Luc opened his talons, and the oil-black heart made a wet slap on the tiles.
Gaston lowered himself to one knee and bowed, his clipped ears pointed toward Luc’s feet. The rustle of wings and the scratch of talons echoed off the glass walls as the rest of the Dogs followed their leader’s show of fealty; then the Snakes did the same. Luc searched for Marco as the Wolves dropped to their knees next. Their leader was still gone. How long had it been? Luc wondered, his mind racing toward Ingrid even as the first Chimera got down onto one knee as well. Two more Chimeras knelt, then three more, then five, and then every last one of the Dispossessed had bent in bows of recognition. It was a significant moment, one that would change Luc’s existence forever, but it was weighted by a creeping unease.
The Seer came through the rows of kneeling gargoyles, taking deft steps to avoid brushing against any of them. As he passed, however, the gargoyles straightened. Luc sighed and began to shift back into his human form. The broken ridge of his injured wing sank into his back with such pain it made his vision swim.
“I’m glad it’s you,” Vander said a moment later, his eyes flickering away from Luc. He nodded toward Vincent’s heart. “I’m sure that was necessary in some ancient and ritualistic way.”
Luc shook his head. “Not really.”
Vander huffed a laugh and adjusted his spectacles. “You saved my life,” he mumbled, unable to meet Luc’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Luc looked over Vander’s shoulder. “I hope you savored the experience. It won’t happen again.”
Vander shook his head and started to speak. Luc cut him off.
“I can’t fly and I need to find Marco.”
Constantine’s cane preceded him through the lines of gargoyles. He cleared a space to step out between two Dogs, then coughed and straightened his hat.
“You may have one of my horses,” he said to Luc, and with another small cough, added, “as well as some clothing.”
“Is it Ingrid?” Vander kept his voice low so the Roman troops wouldn’t hear.
Luc followed Constantine, who had started to thread his way back through the Dispossessed.
“That’s what I’m going to find out,” he answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ingrid had not believed anything could be more frightening than coming face to face with Axia in the Underneath. That was before. As the fallen angel, covered as usual in an all-encompassing dark blue robe, glided across the stone square toward Ingrid, she knew she had been wrong. Coming face to face with Axia here, on earth, was absolutely terrifying.
“You were with me the day before last.” Axia’s voice tolled through the square. The vibrations tickled up through Ingrid’s feet. “However, now, you are absent.”
Ingrid gripped the handle of the dagger hidden within her skirt pocket so hard her knuckles ached. “How do you mean?”
“I can feel all of my seedlings,” Axia replied, her figure now gliding to the left.
The arms of her robes were crossed over her abdomen, the panels tied tightly with golden brocade. She had no notable shape underneath all those folds, and Ingrid worried that Grayson’s theory about Axia’s having taken on a corporeal form was wrong.
“You should not be able to ignore the call of the one who has created you,” Axia said. The writhing shudder of her robe ceased. “I do not understand. How do you defy me? Do traces of my blood linger within you, Ingrid Waverly? Have they magnified just enough to obstruct my will?”
Her deep voice turned shrill, and Ingrid winced. Axia’s robes began to ripple with blustery rolls. Her robes reflected her emotions, and right then they seemed to thrash with unharnessed anger.
“I thought I had reclaimed every drop, leaving none to mature within you,” Axia continued.
Ingrid parted her lips, uncertain what to say. She stammered through the beginnings of an appeal before feeling a rush of air whisper against her shoulder. She turned instinctively and startled backward. Axia stood beside her, her cavernous black hood an arm’s length away. Ingrid looked back to where Axia had just been standing and saw nothing but an evaporating blue mist, a few shades darker than the coming dawn.
“How did you—” she started.
“I will have all of my blood, Ingrid Waverly.”
The robed arm struck out and a pale hand emerged from within the sleeve. It grasped Ingrid’s arm with strength of a machine. Ingrid fumbled the dagger out of her pocket with her free hand and, what felt like a decade later, sliced the blade across Axia’s forearm. The blade never slowed, never met resistance, and then Axia’s robed sleeve was evaporating into another cloud of mist.
Ingrid staggered to the side as phantom laughter rumbled through the square. She swiveled around, her eyes catching on Axia, who was once again by the fountain.
“I cannot be ensnared,” the fallen angel said.