It had spun around, its wingspan easily the length of his own arms outstretched, and was making a dive for him yet again. Grayson’s legs hit a metal trash can and he bowled over it, striking the ground and working more grit into the raw skin on his palms. The lid of the trash can spun on the pavement beside him. Grayson grabbed the lid and swung it through the air, connecting with the corvite. The bird thumped to the ground in a shower of black feathers. It was only stunned, so Grayson found his feet and darted away.
If he’d had his hellhound blood, he wouldn’t have needed to run to H?tel Bastian for a blessed silver blade. Then again, if he’d had his hellhound blood, would he even be thinking for himself? Or would he be like that Duster on the quay and the bloodsucking fly feasting on the horse?
Grayson hooked around a corner, onto a street that appeared calm and demon-free. He skidded to a halt and thought of Ingrid. What had happened to his sister?
From where Grayson stood, Vander’s apartment was farther away than H?tel Bastian. He had to get to Chelle and the others. If Ingrid had succumbed to whatever spell Axia had laid down over her seedlings, at least she would be the predator and not the prey. And what of Vander? If his mersian blood was keeping Grayson immune, would he be immune as well? There were too many questions. He’d have to find answers for them later.
Grayson began to jog down the side street. Up ahead, a woman ran from one side of the street to the other, a child in her arms. They disappeared into a building, and the slam of a door followed. It was the only sign that the chaos had traveled this far. No street would be spared if demons and Dusters were out together.
Grayson broke into a run, his mind laying out the streets, charting a course to rue de Sèvres. At this pace, he’d be there in ten minutes.
Ahead, the road bent into the narrow warren of medieval streets that hadn’t been razed and widened, the way the boulevards Saint-Germain and Saint-Michel had been decades before. These roads had been ignored and left to accommodate local foot traffic and perhaps a horse or two astride.
Grayson rounded the corner, where a small bistro, currently empty, had set out tables and chairs. He ground to a stop so quickly his heels kept slipping forward, his body falling sideways. He caught himself on a chair, propelling himself back up and into a wolf’s direct line of sight. Not a meaty, greasy-furred hellhound, but a lean, lanky wolf. The only thing that set it apart from the wolves Grayson had seen before were its pitch-black eyes—no iris, no white, just fathomless black—and a maw filled with fangs that sawed back and forth in its bloody gums.
Grayson’s stomach churned. Rose-tinted saliva dripped from the demon’s mouth, and clumps of long, blond human hair were caught in its teeth. The demon wolf snarled, its black eyes fixed on Grayson. He gripped the lacy iron back of the bistro chair and held it before him as he might a shield. The wolf surged forward, and its teeth crushed one of the curled chair legs as if it were made of papier-maché. The wolf jerked its head and tore the chair from Grayson’s clenched fingers.
He slammed into one of the tables and swiped up a glass ashtray to defend himself with. As if it would to do more than give the wolf something to pick its teeth with. The demon wolf lunged for Grayson—and then combusted into green sparks.
Grayson stared at two, six-pointed silver throwing stars clattering to the ground at his feet. And then Chelle was in front of him where the demon wolf had been, retrieving her hira-shuriken and stowing them back in her red sash.
She stared at Grayson with marked disbelief. “You are you.”
“Chelle,” he said dumbly, releasing his death grip on the ashtray and taking hold of her arms instead. They were thin and muscular beneath the billowy white sleeves of her shirt, and they also threw him off fast.
“The Dusters,” she said harshly, avoiding his eyes. “They’re attacking humans with the demons. Why haven’t you changed?”
A grating shriek thundered overhead. A jade-winged gargoyle hurtled over the rooftops and collided with another winged creature, this one a skeletal horse with a forked tail and featherless wings. Fire streamed from its snout.
“It’s difficult to explain,” Grayson said. There wasn’t time to tell her about the mersian blood or Vander’s experiments. The sight of the gargoyle’s talons punching through the wings of the demon gave him hope. Wherever she was, Ingrid had Marco to protect her.
“Come on,” Chelle said, and she started in the direction Grayson had been heading, into the labyrinth of medieval streets. He followed, his heart thrashing.
“I was in the Tuileries when I saw a hellhound leading two Dusters on a rampage,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “We’ll go to H?tel Bastian. The Roman troops might already be—”