C.E. Murphy - Hands of Flame

“Says the girl with the gargoyle lover.” Grace sniffed. “You’ll be wanting to see him, then.”

“And I need to see Janx,” Margrit said uncomfortably, too aware of the tension between dragonlord and vigilante.

Grace’s eyebrows—light brown, not matching her hair or especially disagreeing with it—rose in fine arches that preceded a laugh. “Do you, now. Calling in your favor now, are you? And for who? I wonder. Not for me and mine, for all you promised you’d keep him out of my territory. Do you know how fast I’m losing them to him? I’ve got no flash, not next to the likes of him.”

“You’ve got heart. The smart ones’ll stick with you.”

“Smart goes a long way in an organization like Janx’s. Smart means picking choices, not acting out of loyalty.”

Afraid Grace was right, Margrit hesitated, then shook her head and bulled forward. “I don’t want Janx screwing up your kids any more than you do, but there’s a hell of a mess building, and I need his help. As for getting him out of here, if you show me where he is, I’ll—” Margrit drew breath through her teeth, not liking what she was about to suggest, but abruptly willing to make the bargain. “I’ll turn his location over to the cops. They’re still looking for him, so all you need to do is get everybody clear when they come down.”

“All. That’s a big word, for not many letters, love. You broke a promise to me once.”

“Come on, Grace. I promised I’d do my best, not that I’d keep him away from you. Everything ballooned out of control, with Malik dying and the House going up in flames and … I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get involved, and I’m sorry. I’ll call Tony the first chance I get and give him Janx’s location, if you’ll just show me where he is.” Whether she’d warn the dragonlord she was going to do that, Margrit didn’t yet know. She’d deliberately saved him from arrest once, and as uncomfortable as that was, she still couldn’t imagine forcing one of the Old Races through a human court of law.

Grace studied her a long time before giving a short nod. “All right, then. Into Grace’s kingdom, love, but you’ll owe me for this, Margrit. You’ll owe me large.”

“I know.” Margrit curled her hands into fists as she fell into step behind the other woman. “I know.”

Tumblers fell, ricocheting sounds that warned of visitors. Alban lifted his head heavily, no longer raging and no longer constrained, but understanding why Grace had locked the door so thoroughly. It wasn’t to keep him in, but to keep others out. He’d given up trying to transform, though all that prevented him was constant, angry awareness that each attempt would bring fresh agony. Caught in his stony gargoyle form, it was safer by far to keep him locked away where none of Grace’s street children could accidentally come upon him and have the scare of their young lives.

Weariness lowered his head again, a sudden dull lack of interest in the world beyond his prison door. Not in two hundred years of solitude, since Hajnal’s death, had he felt so alone. All of that time his isolation had been of his own choice. Finding it impressed upon him chafed more than he’d imagined, and it was only a harbinger of what his future would hold. No gargoyle jury would forgive him for taking Ausra’s life, nor Malik’s. Moving to protect another and accidents were no excuse under Old Races law. The exile he’d chosen for himself would be ratified by a council of elders, and the idea, coupled with the throb of iron bound to his stony skin, exhausted him.

The best he could do was meet his fate with dignity. It was very early for Grace to return with the jury—gargoyles couldn’t travel during the day, and the only two in New York were reluctant guests in Grace’s tunnels—but surely she would come with news of when and where the trial would be convened. Alban pushed himself upward, wings folded at his back in a soft, stony cloak, and waited on his guest.

“Alban.” Margrit flung herself through the door with the abandon of a child, relief stealing her breath. He grunted as she crashed into him and held on hard, hoping she could impart some kind of comfort and protection with her own touch.

His scent was almost familiar, more tanged with metal than she remembered, but the chaos of the day faded as she held on to the gargoyle with all her strength. It was irrational to believe that being with him would make everything all right, no matter what crossed their paths, but she floated on that comfortable deception as long as she could. “You’re all right.” Her words were muffled against his chest, barely audible to her own ears. “I could kill Biali. Are you all right?” She pulled back without releasing her hold, eyebrows pinching with concern.

The chains Biali had flung around him had become a part of him. Bumpy, ugly links were sealed into his throat and held his hands against his chest like broken wings. Margrit cried a protest and tried to touch the mass as Alban shook his head.

“Margrit, what are you doing here?” His voice was distorted, gravel scraping iron, but the gentle astonishment and relief in it made Margrit bite her lip against tears.

“I spent half the damned day trying to rescue you,” she whispered, almost as hoarse as Alban himself. “Alban, this is horrible, can’t I—”

“You can do nothing, Margrit. Only Biali can unwind these.” Uncertainty colored his voice. “At least, I hope he can.”

“Why couldn’t he? He bound you—”

“But legends of our captivity tell stories of locks and keys, not iron coming to life under a touch to free us.”

“So go into them and find out more! We have to be able to get you free!”

Alban hesitated, then lowered his head in agreement. Margrit bit her lip, watching him as his eyes closed. She knew she asked for too much: Alban wasn’t welcome in the gargoyle memories in the best of circumstances, but maybe he’d be allowed in the worst.

Instead he flinched back with a gasp, hands spasming so that the iron lumped under his skin rippled. “It prevents me.” His voice came more hoarsely than before, shock and pain in it. “The memories are cut off by the iron.”

Margrit knotted her hands over Alban’s, anger burning horror away. “I’m going to take a sledgehammer to Biali at high noon, I swear to God. How could he do this to you?”

“He loved Ausra.” The simplicity of the answer silenced her. “As he loved Hajnal. I suspect he intended an eye for an eye in the matters of their deaths.” Humor ghosted over his expression and he lifted his hands as far as he could, gesturing at his own face and reminding Margrit of Biali’s scars. “I suppose that seems fair.”

Sick, laughter-filled disbelief crashed through her. “How can you be making jokes? Even bad ones?”

“You’ve come.” Alban sounded surprised at himself. “It seems that your presence eases even the worst of my fears. Margrit, forgive me for not stopping his abduction of you—”

Margrit opened a palm and threatened Alban’s shoulder with it. “Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive. It’s not your fault Biali’s stone-cold crazy.” She choked on her last words, hysteria swilling just below the surface. “Stone-cold crazy,” she mumbled again. “Guess he’d have to be, wouldn’t he?”

Alban sighed, dispelling her amusement. “I’m not certain he’s mad. He’s lost a great deal.”

“You can give him the benefit of the doubt if you want,” Margrit growled. “I’m looking at you standing here in unbreakable chains, and I think he’s batshit nuts and dangerous. Maybe not like Ausra was, because he probably doesn’t want to expose every single one of you to the human race, but he encouraged her to go after you, and now he’s come after you himself. You said gargoyles don’t go crazy, but you’re wrong, Alban. Whether it’s mad with grief or just plain bonkers, it doesn’t matter. This is insanity.”