House of Cards

by C. E. Murphy

  Seconds later the rooftop door flew open and half a dozen armed men spilled through it. Alban lifted his gaze by degrees, knowing full well the picture he made: a solitary, pale man splashed against the black rooftop, a place with no easy access. The wind lifted his hair and opened his suit coat, making a flare like wings as he came to his feet with slow deliberation. The men who surrounded him—tough-looking, as if they’d seen their share of battle—exchanged wary glances, unsure of how to respond to his fearless stance.

  One raised a gun as Alban stepped forward, daring to block the gargoyle’s path to the door. “You can’t go in th—”

  “Stand down, Ricardo.” It wasn’t the voice Alban wanted to hear, but it would do; Malik appeared in the doorway, his cane held by its throat as he swung it. “Korund. What a surprise.”

  Alban walked forward until he stood inches from the djinn, staring more than eight inches down at him. “I am already an exile. If any harm comes to Margrit Knight, I have nothing to lose by avenging her. You would do well to remember that.” He felt surprising freedom in voicing the threat, as though it broke shackles he’d been unaware of wearing. “I will see Janx, and I will see him now.”

  “Janx doesn—nnk!” Fury lit Malik’s eyes as Alban planted a hand against his collarbones and shoved him against the door frame. It proved that Alban’s decision to transform to a human shape had been wise: had the armed men now behind him known that Malik was other than human, Alban would never have been able to put a hand on the djinn. The distinctive sound of weapons cocking followed hard on Malik’s outraged protest. Alban ignored them and stalked down concrete stairs toward Janx’s office. Malik’s voice sounded, ordering a stand-down for the second time. The door above banged shut, no heavy mortal footsteps following him. An instant later Malik coalesced in front of Alban, rage contorting his features.

  Alban ignored him, startled to discover how little he had to say to the djinn. Malik vaporized again rather than be trampled, and a hint of small-minded glee bubbled at the back of Alban’s mind. He and the djinn could, at best, stymie one another. Malik might be capable of taking the breath from Alban’s body, but could do nothing to the gargoyle’s stone form, and gargoyles, as a people, were far more patient than the djinn. A gargoyle could remain in his stone shape until his djinn tormentors grew bored and left.

  It would hardly come to that on Janx’s threshold, though. Malik didn’t reappear a second time, no doubt gone to warn his master of Alban’s arrival. That was unnecessary; short of human methods of destruction, only a gargoyle could manage the building-shaking landing Alban had made a minute earlier, and the only other gargoyle in New York was in Janx’s employ.

  Concrete steps turned to iron grating, creaking beneath Alban’s weight. As the casino below came into view, he paused, fully aware of the windowed alcove to his right that overlooked the same broad room he studied. This was Janx’s House of Cards, the center of more criminal activities than Alban could easily name. The police, he understood, often managed to arrest minor players in Janx’s empire, but Janx himself went unscathed. Whether that was because he owned enough of the city to keep himself safe or because the authorities feared what might rise in his place, Alban didn’t know.

  Below him, the desperate and weary played poker and roulette, hoping for a life-changing break of luck. The air tasted of despair, neon lights turning smoke to off-colored swirls as dull as the hope in the room. No one looked up: so human of them. Alban might well have walked through the warehouse’s upper reaches in his natural form and gone unnoticed. The temptation to risk it by shifting flared and died again. Anger had carried him this far, but a gargoyle’s temperament didn’t lend itself to impetuousness. Alban came down the stairs, following a hallway to Janx’s office, disconcerted by its familiarity. It was not a place he would consider himself comfortable in. Perhaps the ire that drove him burned away minor uneasiness.

  Janx waited at the window within his alcove, a cigarette held loosely in his fingers as he watched the casino below. Neon light colored his skin to red and made his smile bloody as Alban entered the room. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “How much credit do you deserve, Janx?” Alban kept his voice to a low rumble, undermining the dragonlord’s light tenor and amusement. “How much of my arrival here did you orchestrate?”

  Janx turned from the window, cigarette moved to his lips so he could spread long-fingered hands in a protestation of innocence. “I can only hope I’m clever enough to have arranged this. Tell me your suspicions and I’ll tell you if I’m that deucedly maniacal.”

