Kiss of Angels

by C. E. Murphy

  A woman stood there now. Another woman, slighter than Inhihine or Kekeal, both of whom were also dragging themselves from the sea. She was still more than Kate's height, and her hair, cropped short around large dark eyes, gave her a sense of fragility that was undone by the echoing strains of power she had unleashed. Her lips were still parted, though she no longer sang: the ache in Kate's ears faded, though blood still itched them. She examined Kate briefly and as quickly dismissed her, seeking out the siryns instead.

  They were coming from the water now, not just Inhihine and Kekeal, but all of them. Kate stepped back, and back again, edging between siryns until she'd half-climbed what remained of the cliff wall, far out of the way as a new song began. They crooned this time, soft incredulous joy that lifted the hairs on Kate's arms without driving pain into her marrow. Dragons might not cry: siryns did, with tears so salty Kate could taste them on the air. It was theirs, and not her own: that would be the story she told, when she bore witness.

  Crete, entrance to the Underworld. Where else would the King of Hell reside but in the sacred caverns there; where else would he draw his circle of blood and imprison the siryn queen; where else would she wait, but near to where her people had once thrived in the plentiful seas, in hopes of her voice someday returning to her. She sang now, murmurs of healing music that washed over the women crowding her, and Kate could hear the lyre in her voice.

  She would ask, soon. She would wonder what a dragon's child was doing at the heart of her restoration. The question would take her from her people, even if only for a little while, and that—that was a thing that did not need to be done. Not now; not when they had always in front of them, awaiting discovery.

  Quickly, quietly, while the joy of reunion captured them all, Kate climbed the ruined cliff wall and swung over its lip, then took a moment to glance back down at the gathering below. Colorful heads, all bowed together, bodies pressed close in a multi-hued bloom against the rocks. A song that sobbed with joy, in time to the surf rushing over the stones, and the sunset casting gold across it all.

  This. This was such a jewel in a dragon's hoard as could not be equaled. Kate tucked that gem into her heart, cast a glance toward the setting sun, and smiled. There was new hope in the world, new magic waiting to be born. Humans were going to have to get used to it.

  A moment later, a dragon winged its way west, into the sunset, into the world.

  CHOICES

  What got Cole was the rapture in Cameron's eyes when she learned about them. It hadn't been a smart reaction, nobody would think it was smart. Not even Cam, if she had to admit it, but mostly she wouldn't. Mostly it was just this unabrogated joy, this wide-eyed wonder at discovering the world had been hiding something huge under their noses all along. Gargoyles, for crying out loud. Vampires. Eliseo freaking Daisani, the biggest mogul in New York, was a vampire. And it got worse, because according to homicide detective Tony Pulcella, it wasn't just Daisani. Janx, the underworld kingpin, he was a dragon, and when Margrit was pressed about it she said something about an old rivalry between the two of them. Between Janx and Daisani, not Tony, though apparently Tony was in it up to his eyeballs too. Margrit had made some kind of bad trade with Janx for Tony's life, or that was what Cole had surmised, anyway. It wasn't that he hadn't listened when they'd sat down in the aftermath to talk about it all. It was that the rest of them, Cam, Margrit, even Tony, were in love with the idea of the Old Races, even after the Old Races had been trying to kill them.

  Cole smashed twelve pounds of dough with his fists, then put floury hands on the edge of the counter and lowered his head with a sigh. There were good sides and bad sides to being a pastry chef—the early mornings sucked, but having afternoons off was a plus—but one of the definite up sides was taking aggression out on unsuspecting bread dough. Mostly he used the giant mixers, to save his wrists and shoulders, but some mornings having something to hit was the only way to get through the day.

  The problem was knowing. He couldn't un-know it, he couldn't erase the memory of Alban's transformation from a big man into a massive gargoyle, he couldn't forget how Margrit had staggered home at dawn a week earlier, covered with greasy smoke residue and with a fiery light in her eyes. He couldn't go back to how things had been three months earlier, before any of them knew about the Old Races.

  And that was why Margrit, last night, had looked both hopeful and apologetic when she sat down across from him in their apartment and had said, "I have a job lined up for you," in a more cautious voice than usual.

