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

her visits.
    Grace nodded, one side of the blanket slipping low over her shoulder.
    “Yes. To deliver an invitation to the fête tomorrow evening. She has told no one that he is coming. I don’t know why it must be such a secret. There will be at least a hundred guests, if not more.”
    A demon was coming to the party. Well, that would liven things up a bit.
    At Grace’s drawn expression, Marco had the urge to reach out and tug the blanket back up around her shoulder. He wanted to tell her not to worry so much and to get some rest. His fingers twitched at his sides.
    A dull throb at the base of his skull stopped him.
    “Go inside, Grace,” he murmured. She frowned.
    There was another gargoyle watching them.
    Marco held out his arm and pointed toward the stairs. “Go to bed. Your lady’s secret trysts are hers to manage as she sees fit.”
    Grace blinked at him. “But, Marco, there is something wrong with—”
    “Grace,”
he ground out. She jerked her head back and he lowered his voice. “Please.”
    He wanted her off the roof. Out of the watching gargoyle’s view.
    Grace complied, stalking toward the metal stairs. “A lot of good telling you did me.”
    She cast off the blanket and draped it over her arm as she descended the steps. Her dressing gown covered nearly every inch of her body except her slender neck, pale as a column of alabaster. Marco decided it, too, could be considered pretty.
    He held his breath. The chime at the base of his skull faded. Whoever had been watching had grown bored.
    Exhaling, Marco followed in Grace’s footsteps, down the metal steps to the casement window. The panels were sealed shut; the comb that had been lodged between them earlier was gone.
    Grace had locked him out.
    He supposed he deserved it.
    With a creeping smile, Marco braced one foot on the balcony rail and heaved himself up. Standing on the rail, he peered down the five-story drop to the lawn.
    Marco jumped. He didn’t need his wings for this.
    There were far more than the one hundred guests Grace had expected in attendance at the Bartolis’ annual midsummer fête. More than two hundred invitations had gone out (not including Lady Arabella’s unsanctioned invitation extended to the mystery demon), and more than half of the recipients had replied in the positive.
    Hôtel Dugray was an utter madhouse by eight o’clock that evening. The guests had started arriving a half an hour before, and with each addition, the weight of Marco’s responsibility increased.
    Lady Arabella’s demon could arrive at any moment, and every one of the guests was Marco’s to protect.
    When Marco came out of the butler’s pantry with a polished silver soup urn the cook had urgently requested to replace another marred by a deep scratch, he crossed paths with a liveried server.
    “Take this to the cook,” Marco said, thrusting the urn in the server’s direction.
    “Thanks, but I brought my own silver.”
    Marco’s ears itched at the American accent. He glanced up and saw the Seer holding the panels of his footman’s jacket open. He had outfitted the black silk interior with sheaths for two daggers and straps for a hand crossbow and darts.
    “I hope you don’t mind my alterations,” he said.
    “Altered or not, the moment you put that livery on, you commenced taking orders from me.” Marco jammed the urn into Vander Burke’s stomach. “Take it. To. The. Cook.”
    Coughing, Vander did as he was told. Unfortunately, he returned to Marco’s side less than a minute later.
    “When can I see them?” he asked. The din in the kitchen and surrounding corridors was loud enough to keep their conversation private.
    “What sort of demon would disguise itself as a human and meet secretly with a young lady in order to garner an invitation to a ball?” Marco’s question stopped the Seer cold. A kitchen maid rammed into Vander’s arm and nearly upset her balanced stack of china dishes.
    “You’ve spoken to your humans, I take it,”