  “Margrit Knight was attacked in the park two nights ago. Did you send the muggers to force my hand? To create a situation in which she was inexorably drawn back into our world?”

  Hard-edged regret followed astonishment in Janx’s jade gaze, answer enough, before a lazy smile slid into place and masked his true emotions. He drew breath to speak, and Alban made a short gesture, cutting him off. Janx’s lashes lowered and he pursed his lips, echoing Alban’s gesture more languidly. “I would have,” he said, rather than lay claim to the devious behavior. “Weeks ago, if I’d thought of it. My compliments to you, Stoneheart. Who would have imagined you to have such a suspicious mind?”

  “It seems I’ve been keeping bad company of late. Call off your favor, Janx. You know Margrit can’t keep someone like Malik safe. Whatever game you’re playing at has nothing to do with his life.”

  A corner of Janx’s mouth turned up in slow wonder. “Au contraire, my old friend, it certainly does. Though you’re right about Margrit being doomed to fail. It’s a test.”

  “For Eliseo. To see how much she’s worth. Call it off.”

  Janx brought his palms together in a lazy clap. “You’ve become sly, Alban. Whatever is the world coming to?”

  “Janx.”

  “Do you want to bargain, Stoneheart?” Janx stepped away from his window to drag a folding chair from the table, whipping it around to sit on it backward. Alban watched Janx’s theatrics without changing expression, and remained standing, knowing he loomed, even in his human form.

  The dragonlord thrust out his lower lip. “Margrit is much more obliging than you are, Alban. She plays along.”

  “Margrit is human.” Alban’s voice dropped another register, scraping the bottom of a mortal vocal range. “I am less fragile than that.”

  “If you want to bargain, Stoneheart, let’s be about it. What do I gain for releasing Margrit from the favor she owes me?”

  “How long has it been, Janx?” The depth left Alban’s voice, replaced by softness. “How many years?”

  Jade eyes darkened and muscle tightened in Janx’s jaw. “You know the answer.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “Three hundred. Three hundred years and forty-two, since London burned and you swore an oath to men not of your race.”

  “Not men.”

  “We have no other word for ourselves. It’s lost to time and human influence, if we ever had one. We have always been ‘the people,’ among our languages. Do not,” the dragon said impatiently, “play word games with me, Alban. Your bargain. I would hear it.”

  Alban stepped forward, leaning on the laminate table. It creaked beneath his weight, as if he wore his gargoyle form. “My bargain was made three and a half centuries ago. Let. Her. Go.”

  Janx surged over the table, landing a hand’s-breadth from Alban. Though more slender in build, the dragonlord stood nearly of a height with Alban in his human form. For all that he moved gracefully, his breath came harsh and loud. “You would not.” Green flame brightened and danced in his eyes, disbelief warring with outrage. “You cannot.”

  “Bad company, Janx. Perhaps I’ve learned something in all my years of exile, after all.”

  “Or in the last weeks, the world rejoined and rediscovered. You would not dare.” Uncertainty began to give way to fury, the color in Janx’s eyes shifting from green to the shade of low-burning embers.

  “Al
l these centuries of exile, Janx. All for the sake of a promise made. I have nothing left to lose. Don’t,” he added abruptly, granite hardening his voice. “Don’t try to hold Margrit over my head now, like a trinket whose life commands mine. If any harm comes to her, I have no more stomach for you or Eliseo or your ages-old games. I hold your secrets, Janx. If you want them kept, make Margrit’s safety your priority.”

  Janx rolled his jaw, eyes dark with anger. “The favor’s been asked and agreed to, Stoneheart. If I call it back, I’ve burned it up. Your little lawyer’s too good a negotiator to let that go. And another of my men died tonight. I will not let Malik go unattended.”

  “Keep him from foolishness in the day and I’ll keep him safe at night.”

  Janx pursed his lips. “How? I gave Margrit an impossible task. It’s no easier for a gargoyle to watch over a djinn.”

  Alban shrugged. “So long as he carries his cane, I can track him, and I’ve never seen him without it.”