  He'd been watching the news. He'd glanced at Margrit, then sat up in the couch and turned the TV off while giving her a fish-eye. "And why is it you think I'm not going to like it?"

  "Because it's for Kaimana Kaaiai."

  Cole collapsed back into the sofa, eyes closed. Kaimana Kaaiai, leader of the disproportionately large selkie contingent of the Old Races. If he hadn't been an alien, Cole would probably like him: big dude, mellow, concerned for his people. Rich, too, rich enough to buy out Eliseo Daisani's empire when Margrit yanked the building blocks out from under it. "Yeah, you're right, I don't like it. Grit, look, it's your life, you got that through to me, but I don't want—"

  "He's offering three times your normal rates."

  Cole's eyes popped open and he sat up like a marionette, like somebody else was manipulating his strings. "Three times? Why?"

  Margrit sank into the easy chair, plucking at its threadbare arms. "Because they're celebrating their victory, and they want to be able to be themselves. It's a very private party."

  "You mean there's going to be a big water slide and people are going to dump the formal wear for seal skins and go swimming? What am I supposed to provide for catering, a truckload of raw fish?"

  "A water feature, anyway. Probably a water slide would be for otters, not seals. I don't know."

  "Please don't tell me there are otter Old Races."

  "There used to be otter ones," Margrit said brightly. "Yeti and siryns and sea ser—" It took about that long for Cole to realize she was making a play on other, rather than telling him there had been otter Old Races. He scowled and her false brightness faded. "I wish they didn't bug you so much, Cole. They're not our enemies."

  "They killed you."

  Margrit put a hand to her throat, swallowing convulsively. "They saved me, too."

  "Eliseo goddamned Daisani did not give you healing blood to save you from getting your throat cut. He did it on a whim, and the fact that it later saved your life is pure coincidence. The djinn didn't cut your throat accidentally, Margrit. You were murdered."

  "I got better." Margrit shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, then sighed. "Look, Cole, obviously you don't have to say yes. But you already know about them, so I told Kaimana I'd ask. They don't often get a chance to ask outsiders for something and still be themselves."

  "Are you trying to guilt trip me into cooking for them? Because it's not—"

  "No." Margrit blinked, then leaned out of her slump, elbows on her knees and hands spread wide in supplication. Good lawyer body language, Cole figured: it was supposed to make her seem open and reliable, somebody he would want to join forces with. He'd known her way too long for it to work on that level, but he'd also known her long enough to recognize that she wasn't playing him: she'd unconsciously incorporated that kind of body language years ago. So he could be pretty sure she meant it when she said, "No," again. "No, I'm just stating the facts, Cole. From Kaimana's point of view it would be a huge advantage to have you cater for their party, even if you don't like them, and he's willing to pay for it. He'll hire somebody else if you don't want to do it, but I said I'd at least ask."

  Cole got up, impatient for action while they talked. Cooking was most soothing, but there were dishes to do, which was good enough. Margrit followed him into the kitchen, picking up a dishtowel to dry plates as he handed them to her. "They're dangerous, Grit."

  "Anybody can be dangerous. We've had this discussion before, Cole. I'm part of their w
orld now, way deeper than I ever thought I'd be. I not only won't turn away, but realistically I can't."

  "And you want me to get more involved."

  "It's one party."

  He gave her a look that she accepted with a twist of her mouth and a downward glance. "Yeah, all right, it's hardly ever just one anything with the Old Races. So I'll tell him no?"

  Cole sighed. "Tell him yes."

  "Really?" Margrit clapped her hands to-gether, then fumbled the plate and towel she'd been holding, finally catching them with a laugh. "Really, Cole?"

  "Three times my usual rate will get me a little more than halfway to the start-up capital I need to start my own place, so yeah. Really. And then practice balancing plates, because I'm going to need staff and you, Tony and Cam are my Old-Races-savvy short list."

