Luc backed out of the room, saying he was going to search for more firewood. He closed the door behind him and Ingrid sank down onto the shabby sofa. She could still feel his hands on her skin, his lips against hers. Next time.
In this small sitting room, closed behind heavy, light-blocking drapes, with only an old sofa and a few other pieces of unloved furniture left behind by Marco’s former human charges, it was easy to believe that she and Luc were safe. It wouldn’t last. Ingrid wasn’t a fool. She knew that the fire would go out and the sun would rise and that at any moment, the demons could come crashing through the windows. She would take this reprieve from reality, however, and happily. A part of her knew she would not be offered another one.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The fire had grown cold again. Luc had torn apart a Biedermeier desk and chair, a wooden table from the kitchen, the frames of a few portraits left hanging in the dining room, and stacks of slatted crates hauled up from the cellar, and yet the fire continued to crumble. Ingrid was freezing. It had been over a day since they’d arrived at Marco’s old territory, and this was their second night in the sitting room, the sofa pulled as close to the weak flames as was safe.
Luc reclined lengthwise on the sofa, one leg on the floor, the other propped against the cushioned backrest. Ingrid lay half on top of him, half beside him, sleeping fitfully. He stroked her hair, hanging loose and gorgeous down her back.
Though Luc had left earlier to find something for Ingrid to eat and to discover the state of things outside, he’d wound up returning within minutes. The demons hadn’t left. They were still stinking up the streets, and to Luc’s unease, corvites were everywhere. They lined the roofs of buildings, sat atop lampposts, curbs, benches, and balcony railings. They perched on the sinewy bones of ravaged horses and dogs and, Luc had noted with a roll of his stomach, even a human carcass splayed out in the street.
They watched. Corvites were annoying that way. Luc had waited until he was sure no corvite was paying him any attention before slipping back to the town home. The other unsettling thing was that he hadn’t heard or felt the presence of another gargoyle in more than twenty-four hours. Not knowing what was happening out there made him tense.
Not that time alone with Ingrid was something to wish away. She’d chosen him. Given herself to him, and even though he couldn’t claim her in the human way, she was still his. Passing the day and night in the quiet town home was giving him a taste of his fantasy, sweet as meringue and just as easily dissolved.
Luc hadn’t been successful summoning Irindi earlier that morning. Never in the last three centuries had he called the angel to him—her presence was not something a gargoyle would actually request. He’d gone to the kitchen, out of Ingrid’s view and earshot, and whispered Irindi’s name. He’d closed his eyes and asked her to come to him. But the kitchen had remained cold and dark. It hadn’t surprised him—the angels held no love for humans or gargoyles—though he did regret having to tell Ingrid it hadn’t worked. He’d said he’d try again, but the pull of her corn-silk brows told him she’d already given up hope.
Ingrid’s arm, tucked against Luc’s ribs, twitched. A small whine preceded a more violent shudder, this one seizing her whole body. Luc shushed her, bringing her higher onto his chest, but she was already awake, gaping at the fireplace and marble mantel with bewilderment.
“It’s just me, Ingrid. You’re with me.”
She blinked up at him, lips parted. “I—I saw flames. I heard screaming, and Grayson, he was … he was somewhere dark and cold,” she choked out, trying to lift herself up, off Luc. He held her firmly, not wanting her to go anywhere.
“A nightmare,” he said. “That’s all.”
Ingrid allowed him to guide her back to his side. She lifted her hand from his chest and flexed her fingers once, twice.
“Is it back?” he asked.
He didn’t want to leave her here alone, but if he had to fly to rue de Berri for more of Vander’s mersian blood, he’d do it. He’d do whatever was needed to keep Ingrid from falling under Axia’s spell again—if and when another one befell the Dusters.
Ingrid put her hand on Luc’s stomach and fiddled with one of the metal buttons on his shirt. “No. I haven’t felt a single spark since we left H?tel Bastian.”
Her chin rubbed into his pectoral muscle as she looked up at him. “Luc, we can’t stay here much longer. My mother must be mad with worry, and Marco—”
“He knows where you are, and he’s being smart to stay away. Those corvites are Axia’s eyes, and I get the feeling she wants to know where to find you.”
“I’m just another Duster now.”
Though he disagreed, Luc didn’t argue. “Your mother is safe with Marco.”
“Still, we can’t stay here forever,” she said as her fingers accidentally popped open the button she’d been playing with. She apologized bashfully and started to button it again. Luc stilled her hand.