The coil of tension along his shoulders and spine had returned that morning after two days of being absent, along with a riptide beneath his skin, swirling and sucking at him. His nose had become more sensitive as well. His mother had crossed the street to his new flat to see if he’d like to join them for breakfast, and he’d traced the barest scent of her blood as she’d knocked at his door. He’d accepted, though reluctantly, and he hadn’t had much more than a croissant and coffee before excusing himself. Being inside the rectory when the mersian blood wore off completely would not have been wise.
Grayson crossed the Pont des Invalides with his hands deep in his pockets, the collar of his coat up to block the wind. The elevated body temperature was the only thing he missed about having hellhound blood.
There was a minor problem in all of this: he would be dependent upon Vander Burke from here on out. He didn’t like it, but he’d manage it, if it meant keeping his demon side at bay. And who knew, perhaps the old boy would be Grayson’s brother-in-law soon. He and his sisters had a weakness for the Alliance, it seemed.
But he didn’t want to think about Chelle just then, or about the night before on Yann’s bridge. He’d done everything wrong. The only things he consistently felt with regard to Chelle were admiration and frustration.
A woman’s scream made him look up. Ahead, a Bohemian-looking man tugged on the sleeve of his companion before breaking into a sprint toward the Right Bank. The other man followed, his long, artfully patched and frayed coattails rippling in the wind. Grayson searched for the woman who had screamed, his rational mind suggesting that those two men had done some nefarious thing to her. He pivoted to look behind him and saw two more people—a woman and a man—also running, these two toward the Left Bank. No one ran in Paris. They walked gracefully and slowly, carrying themselves as if time revolved around their needs, able to stretch or stop if required.
Grayson continued toward the Right Bank, his senses alert. He wasn’t sure what made him go to the bridge’s stone barrier and peer down. Instinct, perhaps. When he saw the giant, shaggy, black-furred hellhound stalking along the quay in broad daylight, he didn’t startle. The demon wasn’t the creature that caused his breath to turn to syrup in his throat.
It was the smaller furred creature behind it, the one wearing the remains of a purple skirt and white shirtwaist. A Duster. A hellhound Duster, transformed. And the fur around its maw was plastered with blood.
“Christ,” Grayson whispered as another scream broke from the direction of the Right Bank.
He followed the sound. A second scream joined in, then a third, and then a chorus sounded from the head of the bridge. When he reached the street, people were tumbling through the doors of a corner café. A man surged through, knocking over a coal-filled brazier. His hoarse cries drowned out the others, and for good reason—a demon serpent had its fangs jammed deep into his ankle, its pale yellow body trailing behind in the spill of sparking coals. The man kicked his leg and fell, and he disappeared underneath another surge of screaming patrons.
Grayson rushed forward, reaching for the sword he’d had at his waist the night before. His fingers slid along his hip, grasping fabric and air. He’d left it at the rectory. Time seemed to slow for the next few seconds under the roar of panic. He forced his eyes shut and exhaled. Focus. He wasn’t Alliance, but unlike the people scattering frantically in every direction, he knew how to fight demons.
He was closer to H?tel Bastian than he was to home. He had to tell the others—had to tell Chelle. And he had to arm himself.
Time kicked back into motion, and with it came the piercing screams of women, the wild bleating of horses, and the grating wails of a baby from some open balcony door above him. Grayson ran as if his legs were a gargoyle’s wings, carrying him with effortless speed and power. He swerved into the road to avoid an awning that had collapsed over an outdoor market, and then jumped over the ravaged carcass of a poodle, its jewel-encrusted leash still attached. Windmilling his arms, he came to a halt as a carriage teetered onto two wheels just ahead of him. The horse was bucking and braying as something that looked like a gigantic fly straddled its neck, tearing the flesh to bloody ribbons. The fly was wearing trousers.
It was the Harvest. It had to be.
Grayson bounded out of the way of the crazed horse and started to run again. The Dusters had to be under Axia’s control, or perhaps demon control. He didn’t know. He just knew that he hadn’t been affected. Because of Vander’s blood?
Grayson flung himself to the pavement as a black bird sheared through the sky toward him. Corvite. It growled when it cut through the air overhead, missing its target by inches. Grayson ignored the flare of pain on his skinned palms and scrambled up, craning his neck to see where the demon bird had flown.