C.E. Mutphy - Hands of Flame

“‘Ms.’ You people always pull out the honorifics when you’re annoyed with me. You know what, Kaimana? If you really want to destroy your own people and the rest of the Old Races by taking it to the mat with the djinn, be my guest. Go be offended that you’re not getting your big fat paycheck and take it out on whomever you want. I have done my goddamned best, and if that’s the game you want to play, I wash my hands of it.” She hung up the phone and spun around, arm lifted to fling it against the nearest wall. Only the fact that it belonged to Cameron stopped her, and after a few seconds, she lowered her hand with a curse.

Alban’s quiet presence appeared behind her, more felt than heard. Margrit turned her profile to him, shoulders sagging. “Well, that was mature.”

“Perhaps it was necessary.” His warm hands enveloped her shoulders, sending a wave of comfort through her. She relaxed a little, leaning against him, and felt him lower his head over hers. “You’ve been thrust into a world about which you knew nothing, and have stood fast for what you’ve believed to be right, even at a personal cost. Perhaps, having shaken us up, it is as necessary to let us condemn or save ourselves of our own accord. I do not believe Kaimana Kaaiai will guide his people into open warfare with another of the Old Races. But if he does…we reap what we sow. Isn’t that the phrase you use?”

“Me personally or humans in general?” Margrit turned in Alban’s arms to bury her face against his chest and let go an exhausted sigh. “I feel as if there’s no way out of this alive, Alban. Janx is playing it like a cat with a mouse. It’s all fun and games, all light and mocking, but if I don’t manage to completely ruin Eliseo somehow, he’s going to kill Tony.”

A last vestige of hope was smothered with Alban’s nod. Dismay soured her laugh. “You were supposed to tell me that he wouldn’t really.”

“But he will,” Alban said steadily. “Human lives mean little to Janx, and Detective Pulcella has humiliated him. Had Janx not been injured so badly at the House of Cards, I doubt Tony would have survived the night. He’s been fortunate.”

“I’m not sure anybody involved with me is fortunate, right now. Russell’s dead, Tony’s under a death sentence, Daisani’s threatened to eat Cam more than once, my mother nearly had her heart pulled out…Jesus. If I thought leaving town would work, I’d do it.”

Alban, carefully, said, “Sarah did.”

Margrit shook her head. “Her situation was different, and you know it. I have to see this through. I’m not going to let Tony pay for my involvement with the Old Races.”

“You’re a worthy adversary, Margrit Knight.” Alban tipped her chin up, his pale eyes serious as he studied her. “Regardless of how lacking in control you may feel, I assure you that no one amongst the Old Races thinks you are anything but worthy. As much trust as you put in Janx’s integrity, if you hadn’t earned his respect, he wouldn’t have honored the favors you’ve played against each other.”

“Which is why I’ve got to hold up my end of the bargain. My own honor’s as much at stake as his is.” Margrit took a deep breath and released Alban, her whole body aching as the comfort of his presence withdrew. “I said humans were good at leveling the playing field. I have to keep trying to do that. This’ll end soon,” she added more softly. “Either I’ll succeed and this horrible mess will be over, or I’ll fail and I’ll be—”

“You will not.” Alban’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

“Janx’ll take Tony’s life over my dead body.”

“Then we shall make very certain he has no reason.”

“We?” A new spark of hope lit in Margrit, so unexpected it tightened her throat. “What’s this we, white man?”

Alban blinked at her, nonplussed, and the flicker of hope turned into a shaking laugh. “Haven’t you ever heard—it’s a Lone Ranger joke. Haven’t you—Never mind. Never mind,” she repeated, and Alban chuckled, then cupped her jaw.

“We, Margrit. I have no intention of allowing you to fall at Janx’s whim, and regardless of Chelsea’s dramatic questions, we can’t deal Eliseo such a crippling blow that he’ll never rise from it. His life is too long and his resources too great. We,” he said again, gently. “Your allies may be few, but they do exist. I am here.”

“That makes me feel better.” The words scratched out through a still-tight throat. Margrit stepped into Alban’s arms for another fierce hug, then let him go again with fresh determination. “To hell with the selkies and the djinn and all of them. We’ll deal with Daisani and go from there.”

“A wise plan. Now, come.” Alban offered his hand. “Kate and Janx have outpaced us. We should catch up.”

Margrit glanced hopefully at the sky, and the gargoyle chuckled. “I was thinking of something more prosaic. You are, after all, wearing your running shoes.”

“Oh.” Margrit looked at her feet, then shot Alban an impish smile, the first time she’d really felt like smiling in what seemed like hours. “Race you.”

She won, crashing against Janx to slow herself down as Alban came up from behind to plow past the dragons like a battering ram, too much weight to be denied. Janx staggered and clutched his kidney. Hot embarrassment flooded Margrit and she babbled an apology that went on until she saw a wicked glint in the dragonlord’s green eyes. “Yoooouuu…!”

Janx smiled beatifically. “Aren’t I, though? The transformations help set things to right. I think I told you that. And I’ve had more cause and opportunity to change form these last few days than I have in…”

“Decades?” Margrit ventured.

“At least. There was Chicago, but—” Janx broke off as Chelsea’s bookstore came into sight. His nostrils flared and he glanced at Alban, whose eyebrows drew down as he took in the dragon’s expression, then grew darker as he, too, inhaled. Without speaking, they both broke into a run, leaving Margrit and Kate to double-take at one another, then follow.

Janx, the lither of the two, reached the door first, and burst through with literal accuracy, glass shattering and erupting as he crashed into it. Margrit skidded in a step behind him, with Alban and Kate a few steps farther away.

The always-crowded store was in a shambles, once-tall stacks of books knocked across it, their spines broken and torn. Shelving had been knocked over, dominoing up to the walls with their fallen volumes filling the spaces between them. Even Margrit recognized the too-familiar scent of blood.

“Oh, God. Chelsea? Chelsea!” Easily the lightest of the four of them, Margrit crawled across broken-down shelves, scrambling for the bead curtain at the back of the shop. Alban, behind her, called her name as she lost her balance and reached to catch herself on the curtain.

Beads raked through her hands, clattering to the floor and bouncing across it to stick in the crimson blood that spread out around Chelsea Huo’s lifeless body.

“Impossible.” Janx was at Margrit’s side somehow, his transition from the foyer to Chelsea’s apartment gone unnoticed. “This is impossible.”

Margrit backed away, rattling what was left of the curtain, and fell over toppled bookshelves on its other side. Tears she hadn’t noticed beginning to fall scalded her cheeks and blurred her vision as she climbed to her feet again. “Looks pretty fucking possible to me.” She didn’t recognize her own voice, strained with disbelief and pain. Swiping a hand across her eyes, she crawled back over the bookcases. “Get out of there, Janx. Don’t touch anything.”

His shadow against the beads said he wasn’t listening, that he’d knelt by Chelsea’s body. Margrit could still hear his murmurs of denial, though unlike her, he seemed to have no rage, only bewilderment.