“The Directorate wants every dossier Nolan and I have on the Dusters here in Paris. The files we’ve been gathering on every demon-marked human, every stranger I’ve spotted with dust.”
She finished quickly with her stocking and slid to the edge of the table. “How many files do you have?”
“Nearly fifty,” he answered. “Nolan keeps them in his room here. Some have just addresses and physical descriptions; others have names. Many are Constantine’s students, but there are many more who aren’t. We’ve been keeping an eye on them when we can.”
The old Ingrid would have accepted her first, optimistic theory right away: that the Directorate must plan to protect these Dusters somehow, either from Axia or from the gargoyles’ picking them off one by one. Her time with the Alliance and the Dispossessed had made her skeptical, however, and a second, far less optimistic theory chilled her.
“They’re afraid of the Dusters,” she said. The Directorate had wanted Ingrid dead so that Axia couldn’t reclaim her blood and come here, to Earth. Now that she’d succeeded, the only way to cut off Axia’s power was to take away her army.
“I think the Directorate’s idea of securing Paris is to get rid of the Dusters, yes. And I think the troops arriving tomorrow have orders to do just that.” Vander uncrossed his arms and braced himself against the table. His arms bracketed Ingrid’s body.
“I don’t trust them, not after what Carrick confessed, and especially not after that assassin.”
“But they wouldn’t kill us,” Ingrid said, then immediately felt na?ve. “I mean, they tried to kill me, but they wouldn’t kill all of us. Would they?”
Vander hung his head. His back and ribs expanded with a deep breath.
“When we take our Alliance oaths, we vow to protect the human race against the Underneath despite personal risk, and to accept the necessity for small sacrifices in favor of the greater good.” Vander lifted his head, looking as if he wanted to say something more. Give her some further explanation. Ingrid didn’t require it.
“Sacrificing Axia’s seedlings would protect humankind,” she said. Like thinning out a garden row of vegetable sprouts. Leave all the seedlings in and the row will grow wild and unmanageable, the plants stunted. Pull out half of the seedlings and the other half will have room to thrive.
Vander pushed off the table and stood straight, tall enough for Ingrid to have to crane her neck to watch his reaction. She wanted him to deny her theory, but he didn’t.
He cupped her cheek, his fingers pressing against her skin with urgent determination. “They already know where to find you, so you can’t be at the rectory when they arrive in Paris.”
Ingrid tried to shake her head, but he took hold of her other cheek and stilled her.
“I could send you to my uncle’s home in Vichy, or you could join Gabby in London—”
“I won’t leave. I can’t. What about Grayson?”
“I’ll find him tonight and let him know what’s happening.”
And what about Luc? Ingrid closed her eyes. She didn’t want to leave Paris, not even to save her own skin. She felt as tied to the city as Luc was. If he couldn’t leave, neither should she.
“I know you only want to protect me,” she said, looking up at Vander again. “But I won’t run.”
He didn’t appear surprised by her defiance, only thoroughly vexed.
Just then the door to the medical room swung in on its hinges and Hans, the new Paris faction leader, rushed in. He took in the sight of Vander, whose hands were belatedly coming away from Ingrid’s face, with only mild interest. He shifted his intense, searching glare behind them, toward the corner of the room.
“Where is it?” Hans barked, and started toward the back corner.
Ingrid hoisted herself from the table and turned to follow Hans’s rigid figure.
“Where is what?” Vander asked.
“Enough, Burke. I want the blood.”
Hans stopped at the squat refrigerated cabinet set in the corner. Ingrid stared at the padlocked zinc doors. She’d completely forgotten about the blood samples that Vander and Nolan had been storing.
“I’m handing it over to the Directorate representative tomorrow,” Vander replied, plainly discontented to be doing so.
They wanted the Duster files and the leftover angel blood?
“Show it to me,” Hans demanded, still strung tight as an acrobat’s wire. “I want to see it.”
Vander took slow steps toward the cabinet, which only seemed to grate on Hans’s nerves. Ingrid followed him, just as curious.
“What’s going on, Hans?” he asked, even more slowly reaching into his waistcoat pocket for the key Ingrid knew he kept there.
Hans didn’t reply. He stood aside and waited while Vander crouched to unlock the zinc doors, which opened to a plume of cold white vapor.
The blood stores, the three frosted glass containers, were gone.