C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

“That,” she said, “may be the point.”

Margrit dropped her chin, frowning at her tea. “What do they do to people who threaten the status quo? There must be something. There must be ways to find help or to get someone out of the limelight. Like witness protection.” A pang knotted her heart, stealing her breath. Witness protection would mean losing Alban.

If she could lose something she’d never had. Margrit tightened her hands around her teacup, remembering the hope in his colorless eyes and wondering at her own regret.

“I’m sure there is.” Chelsea shook her head. “But I’m not the person to ask that question of.”

“Then who is?”

Chelsea swirled her tea again. “If I tell you, you’ll act on the knowledge?”

“Yes.” Margrit tempered the bluntness of the answer with a faint smile. “I told him I’d help him, for one thing. For another, this is like Pandora’s box. I can’t put all this knowledge back inside where I don’t know it anymore. I’m involved in this.”

“Acting on what I tell you may involve you far more permanently than you wish, Margrit.” Chelsea’s almond eyes were serious. “You’re at a place where you might still walk away from what you know, but the line is there and you verge on crossing it.”

Margrit felt a smile creep over her face, the same tense, prepared smile that she felt when facing a courtroom or a new runner in the park. It spread tingles through her body, lifting hair on her arms and making her aware of every tiny sound around her: the ticking of a blunt old grandfather clock, the creak of floorboards, age and weather changes settling them rather than the pressure of footsteps. Horns and engines in the streets beyond the front door, as quiet as they ever got in the city. Amusement flashed through her as she remembered Cole’s words: Russell had waved a red flag in front of her and she’d charged it. The same was happening here, the taking of a major risk. Jumping with both feet. Leaping headlong before looking. Margrit’s smile grew into a full-out grin. God help anybody who tried to stop her. “I’m prepared for that.”

Wryness sparked in Chelsea’s expression, more vivid than speech. “Then you need to talk to a man named Janx.”

Margrit flinched, straightening up so fast she spilled tea on her hand. She sucked the hot liquid off her skin, staring at her in astonishment. “Janx?”

Chelsea’s feathery eyebrows lifted again. “You know him?”

“No, but somebody else said his name to me tonight, too. I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”

“He runs an establishment in East Harlem called the House of Cards.”

“Oh.” Margrit slumped back, staring into her teacup. “They say the guy who runs that place is a devil.”

Chelsea cocked her head to one side, her expression unchanging. “The criminals in your world use Janx’s people to do what even they won’t, Margrit. He’s a dangerous man.”

“But he’d know about people you don’t?” Margrit studied the petite woman across the table, gauging the tension in the lines of her mouth.

“Janx has informers,” Chelsea murmured. “I only have gossip. This is terribly dangerous, Margrit.”

“This is the part where I say, ‘Yeah, well, so am I,’ right?” She crooked a grin. “Okay, so I’m not. But maybe there’s something I can bargain with. Something he might want?”

“Your life would be a pretty trinket,” Chelsea said mildly. Fine hairs lifted on the back of Margrit’s neck, delicate prickles that stayed awhile, then spilled down her spine and ran goose bumps over her arms.

“Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked as lightly as she could. “Yes.”

Margrit inhaled, then let it out in a little puff of breath. “It’s working.”

“Good.” Chelsea pursed her small mouth again. “Unfortunately, I don’t have another answer.”

“There’s always another answer.” Margrit pushed her chair back and stood up again. “In this case, the other answer is ‘Go directly to jail, do not pass go.’ So I guess I’m going to East Harlem instead. Thank you, Chelsea. For the tea and everything.”

The shopkeeper stood, smiling, and came around the table to hug Margrit, who squeaked at the unexpected embrace. “Be careful. And come back and visit, if you can. We can exchange stories about Alban. I’m sure you’ll know him quite well by then.”

Margrit grinned, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “That sounds fun. Thanks again. For everything. Especially for taking the risk of trusting me and telling me some of what’s going on.”

Chelsea made a dismissive moue and flicked her fingers. “It’s not that much of a risk, my dear.”

Margrit pushed her way through the beaded curtain that separated the little back room from the main area of the bookstore, then turned around to wave. Chelsea nodded, reaching for Margrit’s teacup as rattling beads fell into place. She rubbed her fingers around the inside of the cup, smearing a thin film from the tea between her fingertips, and touched her fingers against her tongue. Bitterness stung her, a potent mixture disguised from Margrit by the tea’s strength and unfamiliar flavor.

Doorbells jangled, announcing Margrit’s departure. Chelsea smiled after her, wiping the substance away on her shirt as she climbed to her feet and went to wash the dishes. “I’m afraid it’s not that much of a risk at all.”

ONLY NOW- too late-did questions rise up in Margrit’s mind. A dozen things she could’ve asked Chelsea about the man she was going to see now warred within her. Which of the Old Races he was, for example. A devil, Chelsea had said. Margrit pressed her lips together, scowling. Which of the Old Races most seemed like a devil? The djinn, maybe; Margrit had a vague idea from Scherezade-or Disney’s Aladdin -that djinns were horned, demonic creatures. None of the other races seemed to have that connotation, though she had no idea what a selkie was.

Weaknesses-that would have been another good question to ask. Favorites or passions or hatreds. Excitement had driven her forward, when intellect should have held her back, gathering information. She was better than that, a better lawyer and a better investigator, though she’d never been faced with a situation so extraordinary. That, if anything, was her excuse, and now it was too late to do the research she should have. The cabbie-a different one-was getting impatient with her sitting frozen in the taxi, staring at the unmarked warehouse that supposedly held the House of Cards, all but on the banks of the Harlem River. Randall’s Island was a shapeless blob in the distance. Margrit transferred her gaze back to the warehouse, then clenched her teeth and paid the cabbie.

“You want me to wait?”

Margrit gnawed her lower lip. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be. You might as well go.”

The man shrugged as she climbed out. “Your funeral.”

“Thanks a lot.” She slammed the door and stalked across the street, wondering how in God’s name she was going to get into the place. Surely there was some kind of necessary password. Either that or she’d been watching far too many movies.

“How unusual. A woman we don’t already own.” The voice came from her left, from a doorway she hadn’t even seen until someone spoke. The darkness of the city night swirled in a cocktail of black fog, and a man stepped forward, a glass-headed cane in his left hand and a slight limp in his right leg. “And who might she be?” His voice was full of oily amusement, entirely, Margrit was sure, at her expense. She glanced around, despite being certain there was no one else there.

“If she’s me, you could address me directly.” At least her antagonistic tone didn’t betray her nerves.