  Because they couldn't un-know any of it either, but the memory of Margrit's delight last night had made it clear, as always, that she didn't want to forget that the Old Races existed. And the truth was that once anybody knew, the Old Races became an indelible part of their lives. Cole punched the bread dough again, then broke it into loaves, rolling, tucking, shaping it into artisan circles. This was the bread and butter, almost literally, of the Fifth Street Bakery, but they made increasingly elegant goodies as well, from cookies up through extravagant wedding cakes that had been featured on Best Of and competition baking shows. The bakery had an associated restaurant that catered to enormous events, so there was almost always something new to do, no time to get bored. Cole worked with five other bakers, each of them changing stations every day of the week so they could keep up to speed on every element of the bakery's offerings. Beating down bread was satisfying, but it was the more delicate creations of extraordinary pastries that Cole loved. At a restaurant of his own, bread could be left to the bakers' assistants and second-tier pastry chefs. The most dramatic pieces would be ones he created.

  A dessert and coffee house in the theatre district, that was the goal. Not on Broadway: too expensive and too much competition. Probably out in Trenton, where Cam's family was from, and where neither real estate nor coffee houses were at quite the premium of New York. It was still an expensive proposition, and saving for the start-up costs while paying off student loans had been slow going. That was the only reason to take the Kaaiai job. Cole tucked the last of the dough leaves that topped the bread, marking them as the bakery's house loaves, and set them aside for the second rise. Later he would slide them into ovens so enormous they were easily mistaken for walls, but for the moment he had quick breads to mix up, then a break that would remind him that even the city's sweltering summer mornings were a breath of fresh air compared to the heat-wave-ridden kitchens.

  Half an hour later a text message rattled the phone in his pocket. He didn't need to check it: Cam always texted to say she was stopping by, on mornings when her schedule let her. He came out, floury, red-faced and sweating, and couldn't help laughing as Cam jogged up the block, her blonde braid bouncing around her shoulders. She'd been at work for two hours and had just run ten long blocks from the gym, but her cheeks were barely flushed and she'd hardly broken a sweat. At 6am, there were enough people on the street for Cole to catch envying or appreciative glances Cameron's way, and a grin burst out of him. She was two inches taller than he was and an Amazon goddess to his Pillsbury Dough Boy, though with a personal trainer for a fiancée he wasn't all that soft. She swooped in for a kiss, trying not to get flour on her workout clothes, but he grabbed her and spun her in a laughing circle.

  She staggered when he put her down, and brushed flour off her shirt. "You look like my last client. He was the same color you are right now." She gave him a quick critical look that had no malice in it at all, then smiled. "Except you're in much better shape than he is. This one's a new guy, maybe forty pounds overweight, and coming in fast on his fortieth birthday. Running marathons is the new Ferrari, you know. Are you really going to cater for a selkie party?"

  Cole lifted his eyebrows. "I guess you talked to Margrit this morning."

  "You know how she's up all night anymore. It's weird." Cam gave a cheerful shiver. "Sometimes I wish it'd been me who got to drink vampire blood and the rest of the time I'm glad it's not. Anyway, yeah, she said we had to break out our tuxedos because you figured we'd be your catering staff. You remember what happened last time you handed me a bottle of wine, right?"

  "I've never seen anyone break a bottle that completely," Cole admitted. "I still don't know how you did it. People have harder times shattering bottles on ship prows than you did on, I don't even know what."

  "It was the table," Cam insisted, which she'd been doing all along. "I don't know, I just turned around and it was there and it broke—"

  "—at about a thousand miles an hour, all over the white shag carpet—"

  "Well, I told you not to give it to me! And you think I should be helping cater a posh party?"

  "Who else am I going to hire?" Cole slumped against the bakery wall, the energy that had awakened with Cameron's arrival draining away. "Grit says they want me in the first place so they can let their hair down, so they sure don't want a bunch of random catering staff cluttering up the place and harshing their groove."

  Cameron pushed her mouth into duck lips. "I kind of think of them as people who harsh other peoples' grooves, not people who get their grooves harshed. Although I guess Kaimana is kind of mellow, so maybe he can be harshed. If I spill on anybody I'm going to tell them to take it up with the management." She put a finger against the middle of Cole's chest. "That's you, in case you were wondering."

  "Yeah? I got an upgrade, huh?"

