C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

Opposite them, on the other end of the gargoyle arc, stood a scattered handful of djinn and selkies. Alban knew none of them, save one: the amber-eyed male who had recently held Rebecca Knight’s heart in his hand, and who had only been stopped from doing murder by a vampire’s blood. That he was there; that anyone beyond the gargoyle tribunal was there, sent a warning through Alban. There was more at stake than just his exile.

Grace was the only human in the room. Regret seized Alban’s heart and held it a long beat, then slipped away in a moment of clarity. It was better, perhaps, for Margrit to not attend. She would only be frustrated with his course of action, and he had no real wish for her to see him condemned. That he stood so bore less shame than watching her as his people made it moot.

A shift signaled the last arrival’s entrance. Alban followed a dozen people’s attention as it turned to the other door in the room, knowing who he would see. He stood, in part to lord his height over Biali, and in part to make certain the other gargoyle saw Alban was free of chains.

The scarred gargoyle faltered in his stride as he entered, curled lip losing some of its sneer as he took in Alban’s unbound form. Alban permitted himself a faint smile that darkened Biali’s countenance again, and he stalked across the room to take up a position opposite Alban. For a few seconds the room was still, each being present sizing up the others and assessing the power balance. Then one of the gargoyles shifted, drawing attention to himself, and spoke in a voice like flowing lava, hot and deep.

“Who calls this tribunal?”

“I do.” Grace stood, all human cockiness and casual challenge. “I’m called Grace O’Malley, and it’s me who’s brought you here to decide Alban Korund’s fate, and Biali Kameh’s, too. These are my tunnels, gargoyle. I’d ask you to name yourself, so me and mine might welcome you.”

“I am Eldred of the clan Casmir, and as eldest of the gargoyles present, accept your call and your welcome.” Eldred bowed his head in polite admission while Alban studied him, interest piqued well outside the matter of his own trial. He had harvested the gargoyle memories for the histories of the selkies’ disappearance, and it had been this resplendently voiced gargoyle who was the last to speak with those people before they went into the sea. The memory Alban had investigated had been from Eldred’s point of view, and Eldred himself unseen in it. Still, Alban had gathered a sense of the gargoyle, and he seemed aged with sorrow, tempered with more compassion than he had been centuries earlier when he’d bid a friend goodbye.

“Who brings complaint against Alban of the clan Korund, called the Breach?” Eldred went on without heed to Alban’s consideration, and Biali stepped forward, radiating smug anger.

“I do. Biali of the clan Kameh, and my complaint is the death of one of our own.”

Though they had to know the charges being brought against him, the gargoyles hardened, interest draining from their gazes and leaving stony outrage behind. “You wouldn’t have known her,” Biali growled. “She was Hajnal’s daughter, called Ausra, and grew up outside of our enclaves. She died at Korund’s hands, for attacking a human. I have it from his memories, and offer them to the histories as proof.”

Eldred turned to Alban. “What say you to the charges?”

“They’re true.”

Astonishment rippled through the watchers, gargoyle or not, so palpably that unexpected humor burst within Alban’s breast. He had never considered speaking anything but the truth; it seemed others had never imagined he might, or that such a crime could be committed. Janx’s mouth tightened, less with surprise than caution, and sympathy burned Alban’s humor to a cinder. Alban’s condemnation for Ausra’s death could too easily lead to an inquiry of Malik’s, and the guilt there was spread wide. Eldred lifted a hand, silencing the gathered Old Races, and considered Alban. “Have you nothing more to say?”

Alban turned his palms up. “I believe madness held Ausra in its grip, and that all our people were endangered by her, but that wasn’t what drove me to act. She’d murdered four human women in a matter of days and a score of others over fifteen decades. She had another human life in her hands, and I chose the human woman over her. I would do so again,” he added more softly, then raised his voice again to say, “but we’ve never, as a people, considered motive, only results. I am guilty of the crime as accused, and moreover, will not stand the trials.”

Fresh shock rocked the meeting room, disbelief erupting from the gargoyles and quiet disapproval marking Chelsea Huo’s expression. Daisani danced fingertips against his lips as if hiding a smile, and Janx, beside him, did smile and gave Alban a slow nod of appreciation when he glanced that way.

Biali’s fury roared above the others, cry of a man denied his vengeance. Eldred, too dignified to shout, stood and waited on his presence to calm the chattering group. “Unusual, but not unprecedented,” he murmured. “I must then ask if there is another who will stand in your place as your second.”

Alban drew breath to deny it, and then finally, finally, finally, came Margrit, her voice clear and steady over the tribunal’s murmur and Biali’s open scorn. Aghast, Alban turned from the tribunal to look toward the doorway she was framed by.

Grace had to have helped her with the clothes. He’d never seen Margrit dressed in leather before, but her easy, confident stance made her a creature of desire and caution all at once. All that was feminine had been left behind, leaving only the female, deadly in appearance indeed.

Her thick hair was tamed and knotted into a twist at the back of her head, showing off the strong lines of her face. The jacket she wore was fitted but not constricting, leather old enough to move easily, heavy enough to protect. It was zipped now, and a pattern of silver studs splashed over the arms and chest, marking it as belonging to Mariah, Alban’s favorite among Grace’s teens. Alban was torn between gratitude that the girl’s clothes fit Margrit, and dismay that she had cause to don what were all too clearly fighting leathers. She wore pants of the same well-fitted, heavy material, and boots sturdy enough to add an inch or more to her height without in any way being heels. She was dangerous and beautiful, and broke away from the framing doorway to stalk before the tribunal, and repeat the words that had shot dread through Alban’s heart.

“I will.”

One gargoyle amongst the jury was on his feet, an elegant creature whose stony gray hair and craggy features made him seem older, to Margrit’s eyes, than his brethren. He watched Margrit with quiet patience, waiting for the room to fall silent again. She nodded to him and his eyes creased just slightly, as if he was amused or pleased by her acknowledgment.

None of the other gargoyles paid her particular heed, though she was obviously the center of their discussion. There were five of them, ranging in size from two women with Valkyrie-broad shoulders to a lanky blond whose form was so different from the gargoyles Margrit knew he might have been of another race. The one on his feet was heavyset, not Biali’s aging prizefighter in form, but bulky in a way that suggested muscle and strength rather than fat running out of hand.

None of them were as pure a pale as Alban, though none of them had Hajnal’s loamy tint, either. Margrit fought the urge to look toward Alban, bringing up his alabaster skin tone in her mind instead, and comparing it to the varied shades of light stone the tribunal shared. Of the gargoyles she’d seen and met, only Biali’s stark, unmarred white came close to Alban’s alabaster, and now that Margrit had others to liken them to, she could tell that Alban’s color was delicate, almost translucent, where Biali’s was hard and relentless.