The Wondrous and the Wicked by Page Morgan

But then the figure stepped forward.
    “Diffuser bows are extraordinarily easy to manage,” he said, his voice that of a grown man.
    Rory had abandoned the netted mollug and was now back at Gabby’s side. The stranger knew the Daicrypta crossbow; he had a name for it. Which could mean only one thing: he was a member of the Daicrypta.
    The man wore a dark suit and a cape the color of midnight. It was a handsome, expensive design, if a little dramatic. Red silk piping ran along the edge, and wide red ribbons tied at his throat. Truly, he looked like a magician. A very short magician.
    “The net,” he said to his companions. The two bruisers approached the mollug.
    “What are you doing?” Gabby asked as one of them crouched by the base of the net.
    “Simply retrieving what is mine,” the man answered. Standing closer now, Gabby could see he had a youthful face. Not a day over twenty-five, if Gabby was to guess.
    “I captured that demon,” Gabby said, though she instantly regretted her petulant tone.
    “And you are welcome to it,” the man replied. “I would have the net and crossbow, if I may.”
    He extended his hand toward Rory, who still held the weapon. The Scot huffed and stared at him, incredulous.
    “Why should I give it to ye?” he demanded.
    “Because you stole it,” he answered without hesitating. “And considering it was my father’s invention, I think it only fair you return it to me.”
    Though his accent was slight, Gabby could hear a French inflection here and there.
    The net’s spikes retreated from the quay into the tubular rim, and suddenly the mollug was writhing again. The net fell away, helped along by the two bruisers, and the creature undulated toward Gabby and Rory with renewed vigor.
    “Are you mad?” Gabby shouted, skittering backward. The caped man only laughed.
    “Not at the moment. I’m rather amused, actually. You have a demon hunter standing beside you, do you not?”
    Rory growled, his free hand going for one of his trusted blades. The dagger whistled through the air, and a thundercloud of green sparks signaled the demon’s demise.
    “The diffuser crossbow,” the man said, extending his white-gloved hand once again toward Rory.
    He held the weapon up. “First I’ll have yer name.”
    The man kept his hand raised and waiting. “Hugh Dupuis.”
    Something inside Gabby snapped to attention.
Dupuis.
    “Your father—” she began.
    “Was Robert Dupuis, Daicrypta doyen and head research facilitator in Paris,” he rattled off. “I believe you met him once.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I ngrid felt the sting of hard, frozen ground against her cheek first. The pain came next, ballooning inside her as she woke. Her leg was in agony, her calf a ball of flame. The flickering blue light of Axia’s cave had gone. It was dark here, wherever
here
was. The smell of winter air and dirt and grass browned by snow filled her nose.
    She was out of the Underneath. Returned home.
    Ingrid pressed her hands against the crusty ground and tried to push herself up. She was too weak, however, and her arms collapsed. She lay still, heart racing. Even opening her eyes seemed to drain her of what little energy she possessed. There was a lamppost nearby, the glass orb streaming yellow, vaporous light over a long park bench and a handful of pigeons roosting on its curved back.
    Ingrid closed her eyes again and tried to think of what to do. She was too cold and tired to flinch when the roosting pigeons squawked and scattered in a flutter of excitement. A rush of airfanned down over her, tousling the hair that had fallen loose around her face. The familiar rustle and snap of wings from close overhead caused tears to well up behind her closed lids. Marco had found her.
    Her body moved, nudged gently by what she knew were talons, not hands. Ingrid mewled as even that slight touch renewed the pain in her leg and calf. She forced her eyes to open as Marco’s arms wedged underneath her and lifted her from the