C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

Follow the money. Margrit pushed away from the wall and began running once more, phone back in her pocket. Follow the money without implicating Janx. “You don’t ask much, do you,” she muttered under her breath, as if Daisani might hear her.

Janx. That son of a bitch. Her thoughts came around full circle again and Margrit shook her head in time with her stride.

A car, moving more slowly than she was, poked its nose into the walkway against a light change. Margrit hit it with her elbow and forearm, rolling across the hood, and stopped to pound her fist against the metal, denting it. “Watch where you’re going!” She came to her feet, continuing on, leaving the woman in the car gazing after her with panicked eyes.

A moment later Margrit slid to a halt at another intersection, smacking her palm against the street lamp. “How do I do it?” she asked out loud, distant stoplights steaming and fading behind the white of her breath in the misty air. She closed her fist and whacked the lamppost again. “You got caught up in some kind of huge freaking game, Grit, and you don’t even know the rules. Dammit!” Her palm made a hollow clang as she hit the post again, harder, then ducked her head, laughing with frustration. “Son of a bitch. Margrit, you idiot. Go on. Waltz in. Demand some favors. Negotiate a deal.” She rotated her head, looking up at the streetlight. “I am in so far over my head I don’t even know what game I’m playing.”

“Janx does,” a voice growled behind her ear, and a hand clapped over her mouth.

MARGRIT SCREAMED, A constricted squeak behind the hand over her mouth. An arm slammed around her waist, pinning her own arms against her sides, and she twisted with panic, throat loosening enough to scream again, the sound muffled by the man’s hand.

“You think you’re good, don’t you?” he breathed in her ear, his voice too soft to be recognized. “Too good to get caught. You’re just another piece of meat, girl. Just another piece of mortal meat. You’re coming with me.”

The city turned to mist around her.

Her lungs burned, vision swimming red: the mist was unbreathable, and it went on forever. Streetlights left oily yellow trails of fog through the scarlet, like blood on butter. Cars driving by tore black jagged streaks through her belly, pulling Margrit’s insides out and stretching them until they snapped back and tangled around her feet. She stumbled, her heartbeat crashing in her ears, each thump slower than the last.

The crimson dimmed, her misty vision narrowing to pinpricks. Margrit’s panic faded into exhausted relief, contentment rising up in slow waves through her body, to burst behind her eyes in white and blue spots. They said drowning wasn’t a bad way to die, in the end. Maybe she was drowning. Sound receded, hollow and distant, and she closed her eyes, waiting to drift out of consciousness and out of life. She tried for a last breath without expectation, like a drowning man facing the inevitable.

Air flooded back into her lungs, so real and heavy it made her cough. With her arms still pinned at her sides, she clawed at her thighs, inhaling frantically through her nose and choking until tears spilled over the hand covering her mouth. The man holding her swore in a language she didn’t know, yanking his hand away. Margrit gasped in a lungful of thick, palpable air, choking again, then lifted her foot and brought her heel down on the man’s instep as hard as she could.

He howled and let go of her waist, careening back a step. Half blinded by tears, Margrit spun around and jabbed hooked fingers at his eyes.

Her hand went through his head and she slammed her stiffened fingers into a steel wall. A horrible pop sounded. Margrit screamed, pinching her fingers with her other hand as she fell forward and leaned against the wall, panting.

“Well played,” a familiar voice said with admiration. Margrit, gritting her teeth, lifted her head to see Janx, feet propped on his table, applauding her lazily. “Not wisely played, but well played. Did something break?”

“I’m afraid to look,” Margrit said through short breaths.

Malik appeared beside her, coalescing from the smoke and shadows in the room. His smile was pained, one part pleased to have frightened her and one part furious she’d gotten in a hit. Margrit bared her teeth at him, as much in defiance as to hold back gasps of pain from the throbbing in her hand.

“Let me see.” Janx stood and came around the table with more grace than Margrit thought humanly possible. Then she laughed, a rough sound of distress, because it was more grace than humanly possible. His hands were cool and his touch delicate, soothing. He smoothed his palm over her aching fingers, then caught them and pulled them straight. Margrit gagged, sweat standing out in cold drops on her forehead and neck. Janx held her hand between both of his while she breathed raggedly through her nose, waiting for the pain to subside. “Not broken,” he reported. “Badly jammed, but not broken. They’ll hurt for a few days. That was remarkable, Margrit Knight. Foolish, but remarkable. A show of bravado goes so far in making my day.”

“Don’t. Ever.” Margrit closed her eyes, trying to get her breathing under control. “Don’t ever send him for me again, Janx. Not like that.” She looked beyond the dragon at the smoky room. “Alban isn’t here.”

“Have you lost your gargoyle?” Janx asked, full of good humor. “I will send who I want, how I want, for you, when I need you.”

Margrit folded her injured fingers under her arm, the pressure alleviating the pain a little. “Just remember it’s a level playing field.”

Janx smiled curiously. “Do you really think so?”

“I think we humans are good at leveling it at any cost. I haven’t lost him, I just thought he might’ve come by here.”

“You might come here, Margrit. I don’t believe Alban would unless you gave him no choice.” Janx looked stern, shaking his head. “And instead of either his or your voluntary company, I have another murder. Whatever is the world coming to?”

“Another- another one?” Margrit set her teeth together. “You set your killer loose on somebody else? How many does it take to make a point, Janx?”

“I did no such thing. Let me be perfectly clear, Margrit Knight. When I want someone killed, I don’t take half a dozen innocents along with her.” Janx pursed his lips, looking thoughtful, then amended, “Not usually, at least. It’s messy, and while you may think me brutal, I’m not stupid. Collateral damage means trouble for me and my people. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Daisani’s convinced you were behind Vanessa’s death, and you haven’t given me anything that convinces me you’re not responsible for the rest of them.” Margrit spat the words as much to distract herself from the pulse in her fingers as in genuine fury and frustration. Air . Cara had warned her that djinn were creatures of air. That Malik could appear and disappear at will seemed obvious, in retrospect.

“There was a situation to take advantage of, with regards to Daisani’s woman. The rest-you’re hardly worth lying to. And I do have information.”

“You’re full of shit.” Margrit elbowed past Malik, heading for the door.

“Margrit.” Janx’s voice came down like a net, sending spasms through her neck and thighs, so she couldn’t move forward. Her injured fingers wouldn’t allow her to clench a fist, sapping her ability to struggle against the dragon’s command. Only when she eased back a step did her body relax. She turned to face Janx again.

He dipped his hand into a pocket and came up with a polished, egg-shaped stone, which he held balanced on all five fingertips. It was translucent blue, with a fragile spot of lilac at the larger end, just above his fingers. Through the center, a nearly colorless slash of blue blended to half a dozen white streaks of varying widths that wrapped halfway around the stone, then ended abruptly. Janx rotated the object in his fingers, sending a six-pointed star glittering over its surface.