C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

Margrit wondered if that made her more human, or less, than she’d once been.

The thought cleared her mind, leaving her room to simply run. She cut across streets against the lights, making her way uptown with the vague idea of going home, or to the park. It didn’t matter, as long as she ran. For the first time in two weeks, nightmares didn’t haunt her steps, and she felt as though the exercise was helping to replenish the blood she’d lost the night before. She still needed more to drink, but what Tony’d brought had given her strength.

She came to a halt, panting, outside an apartment building, and flipped her ponytail upside down, hands on her thighs as she panted for air. The dizziness felt good: normal, and she was beginning to forget what normal was like. Anything that reminded her was welcome.

“Ms. Knight?” A voice spoke from a few yards away. Margrit righted herself, hands on her hips while she continued to heave for air, and blinked at the doorman, whose expression split into a smile. “Are you here to see Mr. Daisani?”

Margrit rolled back on her heels, still breathing hard, and looked up toward the penthouse apartment Daisani lived in. She’d had no conscious intention to visit the vampire, and reversed her gaze to eye her feet accusingly, as though they’d developed a mind of their own. Then she smiled at the doorman. “Yeah, I am. It’s Diego, right? Gosh, thanks. I didn’t know if anybody would recognize me, with me turning up all sweaty and out of breath.”

Diego grinned. “It’s my job.” He held the door for her and Margrit went inside, waiting till she was well past him to raise a mocking eyebrow at herself: gosh? It was the sort of thing the flighty, frantic persona she’d put on a few days ago in an attempt to rescue Alban would have said.

The elevator doors slid open and Margrit stepped in, heel of one hand pressed against her eye as she tried to count back and remember how many days had passed since then. It was late Saturday afternoon now, and that had been Wednesday morning. She’d had far too little sleep in the interim, but felt astonishingly good for all of that.

An almost unnoticeable lurch warned her she’d reached the penthouse level just before the bell rang. Expecting a hallway, Margrit stepped out and then, astonished, glanced around a gorgeously lit, sunken living room. After the warm, rich Victorian colors of his office lobby, Margrit had expected Daisani’s home to be similar. Instead everything glowed in whites and creams, making the room a bastion of light.

Daisani himself came out of an enormous kitchen off to the elevator’s right, followed by the scent of garlic. “Miss Knight. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Margrit, her intended topic entirely forgotten, blurted, “The elevator opens in your living room? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Daisani arched an eyebrow. “Not especially. And, of course, I assure you the elevator only opens so indiscreetly when I know who’s arriving. Its back doors open on the hallway, which is how most visitors are admitted. Margrit, whatever are you doing here? I understand there was quite a kerfuffle last night.”

“Quite a…You could say that. I’m only alive because of you. Thanks.” Her eyebrows shot up. “I thought you said I’d still have to sleep, by the way. I’ve been up for most of four days and I feel fine.”

“Really. How extraordinary. I sleep very little, of course, but my blood doesn’t impart that gift to humans. It’s a more dragonly trait. Won’t you come in? Have some wine?”

“Water, please.” Margrit followed him into the kitchen, squinting. “Wait. Something happens if dragons give a human their blood, too?”

“I have no idea. They’re not, as far as I know, in the habit of it. Especially since your alchemists and wizards used to hunt them down for the so-called magical properties in their blood. I wouldn’t be inclined to share, either.” Smiling, Daisani poured a crystal glass of water and offered it to her.

Margrit took it and drank automatically, then, childlike, held it out for a refill when she’d finished. Looking amused, he poured a second glass, and Margrit did the same thing again without realizing it. When he handed it back a third time, she accepted, then turned one palm up, searching for a cut that wasn’t there.

But her own mind, sharpened with gargoyle clarity, showed her what she sought: a memory of Janx’s bloody scale, torn from his body by Alban’s strength. Margrit had pressed her hands against the deadly edge, watching her own skin part and meld again.

Melding, perhaps, with dragon blood.

“Margrit?”

She jolted, looking up from her hand, then drew a sharp breath. “Sorry. I was thinking.” Water glass set aside, she pulled her ponytail out, then twisted it back into place. “You want to know why I’m here.”

“Very much.” Daisani’s smile all but sparkled with curiosity. “After what I’ve heard about last night, anything that brings you here must be momentous indeed.”

“It is.” Margrit swallowed, then turned her hands up, as if pleading. “Here’s the thing. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. Janx wants you destroyed, and my promise to do that is the only thing keeping Tony alive. But for some reason it really gets under my skin to sneak around and backstab you, so I’m telling you that this is what I have to do. I have to try. I don’t much want to, but I can’t stop Janx any other way.”

Daisani blinked, the slowest, most deliberate expression she’d ever seen from him. “That…is momentous, indeed. You are certainly full of surprises, Miss Knight. Do you throw gauntlets at all your rivals with such clear and forthright intent?”

Margrit blinked back, then twitched her eyebrows in a shrug. “Well, yeah, pretty much. This is what lawyers do. Meet in neutral territory, proclaim their intentions, bargain if it’s possible, then step back to do battle in the courtroom.”

“And is a bargain possible?” Daisani asked the question as if it were academic; as if he knew already what the final answer was, but was curious to hear her response.

“Let’s assume for a moment that you were willing to relinquish all your holdings and walk away from the corporation. I don’t think Janx would qualify that as you being destroyed, which is what he wants. He probably also wants it to be a surprise, but I can’t help thinking that if I pull it off, you’re going to be plenty surprised whether you’ve been forewarned or not. So, no, I don’t think it is possible. I wish it was. I wish it could be that easy. But you’re not going to make it that easy, are you?”

“What fun would that be? I do see a critical flaw in your plan, though, Margrit.” He waited the fraction of a moment for Margrit to look inquisitive, then said, “What’s to prevent me from killing you right now and ending the entire question?”

Margrit dragged in a breath, held it, then expelled it on a crooked smile. “What fun would that be?”

She could almost hear Alban’s voice, dismayed and resigned, saying, “That was a bad idea.”

The phrase was so inadequate as to be laughable, but that was part of the delight in hearing him say it. She had pursued so many bad ideas in the months since the Old Races came into her life that more extravagant words fell by the wayside of that one hopelessly understated comment.

Daisani had laughed aloud and gestured her back toward the elevator. Grateful, Margrit had taken the out she was offered, heart pushing thick blood with such enthusiasm that it sent a cramp through her chest when the elevator doors closed without Daisani darting inside them. He could catch her anywhere, instantaneously, but allowing her to escape the building without reminding her of that seemed like an agreement to the game.