  “His cane? Do you have a deep sensitivity to baubles, Alban? I thought that was a dragonly trait.”

  “Avarice for baubles is a dragonly trait. Sensitivity to stone is a gargoyle’s gift.” Faint humor rolled through Alban when Janx’s expression remained confounded. “The head’s not glass, Janx. It’s corundum. White sapphire. The easiest of any stone for my family to track.”

  A ripple of disbelief crossed Janx’s face, heightening Alban’s humor. He kept it contained, amused enough by the dragon’s disconcertment to draw the moment out. “You thought it was glass. I never knew the dragonly trait for sensing wealth was nothing more than human legend. Malik must enjoy that.”

  “Admiring wealth is not the same as sensing its presence.” Janx’s voice was hoarse. “That stone is as large as his fist. Where did he get it?”

  “I can’t imagine. And if you want me to be able to track him, you won’t ask, or he’ll put it aside. Do we have an accord, Janx?”

  Another spasm of avarice crossed the dragonlord’s face before Janx visibly set aside his interest in the stone. “Split the favor. Margrit’s duty in sunlight, yours by the stars. I have other reasons to keep that game in play.” At Alban’s slow nod, Janx fell back a step, a scowl fitting over his lively features. “Who taught you to fight, Alban? I don’t remember this in you.”

  “You should.” Alban’s voice roughened again. “My brothers would never have trusted their most precious confidences to anyone weaker than themselves. Time’s dulled your memory, dragonlord.” He smiled faintly. “You should ask a gargoyle to remember for you.”

  Sudden greed flashed in Janx’s eyes. “Oh, I intend to. I intend to, Alban. Like it or not, after all this time, you’ve chosen a side. You came to me, not to Eliseo.” Greed faded into a sharp smile as he spread his hands. “Welcome home, Stoneheart. After so long, let me welcome you to the House of Cards.”

  NINE

  HURRYING HOME THROUGH the park without the confidence of having her inhuman defender watching from above was more nerve-rattling than Margrit would have imagined. Bad enough to be without his protection; worse still to be dressed in work clothes, unable to run reliably. She unlocked the front door to her apartment building and stepped inside, a rope of tension released from within her shoulders, as if the door closing behind her made the world a safer place.

  It wasn’t cold enough outside to make her feel as numb as she did. Margrit climbed the flights of stairs to her apartment heavily, legs aching with the effort. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that Alban might flat-out reject her request for help. That he might disappear into the night like a ghost, leaving behind nothing more than the certainty that this time he meant it: he would not return to watch over her. Without Alban she had no support amongst the Old Races, no one she trusted.

  “Grit? Is that you?” The question sailed out of the kitchen almost before Margrit had the key in the lock, Cole’s baritone carrying concern.

  “Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I was at the office.” Margrit followed her housemate’s voice to the kitchen and sat down on the stool next to the telephone.

  Cole turned away from doing dishes, an eyebrow lifted dubiously, then both rising in surprise. “You really were. I figured you’d be running in the park.”

  “No.” Margrit looked at her hands. “Not tonight.”

  “Maybe you should. Not that I want to encourage you to do stupid things, but you sound like the dog died.” Cole picked up a dish towel, drying his hands, then folded his arms across his chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m thinking about taking another job.” The idea formulated as she spoke.

  Disbelief shot Cole’s voice into a higher register. “You’re kidding. What, did a position open up in the D.A.’s office? I thought you and Legal Aid were bound in holy matrimony.”

  “Not with public services at all. I saw Eliseo Daisani yesterday, and he offered me a job again.” Margrit’s temples throbbed badly enough that she touched one, expecting to feel the vein popped beneath her skin.

  “Elis—the Eliseo Daisani?” Cole asked, as though there were several possibilities, and as though he’d never said it before. Margrit smiled faintly, which did nothing to alleviate her headache. A headache was a malady, the sort of thing Daisani’s blood should wipe away. Maybe it didn’t work when the aches and pains were born of tension.

  “That one, yeah. The very, very rich one.”

  “The very rich one who used to date your mother?”

