C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

“Who gets to decide what enough is?”

“I do,” Chelsea said with a simple shrug. “Because it’s not my story.”

Margrit closed her eyes, then nodded. “All right. I’ll take anything. I’m lost.” She laughed without humor. “What is he?”

“A gargoyle, as he said. But you mean that question in a larger sense, I think. The answer to the question you really mean is, he is one of the Old Races.”

“The old races. And I thought that was like the lost tribes of Israel, or something.” Margrit shook her head. “What the f-” She cleared her throat, censoring herself. “What are the old races?”

“They were the children of a different evolutionary path, from before this world settled on what direction it would take. There are four or five left, now. Five, if the selkies still survive. They were so terribly few, and then…” Her thin eyebrows arched and she shrugged. “There used to be more. Creatures you know the names of. Yeti and siryns.”

“And then?” Margrit put the question off in favor of a second: “Sirens?” She glanced toward the door, half expecting to hear police cars wailing.

Chelsea’s mouth pursed in amusement. “Siryns,” she corrected. “Mermaids, you’d probably call them. Sea-born creatures, whose shape could be changed to let them leave the oceans, only at great cost. Once transformed, they could never return to their home.”

“Isn’t that a fairy tale?” Margrit smiled crookedly, meaning to tease, but Chelsea’s eyebrows flitted up.

“Many of humanity’s oldest legends stem from creatures that were once real. And a few of them still are, but not the siryns. They’re dead now, or so depleted they can no longer breed. The selkies had countable numbers a few generations ago, but the siryn pods disappeared in the seventeenth century. A shame,” she murmured. “Their music was enchanting.”

“Literally?” Margrit asked, humor infusing the word. Then her eyebrows dipped. “How do you know?”

Chelsea’s eyes disappeared into a smile and she gestured with her teacup. “I collect knowledge of the Old Races. My records are desperately incomplete-only the gargoyles truly record their histories-but there is information to be found, if that’s what you desire.” She swirled the tea in her cup thoughtfully. “If you have only the gargoyles to deal with, you’ll be fortunate. They’re the least changeable of the remaining Races, and perhaps the most trustworthy.”

“Chelsea,” Margrit said as steadily as she could, “the only gargoyle I know is suspected of murder. You’re not inspiring a lot of confidence here. What are the others? How can I recognize them?”

The woman looked up, her lips pursed in a wrinkled smile. “Dragons and djinn, selkies and-” She broke off, distracted. “‘Dragons and djinn’ go together so nicely in the mouth. It’s a pity none of the others are so tasty to say.”

“Selkies and…?” Margrit prompted, a little desperately.

“Oh.” Chelsea’s thin eyebrows shot up. “And vampires, of course.”

“Vampires.” Margrit wrenched herself from a blank-eyed stare filled with nothing but Chelsea’s pleasant expression and a phantom thrum in her own ears. She felt nailed to the chair, grounded in a way that mocked the soaring freedom she’d felt in the Blue Room. Instead of being on the verge of breaking free, the earth itself seemed to have set hooks into her muscles and skin, binding her down with malicious intent. “Vampires and dragons and…They don’t exist.”

Neither did gargoyles. She could all but see her own thought reflected in Chelsea’s gaze. A chill made her shiver, and Margrit wrapped her hands around the teacup, lowering her eyes to study it. “I don’t want to believe this.”

“Not believing won’t make it any less real.”

“I know.” Beneath the emptiness in her stomach lay a kernel of acceptance-and an edge of excitement. Rationality told her this was all nonsense; her own experience told her otherwise. “I know,” she repeated with more strength. “Am I too far in it to back out?”

Chelsea shrugged, a minute motion that Margrit saw through her eyelashes. “Probably not. Will you abandon Alban, then?”

The acceptance burst through in a quick explosion of recognition, fear dissipating into a familiar thrill of preparing for battle. “No.” Margrit looked up, fighting back a tiny grin. “No, it’s not in me. You’re totally serious, aren’t you. There’s these old races and I’ve gotten dragged into them. Jesus.” She got up to pace about the tiny back room, realized there wasn’t enough space, and sat down again. “So what are you? Chelsea Huo, Proprietor of Huo’s On First: Also, Old Races Propaganda Officer on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

She laughed, pouring Margrit another cup of tea. “Close enough, overlooking the fact that it’s Saturday morning now. There are people in most of the large cities, Margrit, who know about the Old Races. It’s nearly impossible to live an entirely isolated life, even when you’re trying to protect a secret identity. There are people who help. With food, with money, with shelter.”

“With books,” Margrit said.

Chelsea nodded, eyes disappearing once more into a smile. “I help, when I can. I wouldn’t say propaganda officer. I prefer not to talk too much about them. Secrets don’t stay secret if you talk a lot, and the Old Races rely on discretion.” There was a warning in her words, one that made Margrit look up and spread a hand in promise.

“Who would believe me?” Margrit frowned at her tea, brushing the question aside. “If the old races-”

“Old Races,” Chelsea said gently, with an emphasis Margrit hadn’t used herself, a quiet resolve that bordered on reverence. “Give them the respect of years, Margrit. The Old Races are a group of peoples who have survived Saint George and Van Helsing, Odysseus and Aladdin. They have survived persecution and now eke out a living in a world so crowded with people they have no choice but to wear human forms and pretend they’re something they’re not. Afford them the title they give themselves. They deserve that much accord from humankind. They are the Old Races.”

“Ala…they’re all fictional, Chelsea. Legends.”

The woman glanced toward her bookstore, the leaning stacks and golden lights suddenly seeming darker and more ponderous as Margrit followed her gaze. “Are they?” the proprietor asked, with a spark of challenge in her eyes.

Certainty fled, leaving a question where none had ever been. After a few seconds Margrit gave an unsure smile and inclined her head. “Okay. The Old Races.” She said the words more carefully, making them a title in her mouth, then sighed. “If the Old Races rely on discretion, then isn’t what’s going on with Alban dangerous for all of them? If the police arrest him, or even just bring him in for questioning, and dawn comes-why wouldn’t the other Old Races just get rid of him first? Before that risk could come to fruition?”

“Get rid of him?” Chelsea echoed the phrase with interest.

Margrit made an abrupt motion with her hand. “Kill him. Take him out of the picture. Whatever was necessary in order to ensure he wasn’t going to betray the rest of them, whether he meant to or not?”

Humor creased Chelsea’s mouth. “It’s such a human response, isn’t it? Destroy the source of trouble. Murder is a human weapon, Margrit. The Old Races don’t stoop to it. To kill one of their own-any of the Old Races-is an exiling offense.”

Doubt crept into Margrit’s tone. “They wouldn’t kill one of their own even to protect the rest?”

“It’s not their way.”

“That’s-” Margrit broke off and laughed, a low sound. “Insane. Not that killing people is a good thing, but-you know what I mean.” She looked up to find Chelsea’s bemused smile turned on her. “It’s not human behavior.”