C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

“They’re too wet,” Margrit said tiredly. “Too bad. I liked this shirt. I can walk.” She patted Alban’s arm. He shifted his hold, but didn’t put her down, and after a few seconds she decided that was agreeable.

Agreeable. A little blood loss, and she became the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. Margrit tried to laugh, but exhaustion swamped her again.

The next time she awakened it was because cool stone was beneath her body, chilling her all the way through. Alban, stripped to the waist and carrying two steaming buckets of water, edged into his room as she sat up. The front of his slacks were entirely soaked in blood from the knees down, and the thighs were badly spotted with it, all the pale material discolored and stiffening as it dried. Margrit shuddered, suddenly aware of how cold she was. Cold from her center to her skin, as if her furnace had shut down.

Alban looked pained at her tremble. “Forgive the accommodations. There seemed little point in putting you on the bed while you were still…”

“Covered in gore?” Margrit picked at the buttons of her blouse as Alban poured the water into a tub she’d never seen in his room before. Fingers too thick to operate properly, she let her hands fall and watched the muscles in his back play easily, as if he picked up a piece of paper instead of gallons of water. A moment later he put the buckets aside and turned back to her, spoiling one lovely view but offering another. Margrit hunched her shoulders against the chill and managed a smile. “I could watch you do that all night.”

Gentle humor crossed his expression. “Except you seem to keep falling asleep. Shall I leave you to bathe?”

“No!” Sudden panic spurted in her at the idea, its wake leaving her more exhausted than before. “I don’t even think I can undress myself, much less be trusted in a bath. I’d probably drown, and I’ve had enough of being dead for one night.” To her horror, tears scalded her eyes as she spoke.

Alban crossed and knelt by her, a solid, comforting presence as he began to undo the buttons she’d been too clumsy to manage. “I believe I’ve had enough of you being dead for a lifetime. When you’re stronger, I think I’ll take the opportunity to go to pieces on you.” Teasing glinted in his eyes as she gave him a sharp look.

“Go to pieces, huh? I didn’t know you knew words like that.”

“I’ve been keeping bad company of late,” Alban said solemnly. He undressed her with quiet efficiency, no eroticism in the act, for which Margrit was wearily grateful. Passion stereotypically arose in the aftermath of danger, but she had no energy left for anything beyond relief that someone was there to care for her. Alban lifted her into the bath with all the gentleness of a practiced nurse, and she sank to its bottom with a whimper.

That quickly, the hot water demolished all her defenses. She began to shiver uncontrollably, teeth chattering at a decibel that would be funny if she wasn’t suddenly so frightened. She reached for Alban’s hand, her own shaking so badly it looked like a caricature of cold. “Is there enough room in this thing for two?” She couldn’t control the stutter and bit her tongue harder than she meant to in trying.

Concern lined Alban’s face. “Not with as much water as is in it now.”

Margrit’s gaze skittered around the room, and all the books safely on their shelves. “The f-floor will d-dry. I n-need you t-to w-warm me up. P-p-please, Alban.”

A moment later he climbed in, his own blood-sodden slacks left on the floor behind him. Water cascaded over the tub’s sides as Margrit twisted herself against his chest, hands fisted as she rattled with cold. His arms encompassed her, gentle fingers stroking her temple, and she finally let go of control and fear in terrible, body-wracking sobs.

She had no idea when sleep had taken her, but wakefulness came easily. Margrit rolled over to search for her alarm clock and the time, and found neither in the gray concrete walls surrounding her. Confusion rattled her before memory caught up and rendered Alban’s room into something that made sense. He was crouched in a corner, solid stone protector, and Tony Pulcella, reading a leather-bound book, sat in a chair across from him. “Tony?”

He clapped the book shut as he glanced up. “Hey. Welcome to the world of the li—” Regret for his choice of words spasmed across his face and Margrit found it in herself to laugh.

“Thanks.” She sat up, scrubbing her face with her hands and then scratching them through her hair to send curls bouncing around her shoulders. “What time is it?”

“About two-thirty. Drink this.” He got up and brought her an enormous bottle of water. Margrit wrapped both hands around it and drained it greedily, not stopping for air until more than half the water was gone. Tony’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher as she drank again, and when she finally lowered the nearly empty bottle, said, “Wow. I didn’t mean all at once. You’re going to get water poisoning.”

“You said drink it! Besides, I feel like a mummy.” Her skin was dry, pinched against her bones, and her lips felt cracked and thin. “Do I look like one?”

“You look anemic. On the other hand, that’s a hell of a lot better than you should look, so don’t knock it.”

“I won’t.” She finished the last few sips of water, then shook her head. “Did you say two-thirty? In the morning?” Even as she asked she knew it couldn’t be: Alban was sleeping, and wouldn’t be if it were still night. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I called in sick. Alban asked me to keep an eye on you.” Tony gestured toward the statue, and for a moment they both looked at the gargoyle, words inadequate to the topic.

“And you said yes,” Margrit finally ventured. “Thanks.”

“What else was I gonna say?” Tony sat down on the end of the bed, a few feet away from Margrit. “Margrit, this world—”

“I know. I know I’ve got a lot to tell you, Tony. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Grace covered most of it.” The detective shrugged at Margrit’s look of surprise. “We spent most of the night talking, until Alban came to ask me to watch out for you. She’s not what I expected. A lot more fragile than I imagined.”

“Grace?” Margrit, remembering Grace’s fist connecting with her face, eyed Tony. “Tall blonde in black leather? That Grace? Fragile?”

Tony studied her a moment or two. “Doesn’t matter. She filled me in on everything. Her world. Their world. And then I watched the gargoyles when the sun came up. It’s magic.” He shook his head. “It’s goddamned magic. I wish you’d told me, Grit.”

Margrit put her head in her hands. “I couldn’t. I’d promised Alban, and then when Cole discovered them, he was so angry. Like he was personally threatened by Alban, by the whole idea of the Old Races. I thought that was how most people would react. I thought it was how you’d react.”

“I might have,” Tony admitted. “I might’ve, if you hadn’t come back from the dead in front of me. But, I mean, dragons, Grit. There are dragons out there. Like all those old maps say.”

“Yeah,” Margrit said absently. “I think those were actually sea serpents they were seeing….”

Tony shouted laughter and Margrit jumped, blinking at him. “Sorry,” he said, still grinning. “You just said that like it was matter-of-fact. Sea serpents, not dragons. Of course. I’m still wrapping my mind around dragons.”

A rueful smile crawled across Margrit’s mouth. “I’ve had a few months to get used to it.”

“Wish I had.” Tony’s laughter faded. “Part of me’s completely freaked out. The other part…it’s like it’s okay if the world doesn’t make sense and stupid shit goes wrong, if there are dragons. Like how the hell can we be in control of anything, if we don’t even know about the dragons.”