C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

“That could help a lot.” Cam spoke quietly. “They’re friends. If Tony’s okay, maybe it’ll help smooth things over.” She offered a hopeful smile. “Next thing you know, they’ll all be going out for beer and football.”

Margrit laughed and got up to hug her housemate. “What a horrible idea.”

“Isn’t it? Sit back down,” Cam ordered. “You’ve got a lot of food to get through before Cole gets home.”

“I’ve got a lot of other things to get through before…” Before when? she wondered. Janx hadn’t demanded a time frame, though clearly the dragonlord expected results sooner rather than later. For a moment the idea of putting him off indefinitely with promises of Daisani’s financial ruin at any moment struck her as amusing, but the humor faded. He might allow that to go on for a little while, but he would no doubt remain in New York, threatening both Tony and Grace O’Malley’s under-city charity operation until Margrit came through on her end of the deal. Time was of the essence, not for her own sake, but for the sake of the lives she’d managed to disrupt.

She shook herself and collected the food cartons from the floor, heading into the living room with them. “I’ll finish eating before anything else. And then can I borrow your cell phone for a couple of days? Mine got ruined last night.”

“You can have mine if you buy me a spiffy new one!”

“Your generosity overwhelms me.” Margrit sat down on the couch to finish dinner, feeling at least temporarily lighthearted.

Cam did lend her the cell phone. Margrit, wanting privacy and to keep her housemates as uninvolved as she could, left the apartment well before sunset to call her mother. Rebecca Knight’s voice mail picked up, sending a pang of relieved regret through Margrit. Her mother, a stockbroker, was the only contact she had who could possibly advise her on how to take down a financial empire, but the idea of asking made Margrit cold with dismay. She left a message and Cam’s number, then worked her way downtown to Chelsea Huo’s bookshop.

Chelsea, chatting with customers, waved Margrit toward the back room and called, “Help yourself to some tea,” after her. Glad to do so, Margrit wound her way through the stacks and through the rattling bead curtain that separated Chelsea’s private quarters from the rest of the store. A few minutes later, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she curled up on one of the overstuffed sofas and waited for the second rattle that would announce Chelsea’s arrival.

It took longer than she expected, long enough to finish her tea and nod drowsily against the sofa’s back. Chelsea’s soprano rose and fell in the front room, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with words, while other voices made deeper counterparts to her pleasantry. It seemed very normal, reassuringly far away from the Old Races, and for a little while Margrit drifted on the idea that she could perhaps someday find a role as comfortable as Chelsea’s seemed to be.

Finally the beads chattered again and Margrit pushed upright, blinking sleepily. Chelsea clucked her tongue and made another pot of tea before turning her bright smile on Margrit. “So you survived the djinn negotiations. Has everyone agreed?”

Margrit eyed her. “Are you being funny?”

“Not at all.” Chelsea’s smile faded. “What happened?” Her expression grew increasingly grim as Margrit explained, and when she finished, Chelsea shook her head. “You have the luck of the devil, Margrit Knight. I’m not sure any other human would have survived that.”

“Any other human.” Margrit pressed her lips together, looking hard at the tiny bookseller. “Chelsea, do you say it that way because you’re one of them?”

Chelsea tilted her head. “Do you not find yourself thinking in terms of humans and gargoyles and vampires now, Margrit? Naming your own race separately, in a way you didn’t before?”

Margrit sighed and slumped in the couch. “Yeah, I do. I thought Hispanic and African-American and all could get confusing enough. I never counted on adding gargoyle-Americans to the mix.” She was silent a moment, wondering if Chelsea’s response answered the question, and then let it go. “What about Vanessa Gray? She had to have had a healing sip to get the second sip, the one for long life.”

“She did, as have done a handful of others. But I believe they came together, two sips at once.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Vanessa didn’t survive an attack less direct and devastating than a cut throat,” Chelsea pointed out. “I would say it might well make a difference. Think of it this way. You’ve had some three months in which your body has learned to heal itself. Time in which the smallest blemishes could be undone, from pimples to extraneous chromosomes, and whether deliberately or not, you’ve pushed that healing ability to its fullest. Vanessa and the others had no time for their bodies to adapt. They went from mortal to—” Chelsea broke off, drawing a breath as if to give herself time to consider her words. “Immortal,” she finally said, though she didn’t look pleased with it.

“Demi-mortal?” Margrit asked with a half smile. “Demigods are half human, half gods, right? So a human whose lifespan’s been extended beyond the norm would be demi-mortal.”

Chelsea’s smile blossomed. “Demi-mortal. That will do nicely. They went from mortal to demi-mortal inside a few minutes. I would think the flaws they were born with would continue into demi-mortality, having been given no chance to be wiped away. I should think that even without a second sip of Eliseo’s blood, short of traumatic accidents, you might live a very long time indeed.”

Margrit stared at her, then shuddered. “Demi-mortal sounds better on somebody else, Chelsea. I’m only human.”

“Yes, I think that’s true. I suspect that if you underwent examination you would be nothing more than human, but you might very possibly be a perfect specimen. No errors in the template any longer.”

“Wouldn’t that make me sterile, or something?” The idea was so extreme it had almost no meaning as she voiced it. “I mean, isn’t human development born from mutation? How can anything mutate if I don’t have any flaws?”

“I think as long as you intend to reproduce sexually instead of asexually you’re in no danger of flaw-free reproduction,” Chelsea said dryly. “Which, fascinating topic as it is, is probably not why you came here this evening.”

“No, although I’m beginning to think maybe it should have been. I never even thought about—” Margrit drew herself up, stopping the line of speculation. “I came to ask if you think it’s possible to take Daisani down.”

Chelsea’s feathery eyebrows shot up. “You’re asking me?”

“Well, I can’t exactly ask him for pointers. You…know things,” Margrit said, suddenly aware that was the phrase Grace often used. Putting that aside, too, she added, “And they listen to you. Why?” The word carried stress as she found herself up against the question of whether Chelsea was human or not a second time. “I’ve never seen any of them so much as mock you. They tease me all the time.”

“Margrit.” Amusement warmed Chelsea’s voice. “It’s early April. You’ve been part of their world for three months, and they have, in fact, all jumped at your command. I’m easily twice your age, and have known about them for a very long time. Even if you do no more than hold the place you now stand in, in twenty years you’ll be treated with more reverence, too.”

Margrit regarded Chelsea over the mug of tea, then blew exasperated ripples into it. “Did I sound like I wanted a logical answer? Still, they do listen to you.”

“You think Eliseo Daisani will listen if I suggest he roll over?”