Constantine shared Vander’s ability, but he himself wasn’t a Duster, so Vander’s question remained: why could Constantine see dust?
“I’m sorry,” Vander began as they slowly retraced their footprints in the snow back to the chateau. “I know this is important to you, but, Ingrid … I’m not alone in this. The rest of the Alliance here in Paris, your sister, even Grayson … we’re all suspicious of Constantine’s motives.”
“Well, I’m not,” she replied.
Constantine, a man of about fifty years, had devoted his life to the study of demons and their influences on the human world. When he had discovered the existence of Dusters, however, he’d also discovered a new purpose. A whole new field of study.
“What could he possibly receive in return for showing me how to control myself? He doesn’t ask for compensation. He doesn’t ask for anything at all,” she said as the chateau’s slanted glass-and-iron orangery roof came into view.
“Doesn’t that make you suspicious?” Vander asked. “It was enough for Grayson to turn down Constantine’s offer.”
Ingrid tugged her elbow free. “Grayson didn’t refuse the offer because he was suspicious. He refused because he’s afraid of what he is.”
Ingrid and Grayson might have both been given Axia’s angel blood for safekeeping, but the twins’ similarities ended there. Instead of gifting him with lectrux blood, as she had Ingrid, Axia had given Grayson the blood of a hellhound. Hellhounds were her dearest demon pets, massive dogs that hunted human prey at her command. And Grayson had, at least for a short while, become one of them.
From what Grayson had reported, Axia’s hellhounds could shift between human and bestial form in the Underneath, but not on the earth’s surface. That seemed to be something only Grayson had been able to do. He hadn’t shifted for weeks, but he hadn’t gone back to his normal human self, either.
Ingrid knew her twin well—or at least, she’d known him well once. Grayson had cut himself off from her lately, choosing to stay holed up in the rectory, their small home behind the abbey. He’d refused to acknowledge anything regarding this new world they’d been thrust into. She wanted him to come with her to Clos du Vie, but he wouldn’t budge.
“And you’re not afraid?” Vander asked. She felt him close to her shoulder, saw his breath in the frigid air.
Ingrid stopped walking and noticed how cold her toes were. Wickedly, she imagined Vander drawing her stocking feet to his lips instead of her gloved hands, his hot breath turning her into a raging furnace. But it was no use. She couldn’t escape his question.
“Of course I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Just not of Monsieur Constantine.”
Axia was stronger now that she had reclaimed the angelic blood Grayson had always harbored. She wouldn’t kill the Dusters, or as she called them, her seedlings. She had given them demon halves for a reason. Ingrid didn’t know what it was, or what Axia’s plans for them might be. She only knew that Axia wanted to use her Dusters in some way against the Angelic Order. Against the human race, too, she suspected.
Vander came to stand in front of her, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He locked her in the steady gaze he wore when he shifted from intellectual bookseller to deadly serious demon hunter.
“I promised you once, and I’ll promise you again now: I won’t let anything harm you, demon, human, or angel.”
She knew he meant it. She also knew she had other protection, which she didn’t want to think about just then. Not with Vander standing so close, looking so earnest. Instead, she thought of her sister, Gabby, and how she had gone the opposite direction from Grayson, wanting to soak up everything there was to know about the Alliance and Underneath demons—specifically, how to destroy them in hand-to-hand combat.
Vander held out his hand. He didn’t wear gloves like a refined gentleman would, and his fingertips were ink stained. He would have never been permitted into Ingrid’s social circle back in London. But as she took his hand, her chest filled with warmth and gratitude. Yes, Vander Burke had romantic feelings for her. She didn’t know how to define her feelings for him just yet, but first and foremost, he was her friend.
They walked in silence the rest of the way to the orangery. Inside, balmy air wrapped their chilled bodies. The glass roof and walls drew in the sunlight, trapped it, and created a tropical zone. A maze of bamboo; glossy green palms; bright red, orange, and pink flowers; lemon and lime trees; coconut and mango, too. Constantine’s orangery should have felt like a miniature paradise. Unfortunately for Ingrid, every time she stepped inside it, she remembered him.
Luc.