  "Only for catering jobs. Otherwise I'm still the boss of you. No," Cam added in the same breath, "not really. Not up for bosses and underlings here. Partnerships. Otherwise, blick."

  "Blick," Cole echoed. "That's your summary of an unequal relationship?"

  "If you want a wordsmith you should be marrying a writer, not a physical therapist. One will write you a beautiful eulogy, the other will keep you in shape so you don't need the eulogy for a really long time. Take your pick."

  "I choose you, Pika—"

  Cameron put her fingers over his mouth and made her eyes very large. "Don't even. Because then I'm going to get to pick a Pokémon for you, and you don't want me to do that. I've spent way too many hours with the TV show blaring in my ear at the gym and I know them all."

  Cole wrapped his hand around her fingers and kissed her knuckles. "Okay. Not going there. I'll never understand why you have cartoons on at the gym, but—"

  "They're more invigorating than the news or reality shows. Cartoons and sitcoms engage people and we want them engaged. Anyway, this catering thing, Cole. Are you sure about it?"

  "And this is why I love you. This and your amazing legs." He pulled Cameron close again and she didn't object, though he knew he was getting flour all over her clothes. "It's a lot of money. And really, it's a catering job. What can go wrong besides the kitchen catching on fire and the guests being allergic to shellfish? But no, I'm not sure. I don't want any part of them, Cam."

  Cam, muffled, asked, "So why'd you say yes?" into his shoulder, and Cole blew a hot breath over her shoulder in turn.

  "Because Margrit's crazy for Alban, and she's one of our best friends. I've either gotta suck it up or never see her again, so I'm trying to suck it up. So this is kind of a peace offering, I guess."

  "And this is why I love you. Are you sure you don't have to turn in your man card for displaying this level of sensitivity?" Cam leaned out of his arms to see his expression, which went dry enough to make her smile.

  "I make up for it by being a lead baker. Chefing is all about the hierarchy and alpha dog thing."

  "Silly me, I thought it was all about the food." Cameron scooted a few inches away to bend double, stretching her hamstrings by putting her palms against the sidewalk. "When's the party?"

  Cole tipped his head, admiring the view. Cam gave him a wink that said she knew he was, but a
lso rolled her hand, asking for a response. "Next Friday. Ten days, not three days. Are you working?"

  "Nah, it's summertime, so my Friday clients are all canceling or moving their sessions back a few hours. Nobody wants to meet with a PT when they could be out showing off the body they've worked so hard to achieve." She wiggled her hips, emphasizing the body she'd worked hard to achieve, then craned her neck to look up at him. "Are you going to get Alban to help cater?"

  "I'm trying really hard to figure out a way not to, but there's gonna be like two hundred people at this thing, maybe more. I'm going to have to hire every non-selkie Old Race…person…we know. What's that other gargoyle's name?"

  "Biali?" Cameron straightened with a laugh and turned to plant her hands against the wall, leaning to stretch her calves as well. "I don't think he'd agree. Margrit says he's a grump."

  "Too bad she chased Eliseo Daisani out of town. He's fast, right? I'd only need one waiter if they were fast."

  "Can you really imagine Eliseo Daisani waiting tables?" Cam stopped stretching to make helpless gestures, somehow encompassing Daisani's small size and deadly charm with them. "It'd be like asking…"

  "Eliseo Daisani to wait tables," Cole finished dryly.

  Cameron laughed and nodded, then stood bolt upright. "Oh! Oh, but know who could help? Margrit's Mom and Dad. Her Mom, anyway. And Grace!"

  "You want me to invite Margrit's mother to come sling booze for selkies?" It was Cole's turn to make useless hand motions, trying to describe Rebecca Knight's slender elegance and cool reserve without words. "That's almost as bizarre as asking Mr. Daisani. And Grace, Grace is like a superhero, Cam, she doesn't do normal stuff. She lurks."

  "See, now I totally want her to come lurk at Kaimana. C'mon, who else are you going to get? I'll go with Margrit and we'll ask her mom and Grace and maybe she'll ask Biali. They had some big moment together when all this stuff went bad, so maybe he'll say yes."