C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

“You said there were stories in the papers about her,” Alban pointed out.

Margrit shrugged and turned back to him with a smile. “There are stories in the papers about Elvis sightings, too. All right. Let’s go.”

Suspicion darkened the gargoyle’s expression. “Where?”

“To see Janx. I’m going to kick his butt.” Margrit almost believed herself, and grinned toward the sky.

“I am not bringing you to the House of Cards.” Alban’s tone was flat, his gaze fixed on the disappearing point of the city streets. Margrit’s grin faded and she shrugged, turning to cut down a side street. Silence followed her, then Alban’s footsteps, and his wary question: “Where are you going?”

“To a subway station.”

“Margrit…”

“Why does everyone have to sound like my father?” Margrit wondered out loud, turning back to the gargoyle. “Look. Fine. I don’t care. Don’t bring me there. I’m going anyway, so you may as well just suck that up, all right? It’s late, I’m tired and I want to find out what the fuck is going on and why my life is getting jerked around.” She stepped forward, putting her fingertips against his chest, almost a shove. “Maybe you can afford to spend fifty years lying low and hiding from the cops, but know what? I can’t. In fifty years I’ll have used up my allotted three score and ten, and frankly, I can think of better ways to spend it.”

Alban put his hand over hers, the warmth of his fingers making her suddenly aware of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “Can you,” he murmured.

Margrit’s breath hitched and she went still, caught not by his touch, but by his words. There was hope in them, running deeper than she knew how to respond to, though she found herself fighting the urge to step forward into his arms. The visceral memory of his body against hers in flight took her by surprise, of the way his strength and surety had kept her safe as they soared above the city.

Soared above the city. The man before her could take wing and fly, a creature wholly unlike herself, a mere mortal bound to walk the earth.

Margrit took a step back. “I’m going to see Janx. Are you coming or not?”

Alban sighed. “Does it have to be the subway?”

“You lied to me.” Margrit leaned over the lunchroom table, aggressively facing her opponent. “You lied to me, and I found you out, Janx. You owe me.”

Janx gave her a lazy grin and let his focus flicker to where Alban stood behind her, arms folded across his chest to make himself a living wall. The gargoyle wore his human form, hair so white it reflected in the burnished steel walls, but even without his stone breadth, he was wider across the shoulders than any of Janx’s men.

“Alban,” Janx said cordially.

Alban dropped his chin a fraction of an inch, the barest acknowledgment he could make.

Janx snorted thin blue smoke and swung his feet off the table, standing with liquid grace. “You don’t keep very polite company, Margrit Knight.”

“Especially these days.” She kept her gaze on him, deliberately including him in the bad company. Then, to her dismay, she found herself struggling against an answering smile as Janx turned an amused look on her. He enjoyed being himself, so much it was nearly impossible for her not to like him. Worse, he knew it: deeper amusement flickered through his eyes, turning them from the green of new leaves to jade.

He came around the table with long, fluid steps and lifted a hand as if to touch her chin. Margrit’s smile fell away abruptly, and Janx froze as if she’d caught his wrist in an icy grip. Neither of them looked at Alban, though Margrit was sure Janx was as aware as she was that the gargoyle had tensed.

“Ah, yes.” Janx dropped his arm, eyes shifting color with the changing shadows as he moved. “My lady prefers not to be touched. I remember now. So.” He stepped back, just out of Margrit’s personal space, his gaze narrowed on her. Goose bumps stood up on her arms, making her fully aware that Janx’s motions, his choice of distance, were deliberate. He was giving her the space she needed for comfort, the dancing amusement in his eyes hidden now as he studied her and ran his tongue over one of his curved eyeteeth. “What lie have you caught me in, and why are you so certain of it that you’re willing to come to my territory and accuse me?”

“Grace O’Malley is not Alban’s enemy.”

Janx’s eyebrows shot up so fast they seemed like a streak of flame crossing his forehead. “Don’t tell me you found the notorious pirate queen and asked her!”

Margrit flicked her fingers in dismissal, then found herself rubbing her thumb against her index and middle fingers, as if pantomiming a sign for cash. Janx turned his head a fraction of a degree, studying her action. Disappointment slid through his gaze before he lowered his eyelashes and gave her an unexpectedly sly look. “I suppose how you learned it doesn’t matter that much, since you’ve managed to find me out. But do you really think that means I owe you something new and fresh, my dear?”

“Yeah.” Margrit took the step forward that Janx had taken back, putting him once more into her personal space. He was taller than she was-everyone was-but she looked up at him with all the challenge she could muster.

He quirked an eyebrow, good humor restored by her audacity. “And if I disagree?”

“Then I think I don’t owe you anything else. Come on, Janx. You sent me on a wild-goose chase, and I want to know why. And I want any other names you’ve come up with since I was here last night. Don’t tell me you’re going to disappoint me.”

Janx glanced over her head at Alban. “You really don’t deserve her, Korund.” He returned his gaze to Margrit, lips pursed with hopeful curiosity. “I don’t suppose you’d abandon the good and true Stoneheart to live a life of decadence and depravity with an aging gambler?”

Alban’s warning growl made a deep counterpoint to Margrit’s astonished laugh. “I’m not a gambling woman, Janx. I try to play games I can win.”

“And yet here you are,” the red-haired man murmured. “Who does that say something about, I wonder.” He turned away from her abruptly, moving with the loose-jointed fluidity that marked Alban’s actions, as well. “O’Malley is less of a goose chase than you think. Look deeper, Ms. Knight, if you want the heart of that matter. As to the rest of it.” Janx produced a shot glass so quickly Margrit blinked, certain it hadn’t been up his sleeve. A second swift motion brought forth a clear flask, from which he poured rich amber liquid into the glass. The smoky aroma of whiskey spun through the air for a moment before he drank it in one swift swallow, then turned back to her. “You have canceled no debt. I owe you nothing more. Go.” He curled his lip in a snarl and gestured with the shot glass. “Go, before I test djinn against gargoyle and take you as the prize.”

“You owe me a name.” Margrit’s voice was steadier than she expected it to be, low with confidence. “You promised me more information tonight, Janx. Don’t jerk me around.”

He looked at her without expression, then gestured again with the glass and turned away. Margrit stood motionless, studying his silk-clad shoulders as she let out a near-silent sigh. Malik coalesced in the corner nearest the picture windows, fingers curving, as if he was drawing Margrit nearer. Instead she turned away, touching Alban’s elbow to bring him with her. He held the door for her, one arm stretched over her head as she paused in the frame and looked back over her shoulder.

“Ausra,” Janx said, without turning. “The name you want is Ausra.”

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Alban managed to hold his tongue until they reached the street, leaving Janx’s… alcove, Margrit thought, deliberately wiping the word lair from her mind…behind.