Vander had prepared Grayson for the worst in the moments before the Roman Alliance troops found their way into the fourth-floor medical room. They would know Grayson on sight, Vander had said—the Directorate would have acquired likenesses of the Waverly twins long ago—and their orders could very well be for immediate elimination.
Grayson had stowed one of Chelle’s hira-shuriken in his coat pocket and kept his hand closed lightly around it, ready, as the barrage of feet approached the surgery. Not that the six-pointed star would have done more than buy Grayson an extra breath or two before what Vander had so delightfully called “elimination.”
Three Alliance, wearing identical black coats buttoned to the chin, black tight-fitting trousers, tall polished black Hessians, and crimson caps, had come through the door with their weapons in hand but had not moved against either Vander or Grayson. They’d simply waited until two more fighters arrived behind them before taking Grayson by the arm and escorting him into the basement of H?tel Bastian. Which was where he sat now, nearly twenty-four hours later.
The basement stretched the length and width of the town house, but it wasn’t a spacious place. Grayson had already smacked his forehead against a few hewn beams along the ceiling, shaking ancient dirt and coarse plaster into his eyes. There was no light at night and precious little during the day. What light there was filtered in from two small, arched-brow windows cut out of the foundation bricks. He’d already considered the windows as avenues for escape, though neither would have accommodated his head, let alone his shoulders.
And heat? Forget about heat. His fingers had gone stiff, and they ached, even when he cupped them against his mouth and blew hot air. His feet were ungainly blocks of ice. And to make matters worse, the Roman Alliance fighters had seen Chelle’s wounded leg. Even though Vander had said nothing about her having dust, they had known.
It was happening all over Paris, Hans had explained. They’d seen people falling insensible with fevers after being wounded by a possessed human. They were taking no chances. So Grayson was not alone in the basement. Chelle was with him, as were four other unfamiliar Dusters Hans and the others had rounded up.
Grayson crouched before her shivering figure. “Still toasty warm?”
She’d risen from her stupor an hour after they had been locked in the basement. When the fog of unconsciousness had cleared, she’d shrugged out of the coat Grayson had draped over her shoulders. She was fine, she’d told him. Then, upon hearing the reason for why she had been imprisoned, she’d screamed at Grayson to leave her alone. She’d gone off into a dark corner and stayed there until past dawn. Grayson had heard her soft sobs, the rattles of tear-soaked breaths, but had left her alone, as ordered.
Chelle had eventually come over to his spot beneath one of the windows, but she had still refused his coat.
She combed her short black hair behind an ear now, lifting her chin with her usual display of stony dignity. “They are treating us like animals.”
Behind him, deeper in the basement darkness, one of the other Dusters, newly made like Chelle, moaned. They’d already exchanged names and fears and theories regarding how long they were going to be kept caged like this. With nothing remaining for them to discuss, they had all retreated into their own corners to brood.
“You aren’t an animal,” Grayson said, the pale blue light that trumpeted dawn coming in through the window. “You’re one of them, Chelle. That will count for something.”
The truth was, he wasn’t so sure it would.
“If they were going to kill us, they would have done it already,” he added, still attempting to ease her worry.
Chelle continued to shiver. Grayson slid his hand underneath her short, straight bangs and pressed his palm to her forehead. Scorching hot.
He brought his hand back and started to remove his coat.
“Keep it on, Grayson. We are both freezing,” she hissed.
“You have a fever,” he argued. She sat forward and grabbed his arms to stop him from shedding his coat. She made a little growl in her throat and tugged him toward her. He shifted his fall at the last moment so that he landed on the hard-packed dirt beside her.
“What are you—”
She cut off his question, though not with words. She did it with her body. Chelle swung both of her legs over Grayson’s thighs and wriggled herself onto his lap. He sat rigid as a scarecrow as Chelle’s arms traveled inside his coat, under his arms, and circled around his back. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
A hot tide rolled out from someplace low in his stomach. No. Lower than that. Grayson let his arms enclose Chelle and shifted her weight on his lap.
“I can move back to the floor—” she started to say.
“Don’t you dare.”
Chelle let out a warm breath against his neck.
“What do you think they have done with Vander?” she asked.
Grayson brought up his knees, cradling Chelle closer.
“They need his sight,” he answered.
She rocked her head along Grayson’s collarbone. “He’ll never give the Dusters up.”