insults pounding in his ears, the white drops had pushed through Léon’s skin and beaded at each of his fingertips. Within seconds, marble-sized globules had dripped free like white icing, distending toward the floor as long ribbons of silken web.
Léon’s eyeteeth had erupted from his gums next. They had pushed past his lips into plain view, shocking his silent father, his openmouthed mother, and his trembling brother, transforming into thin, hooked pincers.
And then the screams had shattered the air.
Léon had wanted to assure them that this body wasn’t his. That the sticky tangle of webbing was as repulsive to him as it was to them. But they had all kept wailing, and Léon had lost himself. It was the only way to describe it. It hadn’t been
Léon
sinking his pincers into his father’s neck, or his brother’s forearm, or his mother’s shoulder. It hadn’t been
Léon
who had then used the endless strands of silken thread oozing from his fingers to swathe each of them in tightly wound pods.
But this was Léon now, eyes blurred by tears, body shivering. There was no way to help them. The antivenin Monsieur Constantine had promised was still at least a week away from being complete. There was nothing Léon could do. Nowhere he could go. Constantine had said Léon would be able to get better, that he’d be able to control himself. All he’d wanted to do was hide what he’d become from his family—and now they were dying. Because of
him
.
Léon gasped for air and stumbled away from the table, toward the dining room door. He whimpered as he passed the white cocoons, trying to ignore the way they twitched.
CHAPTER ONE
PARIS
CLOS DU VIE
EARLY FEBRUARY 1900
Ingrid’s body had gone numb in the snow. She lay on her back, staring up at steel skies, and wondered how long this was going to take. The grounds surrounding Monsieur Constantine’s home, set in the airy outskirts of the city, within the Bois de Boulogne, were quiet, just as he had promised. Ingrid needed privacy, and here, she could have as much as she wished.
If any of her old London friends were to see her now, splayed out in the snow, they would likely think she’d gone mad. A smile tugged the corner of her lips. Maybe she had. If that was the case, then mad she would remain, because chilled to the bone was the only way Ingrid could feel anything at all.
The clouds rumbled like a hungry belly, promising not snow but a cold February rain. It would likely wash away the hard, thin blanket of snow that had fallen the night before. Ingrid closed her eyes and ordered the first spark to light. She cried out at the sharp twinge in her shoulder, which was followed by a burst of heat. Pain crackled down one arm, coming alive with an electric rush. With her gloves already cast aside, a serrated line of lightning sputtered from her splayed fingertips. It hit the trunk of a poplar less than a body’s length away. Simultaneously, a quick, bright flash of lightning stabbed down from the brooding clouds and struck the poplar. From each striking point, thin trails of smoke eddied toward the sky.
Ingrid’s eyes flew open and she belted out a laugh. She’d done it! After nearly two months of visits to Constantine’s chateau, spending hours upon hours practicing control over this new side of her—a side that her London friends would most definitely believe insane—she had finally done it!
Ingrid pushed herself up, her violet woolen cape and fur-lined hood damp from the ground. The motion set her slushy blood back into circulation, and more tingles pricked at her shoulders. They flooded her arms, pooled at her elbows, and fanned out toward her fingertips. The sudden rush of feeling gave her arms the sensation of being large and unwieldy compared to the rest of her body. But it had happened. For the first time, the electric pulses hadn’t come of their own volition. They hadn’t been ruled by her temper or by fear or any other emotion. She had commanded
Léon’s eyeteeth had erupted from his gums next. They had pushed past his lips into plain view, shocking his silent father, his openmouthed mother, and his trembling brother, transforming into thin, hooked pincers.
And then the screams had shattered the air.
Léon had wanted to assure them that this body wasn’t his. That the sticky tangle of webbing was as repulsive to him as it was to them. But they had all kept wailing, and Léon had lost himself. It was the only way to describe it. It hadn’t been
Léon
sinking his pincers into his father’s neck, or his brother’s forearm, or his mother’s shoulder. It hadn’t been
Léon
who had then used the endless strands of silken thread oozing from his fingers to swathe each of them in tightly wound pods.
But this was Léon now, eyes blurred by tears, body shivering. There was no way to help them. The antivenin Monsieur Constantine had promised was still at least a week away from being complete. There was nothing Léon could do. Nowhere he could go. Constantine had said Léon would be able to get better, that he’d be able to control himself. All he’d wanted to do was hide what he’d become from his family—and now they were dying. Because of
him
.
Léon gasped for air and stumbled away from the table, toward the dining room door. He whimpered as he passed the white cocoons, trying to ignore the way they twitched.
CHAPTER ONE
PARIS
CLOS DU VIE
EARLY FEBRUARY 1900
Ingrid’s body had gone numb in the snow. She lay on her back, staring up at steel skies, and wondered how long this was going to take. The grounds surrounding Monsieur Constantine’s home, set in the airy outskirts of the city, within the Bois de Boulogne, were quiet, just as he had promised. Ingrid needed privacy, and here, she could have as much as she wished.
If any of her old London friends were to see her now, splayed out in the snow, they would likely think she’d gone mad. A smile tugged the corner of her lips. Maybe she had. If that was the case, then mad she would remain, because chilled to the bone was the only way Ingrid could feel anything at all.
The clouds rumbled like a hungry belly, promising not snow but a cold February rain. It would likely wash away the hard, thin blanket of snow that had fallen the night before. Ingrid closed her eyes and ordered the first spark to light. She cried out at the sharp twinge in her shoulder, which was followed by a burst of heat. Pain crackled down one arm, coming alive with an electric rush. With her gloves already cast aside, a serrated line of lightning sputtered from her splayed fingertips. It hit the trunk of a poplar less than a body’s length away. Simultaneously, a quick, bright flash of lightning stabbed down from the brooding clouds and struck the poplar. From each striking point, thin trails of smoke eddied toward the sky.
Ingrid’s eyes flew open and she belted out a laugh. She’d done it! After nearly two months of visits to Constantine’s chateau, spending hours upon hours practicing control over this new side of her—a side that her London friends would most definitely believe insane—she had finally done it!
Ingrid pushed herself up, her violet woolen cape and fur-lined hood damp from the ground. The motion set her slushy blood back into circulation, and more tingles pricked at her shoulders. They flooded her arms, pooled at her elbows, and fanned out toward her fingertips. The sudden rush of feeling gave her arms the sensation of being large and unwieldy compared to the rest of her body. But it had happened. For the first time, the electric pulses hadn’t come of their own volition. They hadn’t been ruled by her temper or by fear or any other emotion. She had commanded
Similar Books