  Margrit winced. “If that’s what they did, yeah, I guess so. I try not to think about why my mother knows him, Cole. You’re not helping.”

  “Just wanted to make sure I had the right Daisani, Grit.” Cole crossed the kitchen to crouch in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Why in the hell would you do that?”

  For a fleeting moment Margrit considered telling the truth: I’m about to have a dragon pissed off at me for failing to protect his liegeman djinn, and the gargoyle I thought would help me has walked away. The vampire’s all I’ve got left. Daisani was the only person who could protect her if she failed to keep Malik alive. Moreover, if Daisani was behind Janx’s lieutenants’ deaths, maybe she could use herself as a bargaining chip to protect Malik. And Kaimana Kaaiai wanted her to be his courier between Janx and Daisani, anyway. Working for Daisani would only make that easier.

  Margrit pulled her hands from Cole’s and pressed them to her face. “I’m defending this guy,” she said into her palms. “He’s a complete bastard, a total son of a bitch. A rapist. The good news is I’m going to lose. Evidence is completely on the prosecutor’s side, and my guy’s too fucking dumb to take a plea. But I’m in there doing my best to get him off, because that’s my job, and Jesus, Cole, what kind of job is that?” She looked up through her fingers, finding his worried eyes studying her. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just finally getting to me.”

  The worst of it was that the argument sounded plausible to her own ears, and from the sympathy tempering Cole’s expression, it resonated with him, as well. Margrit sighed. “Compared to that, a posh office with a park-side view and a big fat paycheck’s starting to sound pretty good.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Grit,” Cole said gently. “Daisani’s building doesn’t even overlook the park.”

  Margrit exhaled a soft burst of laughter, winning a smile from her housemate before he asked, “You eaten recently?”

  “Um…” She tipped her head back, stretching her throat. “Not since lunch, I guess. I don’t even remember if I ate lunch.”

  “Then you probably didn’t. You never forget a meal.” Cole pushed himself upright and went to the fridge. “Cam’ll be home in a few minutes. You can have some dinner and we can talk about it. This is kind of out of nowhere, Grit, and you shouldn’t be making decisions with low blood sugar.” He left the fridge door open as he pulled leftovers out, taking a newly washed plate from the dish rack to pile scalloped potatoes and ham onto it. Margrit watched silently, trying to push down an overwhelming rise of emotion that made her nose sti
ng and her chest feel full.

  “I could do that myself, you know,” she said thickly. “I’m a hundred-percent capable of using a microwave.”

  “You’re fine where you are. Have you talked to Tony about this job change idea, Grit? Your parents? Russell?”

  “Nobody. Just you.” Margrit got up to close the fridge and leaned on its broad orange surface.

  Cole glanced over his shoulder at her. “So you’re trying the idea on for size.”

  “I guess.” She folded an arm around her ribs and bent the other up, pressing her knuckles against her mouth. “Did you always want to be a pastry chef?”

  Cole chuckled. “We’re not making this about me, Grit. But yeah, I guess. I used to get under Mom’s feet in the kitchen. By the time I was fourteen I did most of the baking at home.”

  Margrit dropped her knuckles enough to grin. “That must’ve gone over well with the guys.”

  “Remember I grew up in San Francisco. Everybody just assumed I was gay.” Cole grinned back. “Actually, nobody cared if I was queer as long as I fed them, so it went over fine with the guys.” His smile broadened. “It went over even better with the girls. Anyway, people were always telling me I should be a chef, but I wanted to bake, not cook, and it took forever to get the idea there were jobs specifically for bakers.”

  “Hence the dust-gathering business degree?”

  “Pretty much. I thought it’d be good to finish that up in case baking didn’t pay the bills. But yeah, it’s what I’ve always liked doing. No mid-career crisis.” The microwave dinged and Cole took a plate of steaming food out and slid it toward Margrit. “Your dinner, madame.”

  “It’s a little early for me to have a midcareer crisis. Thank you.” She took a fork from the clean dishes and broke up the scalloped potatoes, leaning in to inhale the steam. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed a hand against it, laughing weakly. “Guess I’m hungry.”