C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

“I have, I think, done very little to earn the trust you’re offering me. The choices I’ve made have not been made out of foresight or wisdom, only a belief in what was right regardless of what our laws dictated. If you’ve changed enough to recognize that we must adapt further or die out, then I think any leadership I might provide is moot. You have already become the change you wish to see. Biali made courageous choices at the quorum, choices I don’t know if I would have been bold enough to follow through on myself, even if not doing so might have been hypocritical. I think I feared change more than any of us, but it seems even I’ve fallen beneath its scythe. If there’s any guidance I can offer, then I will, of course, but it seems to me that you would be better served by Eldred or one of the others.”

He hesitated, then turned his palms up in supplication. “That said, there is one thing I think we as a people should do. The djinn have it in their hearts to make war on us over the death of one of their own. I’m responsible for that death, and will not hide from it. But I still believe that our third law must hold sway. We Old Races cannot be allowed to turn on one another even when something as terrible as Malik al-Massrī’s death rocks our ranks. If exile is to be the price, so be it. I will pay it willingly enough. But we cannot permit this to come to war. Bloodshed is too costly for any of us. So I would ask, if I may ask anything, that some of you join me in finding the djinn and designing a peace accord out of this tragedy before it escalates out of control.”

Biali cracked his knuckles over the fire and shoved out of his crouch. A smirk shadowed his scarred face as Alban looked askance at him, and he shrugged his thick shoulders. “What? Pretty words don’t disguise that you’re going in looking for a fight. I’m not going to miss this one, Stoneheart. It ought to be good.”

Ice slid through Margrit’s veins, holding her in place as Tariq continued, his voice so soft and steady it seemed that what he was saying must be reasonable. “There is still the matter of Malik al-Massrī’s death.”

“It was an accident. Would you be persecuting Malik if he’d managed to kill Janx? Or Janx, if he’d killed Malik to survive?”

“Irrelevant questions. The glassmaker lived and Malik died at your hands and the gargoyle’s.”

Recollection struck a chord. “Glassmaker, that’s right. You two know each other, don’t you? He knew your name.”

Tariq’s amber eyes darkened. “Also irrelevant. You will not save yourself by changing the subject, Margrit Knight.”

Margrit muttered, “It was worth a shot,” then, more clearly, said, “Do I get a trial? Alban got one.” Her body was still cold, but her thoughts, at least, seemed to be moving at their usual pace, searching for a way out, or at least an extension of the brief minutes she had left.

“Alban Korund is a gargoyle, and faced a gargoyle tribunal for the death of another of his own kind. Their traditions are different from ours, as he will discover when we mete out punishment for Malik’s death.”

“So no trial.” Margrit bit down on further response, realizing fear was translating itself into sarcasm. Her gaze went to the steel delivery door and slipped away again instantly: even if it was open so she could make a run for it, outrunning a djinn was quite literally impossible. Quick as she could be, she simply couldn’t outpace someone who didn’t need to travel the distance between two places.

“Do you deny your guilt?”

Startled, she looked back at Tariq. “I—” Complicated emotion arose, embodied in flashes of the House of Cards on fire, and Malik’s destruction in the flames. Picking her words carefully, she said, “I deny that I am guilty of murder. I do not deny that I’m partially responsible for accidental manslaughter, and I don’t deny that I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.” However long it may be, she added silently.

“Then even if we were so inclined, there is no need for a trial.” Tariq nodded and two djinn appeared at Margrit’s sides, hands on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees.

Fear finally caught up with her, making the fall thick and heavy. Tears burned her eyes, whether from terror or pain, and the whole of her body was cold. Tariq put his hand out and a third djinn placed a scimitar in it, then backed away as he unsheathed it with the too-familiar sound of metal on leather.

Margrit’s throat clogged, choking off her breath as Tariq approached. Water swam in her eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to blink the fog it produced away, irrationally afraid of missing the strike that would end her life. Out of nowhere, she recalled an article she’d read about decapitation, possibly one written during the French Revolution. The man scheduled to die had promised his friends that he would keep blinking as long as he could once his head left his neck, as an experiment in determining whether death was instantaneous or not.

He had blinked for twenty seconds before finally going still.

She did not want to know that she was dead, not like that. Horrifying enough to die young and badly, but far worse to face even a few seconds of knowing her life had already ended and she was only waiting for her damaged body to realize it.

“Cara?” Panic turned Margrit’s question into a chalkboard shriek.

“Yes, of course.” Cara stepped forward, still pale, and executed a careful half bow toward Tariq, who turned to her with the infinite patience of a man certain of his control.

Cara met his eyes. “I don’t like it, but to avert a war that would destroy us all, I agree to Margrit Knight’s terms. The docklands and Janx’s empire are yours. I hope we may come to some new agreement on working together, but even if not, the selkies will not stand in the way of the djinn. Nor,” she added a little more coolly, “will we support you if you should pursue your vendetta over the matter of Malik al-Massrī’s death. If you choose to war against the others, you do so alone.”

Tariq returned her hard gaze a long time before a sharp smile twisted his features. “We accept your terms, and in exchange will allow the life of this human to stand in the place of any of our brethren against whom we might otherwise hold accountable for unfortunate events.”

Cara looked down at Margrit, then nodded and stepped back.

Disbelief clenched Margrit’s stomach, forcing a frightened laugh free. Tears finally fell, scalding lines down her cheeks, and she shook her head savagely, trying to splash the droplets of salt water on the djinn holding her. Neither so much as flinched. Margrit twisted her head to the side, biting down violently on one of their hands before a blow across the face dizzied her. The injured djinn knotted his hand in her hair and hauled her head back to expose her throat to Tariq’s sword.

A rumble arrested all attention, making Margrit’s tormentors turn toward the delivery door as it shuddered open. Headlights flared outside, silhouetting two slim figures against the night before the door rolled shut again. Cara took one step farther back from Margrit, shoulders rigid.

Ursula Hopkins folded her arms across her chest and stared boldly at each group gathered in the room: selkies, djinn and the little crowd around Margrit herself. Kate, like a crimson shadow, leaned on the garage door, a foot cocked against it as she studied her fingernails with a deliberate insouciance.

Despite everything, amusement rose up to strangle Margrit. Janx himself couldn’t have looked more nonchalant, and she fought back the urge to suddenly begin wild applause.

Instead all attention hung on the two young-looking women. Silence stretched until Tariq snapped it with, “What is this? We have business, and you—”