C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

His gaze flickered to hers, then away again. “Outcast,” Margrit said after a moment. “Exile. That’s how you’re punished, by not being allowed to join the memories. What’d you do, Alban?”

“That,” he said, “is not my story to tell. No,” he added more sharply, as Margrit drew a breath to protest. “No. Let it be enough for you to know that my people do not refuse to share memory. At most we will exclude a specific memory, and even that returns to the whole when we die.”

Margrit made a fist of her hand, clenching her teeth when her fingers ached. “All right, fine.” She pushed away the questions she wanted to ask, finding another facet to focus on. “If Hajnal is dead her memories ought to be part of the whole. You know her better than anybody. Better than you know Biali. Look for her memories in the gestalt. If she’s there, we’ll know what happened and we’ll know Ausra is someone else.”

“Gestalt,” Alban echoed quietly. “Is there nothing you humans do not have a word for?” He dismissed the question by following at once with another, his expression bleak as he looked down at Margrit. “Do you insist on this?”

“Yeah.” She heard herself draw the word out incredulously, sounding like a teenager. “Yes. You’ve got to try, Alban. If they won’t let you back in, we’ll cross that bridge, but this is the best way to be sure of who we’re dealing with. Besides, how many of them are there around here to play watchdog?”

A corner of Alban’s mouth curled up, so slowly it was obviously against his will. “Gargoyles are very good watchdogs, Margrit. There are not many nearby, but there may be enough. I’ll try,” he added before she could work up another argument. “I’ll try, but this is not a good place to do so from. Entering memory is usually best done in private.”

“We could go back to my place.” The offer sounded so natural and so absurd Margrit laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth at Alban’s quizzical glance. “Sorry,” she said through her fingers. “Just, you know, that’s sort of a stereotypical invitation to…” Heat built in her cheeks when his expression grew more curious. “Nothing. Nevermind. We can go somewhere else.”

All her humor fled and she turned an inappropriate glower toward the streets below. “Maybe to the safe house Grace offered you.”

Alban slipped a finger beneath her chin, not quite touching her, but encouraging her to look up. “I would be honored,” he said quietly, “to accept your offer of your home as a haven.”

Margrit puffed her cheeks out and exhaled noisily, feeling chagrin slip away into embarrassment. “Oh. Okay. We could stop by the cathedral on the way. It’s just up the street from my apartment.”

“A glide-over,” Alban agreed. “Perhaps she’s waiting for us there.”

A note of suppressed hope rang through his voice, making Margrit’s heart tighten. “You really don’t want to do this, do you.”

“No.” He slipped an arm around her waist and curled one of her arms up around his neck, turning his head as he checked for spectators on the observation deck. A young couple rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Alban shifted in Margrit’s arms, clearing the safety mesh with an easy leap. “But I will do it for you.”

THE DISTANT STREETS seemed as serene as they had from the building, New York’s frenetic pace left behind. Margrit turned her face against Alban’s shoulder, trusting him to hear even as the wind ripped her question away. “Is it always like this?”

Above her, Alban shook his head. “It’s not always so calm. These last few days have been unusually so.” He paused, then added judiciously, “At least, as far as the wind is concerned.”

“The calm before the storm? I wonder what’s coming, then.” Margrit lifted a hand to block wind from her eyes, watching Central Park increase in size as they soared closer to it, banking to the west. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything but peace down there. Maybe that’s why you’ve been able to stay out of it for so long. Because you see the world from above.”

“You are too generous.” Alban’s voice was a basso rumble by her ear before he nodded below. “The cathedral.”

Margrit twisted, looking down. “Huh. It really is a cross.”

“Cathedrals usually are.”

Margrit tried to elbow him without unwinding her arms from around him, then merely wrinkled her nose. “I’m not used to seeing them from above. Some of us don’t get the bird’s-eye view as a matter of course, you know.” She studied the cathedral as they soared over it, Alban keeping high in the sky as he made slow loops through the air. “I live at the other end of the street and haven’t even been here since the fire,” Margrit admitted guiltily. “I used to do the vertical tours, but you can’t anymore.”

“I’ve never been on one.”

“You could climb to the top of the cathedral on the spiral staircases. I loved it.” Margrit paused. “If she was here, where would she be?”

“ I would be at the tower,” Alban replied after a moment’s hesitation of his own. “The highest point. Hold tight.” He dropped into a dive tempered by the flutter of wind against partially folded wings.

Margrit swallowed a yelp, knotting her arms around his neck and struggling with laughter that was half terrified, half gleeful. Their plummet ended with a snap of his wings, catching air again to bring them up in a swoosh only a few dozen feet above the cathedral tower. Margrit’s heart hammered against Alban’s chest, giggles running through her.

“I can’t decide if that’s the best thing ever or tantamount to suicide,” she said against his collarbone.

He tightened an arm around her briefly, solid and comforting. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You’re in no danger.”

Margrit nodded, then loosened one arm to look down as Alban circled the tower. “I don’t see anyone. Should we land?”

Alban rumbled disapproval. “I’d prefer not to endanger you in that way. It may be that I can’t fall, but you don’t share that advantage. I see no one, either. Perhaps the carving is nothing more than a warning.” His wings pumped as he spoke, bringing them higher into the city night.

“Maybe. But why would she bother? It seems more like a game of cat and mouse to me. Like it’s a clue.” Margrit twisted to look back at the receding cathedral. “I think we should look more carefully.”

“I will,” Alban promised. “But not with you so vulnerable. Do you have a rooftop access key?” He wheeled again, bringing them down on top of Margrit’s apartment building.

“Uh. Yeah, I think so.” She stepped out of the gargoyle’s arms to gingerly slide her hand into a pocket. It came out with keys dangling from her fingertips. “Here we go.”

“All right. I’ll check the tower and come to your balcony in a few minutes.”

Margrit laughed. “That’s going to be kind of hard to explain if either Cam or Cole are home, Alban. I can wait here.”

A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone.”

Margrit’s laughter faded to a crooked smile. “I’ve gotten along without you for this long, Alban. Look, if you don’t want to leave me, we can walk down to the cathedral after you try the gestalt for information. All right?”

He tilted his head, birdlike for all his size, and murmured, “You’ve gotten along with me guarding you for this long,” before nodding. “All right. I hadn’t thought of the balcony being a problem,” he admitted as she unlocked the rooftop door. “Too accustomed to flight, I suppose.”

“Isn’t that a sort of dangerous habit?” Margrit’s question echoed in the stairwell, the fire door clanging shut behind them. “Wouldn’t it be safer to walk places instead of risking a fire escape or an alley for changing your form?”