“I know he can’t … perhaps doesn’t … feel it, too, but I’m not asking to see him. I just want to know where. I promise, I’ll stay away, but—” Ingrid stopped herself. But I love him.
Marco was her gargoyle, but he was still a Dispossessed, and the Dispossessed had strict rules among their own kind. General relationships with humans were frowned upon. Romantic relationships were forbidden, and punishable by death. Gargoyles were not immortal. This was simply their second life, one that stretched on and on for an eternity, or until they were killed—something that was usually difficult to accomplish, with their steely scales and stony muscles. However, a horde of gargoyles could easily rip another gargoyle apart.
Marco said nothing, and after another stretch of silence, Ingrid turned around. The medical room was empty. Marco had left noiselessly, though she didn’t know if it had been before her bumbling half confession or after. Or during. All she knew was that she was alone in a room with a dead body.
Strangely, she didn’t feel any lonelier than usual.
CHAPTER THREE
LONDON
The moment the door to number 75 Eaton Square shut behind Gabby, she let out a breath and stormed toward her father’s waiting carriage. All she wanted was to climb inside, pull the shade, and forget the last thirty minutes of her life.
The driver, busy conversing with a passing maid, did not see her. Gabby was moments away from clearing her throat to gain his attention when the carriage door opened from within. The steps were already down, so Gabby ascended quickly, ignoring the driver’s spluttering apologies as he finally saw her and belatedly offered his hand.
“I just want to leave. Quickly,” she stressed, and ducked inside the carriage.
She sat down, leaned against the cushions, and released a pent-up groan.
Rory Quinn, seated on the opposite bench, took out his pocket watch and checked the hands.
“A full half-hour. Yer patience must be improvin’,” he said with a grin.
Gabby closed her eyes. It wasn’t Mirabelle’s fault. She’d been one of Gabby’s closest friends before the move to Paris. Perhaps that was why Gabby had finally felt compelled to accept her invitation, after ignoring scores of others that had arrived at Waverly House in the days following her return to London. Surely Mirabelle would be sweet enough to overlook the grotesque scarring on the left side of her face. She wouldn’t mention the puffy white tracks that ran in a hooked arc from Gabby’s eye to the corner of her mouth. The ones she tried to keep hidden beneath dark veils, all of which she’d slashed on a diagonal. No, Mirabelle hadn’t mentioned them.
But her two other, unexpected guests had felt no such reservations.
“No more teas. No more parties,” Gabby said, her gloved fingers smoothing the dark emerald tulle of the day’s veil.
Rory had seen her scars plenty of times, but she still didn’t wish to showcase them. He’d been with her all month, living in Waverly House, acting the part of bodyguard quite well. His presence went along nicely with the story of how Gabby had received such dreadful wounds—that some deranged murderer had attacked her with a three-pronged hook before making off with and killing her lady’s maid, Nora. Rory was simply an extra measure of protection Lord Brickton had put in place for his daughter, considering the murderer had never been found.
Of course, the murderer had never existed. A hellhound had killed Nora and torn up Gabby’s face, and even though Lord Brickton knew as much, he still refused to speak about anything remotely supernatural. That was, whenever he bothered to be at Waverly House. Which wasn’t often.
“Teas and parties don’t suit ye anyhow,” Rory replied as the driver rocked onto the bench and whistled to the grays.
“They did. Once,” Gabby said softly. She sat up and attempted to hold a proper posture.
After a full month of being back in London and one horrible outing to a ball, during which she had suffered relentless inspection and false sympathy, Gabby had retreated to Waverly House and taken to living as a hermit. All of London society knew she was there. They all knew she was avoiding them. And to her surprise, Gabby didn’t give a fig.
Rory sat with his knees wide and his coat undone, revealing the vest of blessed silver daggers he wore instead of a waistcoat. He was no gentleman. He was a demon hunter, and a fine one, at that. Nolan had assigned him as Gabby’s protective escort, and he took the job most seriously. Wherever Gabby went, Rory attended her. He had even claimed the bedroom two doors down from hers at Waverly House, much to her father’s displeasure. Lord Brickton had been far too intimidated by the demon hunter to refuse him the room, though.
“Listen,” Rory said. He rubbed his fingers against the knees of his tan trousers. “The London faction tracked me down while ye were takin’ tea.”