His wavy dark hair, and the way he pushed it out of his eyes, which happened to be the brightest shade of green Ingrid had ever seen. His lashes, coal-black and thick. His expression of constant irritation. His creamy velvet skin as it checkered over into glimmering jet scales.
Vander could make a thousand promises to keep Ingrid safe, but it was Luc who was her true protector. It was Luc who could sense her every emotion as clearly as if it were his own, whether it was fear, excitement, or joy. It was Luc who knew where Ingrid was at any given moment, and who could be there within seconds should she require his help.
Luc was her gargoyle. And Ingrid was in love with him.
“Lady Ingrid?” Monsieur Constantine’s voice came from a clearing amid towering bamboo.
She walked through the cut path of green stalks, blindingly bright compared to the gray winter day outdoors.
“Oh—Mr. Burke.” Constantine frowned as he rose from his wicker chair.
Vander had apparently let himself onto Constantine’s grounds without announcing himself first. How rude of him, Ingrid thought with a grin. Vander saw it and flashed her a smile in return.
When she glanced back at her teacher, she saw that he was still frowning. The frown was directed not at them, however, but at the newspaper clutched in his hand. He sat back down in his chair.
“Monsieur Constantine?” Ingrid said, edging closer to the table. He didn’t often smile and rarely allowed a laugh, but he didn’t usually glower. Constantine’s expressions were always as gray as the clothing he wore—all different hues of gray, from gainsboro to silver to platinum. The color suited him perfectly.
“It is this morning’s paper,” Constantine stated, his fingers crushing the edges.
“Is it very bad?” she asked.
Her teacher set the paper down and smoothed the wrinkled pages. “I am afraid so. A family was found dead in their home.”
Ingrid blinked, unsure how to respond.
“Their bodies were intricately wrapped in a mysterious silken thread. ‘Sticky,’ the reporter wrote. A sticky silken thread.”
Ingrid glanced questioningly at Vander. He raised his chin.
“As in cocooned?” he asked.
A meaningful look passed between the two men. Ingrid had taken off her gloves and unbuttoned her cape. She draped them over the back of a wicker chair and sat down.
“The police found the work of a demon?” she asked.
“No,” Constantine answered. “They found the work of a Duster.”
Ingrid stared at him, her mind at a gallop.
“A Duster?” Vander echoed.
Constantine leaned back, the wings of his wicker peacock chair enfolding him. “My student, Léon Brochu. He has the blood of an arachnae demon. It appears the victims were his parents and younger brother.”
A swirl of nausea cramped Ingrid’s stomach. A Duster had murdered his own family. “But why?”
“The boy only came to me twice,” Constantine answered. “He hadn’t been handling his gift well, and from what I observed, it bubbled to the surface much like yours does—with emotion.”
If Léon had slain his entire family, it could have been because of any raging emotion: fear, embarrassment, anger. She closed her eyes, trying not to see the memories of the fire she had once started—a lifetime ago, it seemed—in London. It had been a mixture of emotions that evening, humiliation especially, that had sent hot sparks from her fingertips. The nearby drapes had caught fire, and by the time the flames had consumed the ballroom, with people fleeing for their lives, Ingrid’s closest friend, Anna, had been badly burned.
Ingrid knew what it was to lose control. But this Duster had killed his family. She ached for him. For them all.
“And Léon?” Vander asked. “What happened to him?”
Ingrid opened her eyes and found Constantine’s gaze on her. As if he knew where her mind had taken her.
“The police are searching the city,” he answered. “But I doubt they are looking in the right place.”
Vander braced himself against the table, glaring at Constantine. “Tell me he isn’t here. Duster or not, he’s wanted for murder.”
Constantine sat forward, his mustache twitching with defiance. “I would give refuge to any Duster in need of it, monsieur, but Léon Brochu is not at Clos du Vie.”
Ingrid stood up and rested her hand on Vander’s shoulder. She was certain he would give refuge to any Duster who needed it, too, all ethics aside.
“But you do know where he is?” she asked.
Constantine gave a curt nod. “I would like to ask for your help,” he said, his gaze still on Ingrid. “Léon feels very alone, my lady. I’ve always respected the Alliance’s request to keep their existence from common knowledge, so Léon knows nothing of them, or of the Dispossessed, as you do. Most Dusters are unaware of these things. They only know that they are different. Most do not know there are others out there like them. I believe Léon might respond better to another Duster. Especially one of the gentler sex.”