C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

His mouth curved sardonically. “Who are you?”

Antagonism vanished with the unpleasant discovery he was indeed addressing her. “Margrit.” She swallowed, trying to bring her voice back. “Margrit Knight.”

“Margrit Knight. Being here tonight suggests you keep interesting company, Ms. Knight. I am Ebul Alima Malik al-Shareef di Nazmi al-Massri.” He bowed elegantly. “My friends call me Malik.”

“Mr. al-Massri.” Margrit managed a faint smile, not foolish enough to play on the assumption he meant to indicate she was his friend. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Malik chuckled, a thin sound that cut the air. “You will of course come in.” He gestured to the entrance. Footsteps echoed quietly around her, men appearing out of the door and from down the street to move closer, surrounding her.

“That’s not necessary,” Margrit said, pleased with the steadiness of her voice. “I didn’t come for trouble and I don’t need to be herded like a cow.”

Malik’s eyebrows went up fractionally. “A young woman who speaks her mind. How nouveau.”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Margrit muttered as she stepped past him. Malik laid a hand on her arm, very gently. She stopped as if he’d dropped a wall in front of her, the hair rising at the back of her neck. His touch was light, but it bespoke possession, as if Margrit were a thing, not a person. Anger and fear washed through her, giving her the edge she needed to turn her head and look up at him. He was no more than three inches taller than she, with dark eyes and lashes that any woman would envy. He wore a goatee, tight and neatly trimmed to accentuate a full mouth. His hair was long and pulled back in a glossy ponytail, and his shirt, colorless from a distance, was of melded grays that looked like running water.

“I assure you,” he breathed, “I know which century we’re in, and I know which century I come from. There are advantages to this one, but there are traditions from my childhood that I’m eager to uphold.”

Margrit’s fear drained away, leaving her as buoyant and cheerful as if she’d just been on a late-night run through the park. “Mr. al-Massri,” she murmured back, “Malik. I’m a lawyer, and I’ve seen a hundred guys like you. You think you’re the shit because you’re carrying around a gun and a history of being the top dog. Let me tell you two things. First, you’re the doorman, which means not in charge here, so you probably ought to get over the superiority complex. Second, while there are things that scare me, little men with little dicks aren’t one of them. You want to try me, someday you’ll get your chance. But not tonight, so you might as well get over yourself and let go of me.”

Color leeched from Malik’s face until his cheekbones stood out as ugly blue shadows in the city night, rage compressing his lips and taking the blood from them. He removed his hand from Margrit’s arm, gesturing sharply to two of the four men who’d joined them. They jogged forward, taking up the lead and the back, with Margrit between them as they went through the shadowed door Malik had appeared from. The sharp-featured man stayed behind, his rage palpable and directed at Margrit, as if he could shred her with his will alone.

That, she thought, was very possibly the most supremely stupid challenge she’d ever made.

She grinned, falling into step with her escort, cold spilling down her scalp with a tingle like mint shampoo. Supremely stupid, but a lot of fun.

The House was not, and had never been, a home. Margrit was led up two flights of stairs before entering the occupied area of the warehouse, concrete stairs turning to cast-iron grating that creaked beneath her feet. A windowed alcove overlooked a room that ran the length of the building, glaring with dark neon lights and the desperation of an off-Boardwalk Atlantic City casino. Men and women lingered around poker tables and pool sharks, losing cash and hope. The air felt dirty, as if it had absorbed too much grease and needed to be taken out for a wash. High windows were boarded over in places and let streetlight through in others, though it didn’t permeate the gloom.

Margrit followed her escort, her knees feeling weak and loose, each step a cocky swagger. Hands in her pockets, she sauntered through the alcove door as one of Janx’s men held it for her, and walked into a room where the air was too thin to breathe.

Everything stilled, as if the lack of air had preserved the place in a time capsule. Margrit’s last breath lingered in her lungs, the waiting exhalation promising to be a cough, as if she’d somehow stepped from sea level to a mountaintop.

The single table in the room had more to do with elementary school cafeterias than power-lunch offices, and the seats were metal folding chairs without cushioning. The back wall, of semi-mirrored steel, gleamed with faint reflections of neon from the space it overlooked, and the floor shook with raucous music playing in a room beneath the casino.

A slender, handsome man with green eyes and a shock of dark red hair sat alone at the table. His feet, clad in expensive, dull-leather shoes, were crossed at the ankle and propped lazily on the table; he held a cigarette in one hand, smoke curling idly around his head. He smiled when they entered, eyes crinkling in the same way Chelsea’s had, but what looked wizened on her appeared ageless on him. He gestured easily, indicating the seats. Margrit’s feet felt heavy, and an inexplicable panic thrust her shoulders back, as if she was preparing to escape the room and the man by running. She took a sharp breath, trying to fill her lungs, and was grateful it didn’t send her into spasms of coughing.

The man smiled again. “Malik told me we had a visitor.”

To her shock, Margrit saw Malik standing against the reflective wall, his mouth still pressed in a thin line. She was certain he hadn’t come up the stairs with her, and her bewilderment brought a nasty smile to his face.

The other man’s gaze raked over Margrit-undressing her, she thought uncomfortably. “He spoke quite eloquently of you, Margrit Knight. Welcome to the House of Cards. I am, of course, Janx. Please, sit down.”

“Of course.” Margrit shuffled toward one of the chairs, wondering where the looseness she’d felt a moment before had gone. She felt earthbound for the second time that evening, as clumsy as she had in the interrogation cell. Janx smiled again, this time revealing teeth that looked pointed. Margrit sat down heavily, wetting her lips. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice!” He sat back, spreading his hands expansively. “Not terrifying? Not alarming? Not frightening?” He flipped his cigarette, holding it between his index finger and thumb, and took a slow drag, watching Margrit intently.

She wet her lips again and swallowed dryly. “Those things’ll kill you.” Her voice was too hoarse, her confidence gone, but Janx flung his head back and laughed out loud. Smoke sailed from his nostrils in thin streams as he stubbed out the cigarette, then smiled merrily.

“No, my dear young woman, I don’t believe they will, but I do give you credit for having balls.” His eyebrows shot up challengingly. “Please don’t tell me you object to the phrase. I would be so disappointed.”

“No.” Margrit cleared her throat and pulled her shoulders straighter. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Excellent.” Janx grinned and unfolded his legs, swinging them down and leaning across the table. “A lovely woman, out without her gargoyle protector, even with dawn being so many hours away. One hardly expects a gargoyle-particularly Korund-to take risks, and the sunrise is so terribly dangerous. Still.” Janx clucked, mocking dismay. “How disappointing, don’t you think? A wonderful treat like you, all alone. It’s been a long time since a woman’s been here.” His eyes lit up, glittering hard and gemlike.