neither of them speaking. They seemed to be reaching some sort of silent understanding, Gabby observed, though she wasn’t sure what it was. She just knew it was time to leave. Before Rory or Carver, who remained in the doorway, his face pinched in disgust at the demon hunter, lost his temper.
“Good day, Mr. Dupuis,” Gabby said, her breath rushed. She hadn’t removed her cloak or gloves to begin with, so all she had to do was head for the door.
She heard Rory fall into step behind her, and with a brief look up at Carver, she darted into the hallway, toward the foyer, and outside into the brisk Belgravia air.
“That was foolish, laoch,” Rory said as soon as the front door had shut behind them. “Ye should ha’ told me where ye were goin’.”
“You would have never allowed me to go,” she replied.
He stopped her from taking another step down the sidewalk with a hand on her elbow. Then he tugged her to face him.
“I ain’t yer keeper, Gabby. If ye wanted to go, all ye had to do was tell me.”
She didn’t quite know what to say. All of a sudden she felt incurably childish and embarrassed.
“Oh.”
He crinkled his forehead and grinned. “No more sneakin’ about, then?”
She shook her head. “No more sneaking about.” They walked side by side for another few moments before Gabby asked, “How did you know where to find me?”
Rory ducked under the overreaching branches of a holly hedge. “Nolan told me that if ye went off and did somethin’ reckless, to think of the one place I knew ye shouldna be.”
Imagining Nolan advising Rory like this made her slightly giddy. However, the feeling crashed before it could buoy her up. She didn’t want to talk of Nolan, or even think of him. She didn’t want to think of the nets, either, and how her one hope for them had, after just a quarter hour, been snuffed out.
Perhaps she truly was too far away to be of any use after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The abbey vaults were the only part of the church that had not yet undergone drastic changes. As Grayson led Chelle into one of the larger spaces in the underground level, he smelled the cold stone of the walls and columns, which split the vaults into domed rooms, much like a piece of honeycomb. He scented the musty air, long trapped beneath the abbey, and the faint tang of rotting wood. But that was it. For the first time, he couldn’t scent Chelle’s blood.
The mersian blood injection had worked. Vander’s blood had somehow rubbed out everything: the ability to smell blood, the disgusting thirst for it. The aching, itching urge to shift into hellhound form. It was better even than dust reduction. He felt like himself again. He felt happy. So happy, in fact, that he was actually looking forward to Chelle’s teaching him how to wield a blessed silver sword.
Grayson stopped within a large domed space. There was a solid wall of stone behind him, and three arches in front and on either side, leading out into the maze of vaults. He set the glass lantern in a beehive-shaped niche in the wall and then turned to Chelle. He spread out his arms.
“I am yours to command,” he quipped, earning from her a suspicious—yet good-humored—glare.
“You sound strange,” she said, setting the lantern she had been carrying in another one of the alcoves.
“I feel strange. Strangely wonderful,” he replied.
This time, Chelle actually smiled wide enough that he saw the slim gap between her two front teeth.
“Should I ask why?” She shook her head. “Never mind. We have work to do.”
She had arrived with a long, hard-sided case. She placed it carefully on the floor now and undid the latch.
Meeting at H?tel Bastian would not have been too risky—the idea of Chelle’s teaching Grayson how to protect himself with a sword wouldn’t have been far-fetched, especially with the sense of subdued panic and focused preparation among the Alliance fighters now that the Roman troops and Directorate representatives were en route to Paris. However, Grayson had thought it wiser to avoid Alliance headquarters altogether. He imagined that if Chelle’s plan to attack and destroy offending Chimeras was discovered, the consequences would be severe.
Grayson had suggested the vaults, which were quiet, private, and safe. And he didn’t mind having Chelle all to himself for a little while, either.