The Beautiful and the Cursed: Marco's Story Read Free

Now, “red.”
    He pinned Vander with a glare. “Are you certain it was red hair?”
    “Yes.
Very
red,” he said with a quirk of his brow.
    Grace
. She must have gone out with Lady Arabella that morning. Marco would have sensed it had they crossed paths with a demon. But then, Grace had been upset after returning. She’d been unhappy a lot lately.
    He went to the door and opened it. “Come back tomorrow evening for the ball. Take a set of footman’s livery from the hallway and wear it.”
    Vander came forward. Marco held up his hand. “Leave your Alliance friends at home. And tomorrow evening, should you see dust around my humans, you
will
tell me what is going on. Is that understood?”
    Vander kept his bespectacled eyes level with Marco’s glare. He wished for the Alliance brat to tremble in his boots, but he was apparently far too naïve. He believed Marco would not harm him.
    “Understood,” Vander at last replied. He bowed his head slightly, just enough to imply respect, before slipping out into the busy corridor.
    # # #
    It had been centuries since Hôtel Dugray had been illuminated by torchlight.
    The foundation, built more than five hundred years earlier, had originally supported a tavern. That place, constructed of wood, had burned less than a decade after completion, and a second structure of limestone block had been erected to replace it. That was when the gargoyle waterspouts had been carved into the roofline.
    Marco still pondered the question of whether divine intervention had led the architects to include such fanciful drainage spouts on the home. Or was the Angelic Order simply having fun with their gargoyle slaves, assigning them to whatever buildings or structures happened to sport
les grotesques
?
    One never knew with the Order. They were as inscrutable as they were harsh.
    Marco climbed the dim, cramped servants’ stairwell that led to the fifth and final floor of the town house. The electric bulbs in the stairwell were sparse, but Marco didn’t need them. His night vision showed the darkness in gray, white, and black.
    The top floor belonged to the female domestic staff, which was overseen by the formidable housekeeper, Signora Bianchi. Marco’s rule officially ended once he ascended past the main floor; he, his footmen, the baron’s valet, and the grooms were lodged in basement rooms. Mrs. Bianchi had banned the male sex from the top floor, no exceptions. But considering this was his territory, Marco would go where he damn well pleased.
    Besides, he needed to see Grace.
    Marco’s feet whispered along the carpeted corridor. He called up a number of cataloged scents, matching the girls with the rooms he passed. All asleep, or very close to it. He came to the last door on the right and listened with his whole body. Beyond the door, Grace’s roommate, Patrice, breathed in a restful rhythm, her heartbeat slow and relaxed.
    Grace, on the other hand, was not in bed. She wasn’t in her room at all.
    Marco didn’t need to draw up the hot-buttered-rum scent that always made him thirsty. He knew exactly where to find her: the roof.
    At the head of the corridor a casement window led to a small balcony. Marco saw a slim hair comb wedged between the two panes of glass, propping the window open. He climbed out and returned the hair comb before ascending the short stack of metal steps that led to the flat roof.
    She was sitting on a rattan chaise. Marco had dug the tattered seat out of the carriage house and flown it up here one night last summer after he’d discovered that Grace liked to stargaze on the roof. She’d inquired once if Marco had been the one to bring it there, but he’d feigned ignorance. Grace hadn’t believed him, of course, though she’d accepted the gift without another mention. She sat in the chair now, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her long hair in a thick braid tied off with a ribbon. In her lap was a small sketchbook, and in her hand, a pencil. Though Grace saw