Free The Beautiful and the Cursed: Marco's Story by Page Morgan Page A

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.”
    Ingrid knew how that could feel. 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 let go of the armrest and 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”—he made a short bow—“especially one of the gentler sex.”
    Vander snorted, unimpressed. But Ingrid stepped forward. She didn’t consider herself gentle, but she understood what Constantine meant. “I want to help.”
    She was lucky, all things considered. She had found out about the Alliance, about demons and gargoyles, all before Vander told her she had demon dust. She had known right away that she fit in somewhere. Léon and the rest of the Dusters out there didn’t have that.
    Vander rolled his shoulders. “Fine. If Ingrid’s going with you, so will I. But if this boy poses any sort of threat—”
    “He is a good boy,” Constantine interrupted.
    “A good boy who murdered his family,” Vander retorted.
    Ingrid took Vander’s hand, lacing her fingers tightly with his. It surprised him into silence.
Mission accomplished
, she thought with a slight grin.
    “We’ll help,” she said again.
    Her teacher pushed back his chair and stood, his gray eyes flickering with unusual vigor. “Excellent. Tell me, then—is either of you familiar with the Paris sewers?”