C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

The djinn made a bitter sound and the pressure around Margrit’s heart lessened, then disappeared entirely, leaving an ache of pain in its place. She coughed and doubled over, arms folded against her chest and tears flooding her eyes as she heard him say, “I am no glassmaker to play at this game on levels and levels. This is your one moment of grace, human. I will not be denied a second time or offer another chance.”

Rebecca waited until Margrit looked up with a tight nod that said she was all right, then dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I think we understand each other, then.” She stepped around her desk, switching her computer on with a brisk motion, then glanced around her office.

A pang that had nothing to do with her heart being crushed spasmed through Margrit’s chest. She’d come to ask for what Rebecca was about to do, but she’d known the price was too high and that her mother would refuse. Watching her now take in the office for what was very likely the last time hurt worse than she’d anticipated. “Mom…”

“Eliseo’s major holdings will go on the open market when the bells ring Monday morning,” Rebecca said steadily. “I can’t guarantee it’ll destroy him, but it will certainly be extremely costly.” She sat down at her computer. “You said you had a buyer, Margrit. I suggest you contact him immediately and have him liquidate any holdings he can in order to have cash on hand to purchase with.”

“But what about you?” Recriminations pounded at the inside of Margrit’s skin, trying to break free. If she hadn’t been foolish enough to ask Rebecca to help in the first place, her mother wouldn’t be about to ruin her career. If she’d refused Janx—

Then Tony would be dead. Margrit’s hands knotted into fists. Ruining Daisani’s career was a price she was willing to pay for the detective’s life. Rebecca herself had decided Margrit’s life, and by extension, Tony’s, were worth her own career. There had to be a limit, though, a point at which the needs of the many overrode the good of the one. Two lives was a high price to pay for one. More would become untenable. “It ends here,” Margrit whispered.

Rebecca looked up with a smile. “That will be good enough for me, Margrit. Now go, and take your unpleasant companion with you. I have work to do.”

Sunset’s release brought wakefulness with a burgeoning sense of responsibility, wholly different from the small tasks Alban had set himself over the decades. The gargoyles had held themselves apart for millennia. To put themselves forward as they’d done so precipitously the previous evening heralded an involvement with the world they’d never before had. For all that it had seemed right and necessary in the moment, it was only now that the enormity of his decision—and the fact that the others had indeed followed him—began to sink in.

And yet nothing would convince him that he had chosen badly. Margrit’s horrifying experience aside, had the gargoyles not arrived when they did, many more of the Old Races might have died. For a people who regarded themselves as observers and recorders, they also had clear strengths as enforcers.

The idea sent a shock of bemusement through Alban. To move so quickly from passive to active participants—especially in a world as changed as theirs was now—well, that was what Margrit Knight had made of him, perhaps. It was what she would make of all the Old Races, given the chance. He wondered if that thought might cause her sleepless nights, and then humor caught him: the Old Races themselves gave her enough sleepless nights. Any changes she wrought, and their consequences, would have to haunt her daytime hours.

She was gone, her scent faded enough to say it had been some hours since she’d slept in his rarely used cot. Regret slipped through him and fell away again: it was enough to let dawn and stone take him with Margrit at his side. She could and did live in a daylight world; to hope she would be there when he woke was too much. He, after all, would never be there when she woke.

A rap sounded at the door. Alban unfolded from his crouch, wings stretching, then disappearing as he changed to human form before saying, “Come in.”

For some reason it surprised him when Grace entered. Aside from Margrit, she was the most likely, but Alban had half-consciously expected Tony Pulcella.

“Janx isn’t understanding Margrit’s orders to leave this place to me now,” Grace said without preamble. “And I’m talented, love, but I can’t shoo a dragon from my doorstep. Maybe a word in his ear?”

Doubt made Alban lift an eyebrow. “Didn’t I watch you face that dragon down only last night?”

“You’ve mistaken me for Margrit,” Grace said blithely. “Maybe a bit of her spark carried over, that’s all. And for all my boldness I’m no good pushing him around, much less two of them and that vampire lass. Gives me the creeps, she does.”

“Ursula? I always thought she was the calmer of the two.”

“Aye, and it’s always the quiet ones to watch out for, now, isn’t it? You saw what she did.” Grace shuddered. “Thought you’d have taught them better, Stoneheart. Thought you’d have taught them the laws that bind you all.”

“I would not have imagined them to be so careless with our lives,” Alban murmured. “But they’ve lived apart from the Old Races since they were born. How constrained by our laws would you feel if you were they?”

“Not at all, but then, laws and Grace, we’ve never been on speaking terms. What will they do to them?”

“I have no idea,” Alban admitted, “but change has run rough over our world. We’ll find room and a way to make it work. After all, it’s hard to exile a pair who’ve never belonged, and I doubt their fathers will allow them to feel unwelcome.”

Wicked interest glittered in Grace’s eyes. “Fathers, indeed, and how does that work? Which of them was being cuckolded, and which was the cock, do you suppose? Or did they share a woman gracefully, mmm? Don’t tell me their fair lady had them fooled. None of you have a weak nose for scent, and not even the nobility scrubbed clean often in that day and age.”

Alban rumbled, “I would never dream of asking,” and Grace laughed aloud, clapping her hands like a pleased child.

“No, and of course you wouldn’t, solid, stolid, stone thing that you are. Well, and maybe I’ll have a chance to ask myself, someday. But go on, Stoneheart.” Grace sobered. “Rid me of the dragon, will you? He’s only stalling anyway. Your Margrit laid it out for him clear enough, and I’ve never seen one such as he tuck tail and turn that readily. What was the task?” she asked, curiosity and caution turning her voice sharp. “What’d he set Margrit to do?”

“I don’t know. It seemed Margrit did, but I wasn’t privy to whatever favor he asked.”

“Ah.” Curiosity lit Grace’s eyes before she waved him down the hall. “Well, go on, then. Go find out, and then send him packing. The sooner these tunnels are my own again, the happier I’ll be.”

Amusement washed through him. “Where do you come by your command, Grace? Even I find myself inclined to leap before realizing I’ve been given an order.”

“Born to it, love, and you’re not meant to notice. Gargoyles,” she said with a sniff. “You pay too much attention. I’ll be glad to have the lot of you gone from my territory, so I will, and yes, that means you, too, Alban Korund. I’ve had enough trouble from the Old Races. My kids and I need our peace.”

“So you haven’t set your cap for Eldred?” Alban asked, still amused, and Grace mimed adjusting one.

“Not at all. There’s a fine man out there for Gráinne Ui Mháille, and I’ll capture his heart when the time comes. Now go on, Alban,” she said again. “Protect me and mine. That’s what you’re here for.”