by C. E. Murphy
He stepped back, scooping a seal fur from the sand and swirling it around his shoulders as he strode into the sea. Gray predawn gave him soft shadows as water drank his calves, his thighs, and then he dived forward into the small waves. A seal’s head popped up in the first colored rays of morning, never looking back as Alban curled a hand against his thigh, a last motion before sunrise swept over him. His words lingered on the gold-drenched sea, and he hoped that Glendyr heard him before the waters closed over his head forever.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
With the whisper, memory shifted again. In the two centuries hence no gargoyle had more than glimpsed a half-blood selkie, nor did any other of the Old Races come bearing tales of selkie survivors. Their desperate, hateful attempt to save themselves had wiped them out as surely as straightforward slaughter. Better to have died cleanly, lay the undercurrent of thought within the memories. Better to have gone the way they all would, with pride of people if not, in the end, the length of years.
Alban exhaled, eyes closed heavily as memory sloughed away. Dawn was dangerously close, the excursion into the whole of a race’s history more time-consuming and draining than he’d feared. Too late by far to return to Janx; the story of selkie ruin could wait until evening. Even Grace’s hideaway was too far to reach safely before sunrise took him. Twice. Twice in a quarter year he’d been caught outside at daybreak, when for centuries past he’d hidden away safe from discovery during daylight hours. There was no blaming Margrit this time, but Alban lifted his eyes to the horizon with a smile regardless. The human woman was a bad influence, driving him to impetuosity that was wholly against his nature. He must relearn caution, or pay its price. And he would.
Later.
Stone took him.
Discussing the possibility of a job change with anyone, even Russell, was premature until she’d made sure the offer still stood. Margrit hadn’t slept well, most of the night spent staring at the ceiling in the darkness, looking for a way around allying herself with Eliseo Daisani. Morning had come with only one other answer: Kaimana Kaaiai.
That thought still nagged at her as she pressed the button for the elevator she’d always taken up to Daisani’s offices. It chimed pleasantly, but the doors didn’t open. Margrit made a fist and thudded it against the seam with great care, as if she might discover an inhuman strength within herself if she let go of caution.
The fact that she stood in Daisani’s building and not Kaaiai’s hotel told her she’d made her choice even if her thoughts still ran in circles. Kaaiai had offered her more freedom within the context of her position amongst the Old Races than anyone else, but he’d also drawn Tony into their world, even if only superficially. Margrit had no doubt that Daisani would use her friends to manipulate her if he found it necessary, but so far he’d played a more honest hand than that.
The regards he’d passed on to her mother more than once suddenly struck her. He’d made no attempt to use that connection to encourage Margrit to work for him. She bounced her palm off the elevator doors more forcefully, then pulled her phone out of her purse to dial the vampire’s number. “Your elevator won’t let me in,” she said irritably when he answered. A surprised silence follwed by, “Do forgive me. I’ll have security override the lock,” greeted her.
A moment later the doors opened and Margrit took the lift up to Daisani’s offices, where he met her with an expression of restrained interest. “Miss Knight.”
“Mr. Daisani. I never needed a security override before.”
“I’ve expected you in the past, or have had an assistant between myself and the public. May I take your coat?” Daisani slipped it onto a hanger, settling it in a discreet closet before turning to examine her. “You look nearly as fine as you did at the reception. For me?”
“I’m in court forty minutes from now.”
“Really,” he said, clearly surprised. “I thought under the circumstances you might not be prepared for court.”
Margrit glanced down at herself, taking in the trumpet skirt whose slender lines helped lend the illusion of height and femininity, and the cream silk blouse that played up her cafe-latte skin tones. Dangling earrings swung at the corners of her vision, though no corkscrew curls came loose from the low chignon she wore. “Circumstances? If you mean my clothes…” She sighed. “You’re right. I’ll be changing into something more formidable. Yes, for you.”
Daisani’s eyes lit with curiosity and he crossed to lean against his desk, arms folded across his chest as he studied her without speaking. Uncomfortable, Margrit returned the regard, then examined his office. Morning sunlight colored the sky behind him, glowing through floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the room. Heavy red velvet curtains, fully open, hung from automated tracks at each end. Daisani’s desk sat off center, making room—as if the enormous office might be cluttered otherwise—for a set of soft and comfortable couches facing the windows. Bookcases lay just beyond the seating area, arranged with hundreds of volumes and a handful of extraordinary knickknacks. Margrit’s gaze slid to where a pair of selkie skins had been briefly pinned, glad to see an empty spot there. A bronze-cast bronco rider on the shelves caught her attention before she looked back at Daisani. “You’ve replaced the Rodin.”
“Vanessa had chosen it. I have enough reminders, day to day, of her absence. You didn’t come here to discuss the artistic decisions for my office, Miss Knight. I’m frankly bewildered as to why you are here, this morning of all mornings.”
Margrit curled her water glass toward herself. “I need to know something that you’re probably not going to tell me.”
“A good lawyer should know better than to lead her witness that way, Margrit. Or are you hoping I’ll succumb to a fit of contrariness?” Wariness encountered Daisani’s tone, a caution Margrit was unaccustomed to hearing from him.
“Something like that. We’re off the record, Mr. Daisani. You know Janx is losing his seconds-in-command left and right.”
“Careless of him,” the vampire murmured, his eyes shuttering before he peeked up to judge Margrit’s reaction to his teasing. Then his mouth twisted at the un-amused expression she felt on her own features, an apology. “Not a morning for humor. Of course not. Forgive me. Yes, I’m aware.”
“Off the record,” Margrit repeated. “Is it you?”
Daisani stepped back, pure surprise turning him briefly vulnerable. “You came here today to ask me that? Oh,” he added instantly. “Yes. Of course. I see why you would, under the circumstances. No, Miss Knight, it’s not me. I can’t say that I’m in the slightest bit dismayed—I may offer a reward to those persons responsible—but it’s not me.”
Margrit’s fingers tightened around her water glass as she absorbed his response. After a moment she heard herself say, “Fuck,” with quiet, precise clarity before she turned away from the vampire to find a seat. “Fuck. I believe you. I didn’t think I would.”
“Then why did you come here?”
Margrit breathed a laugh as she sat down. “So when you lied to me I would have a degree of moral high ground to stand on when I offered up a trade.”
Daisani came to sit beside her, deliberately moving with human slowness. “A trade, Miss Knight?”
“Sure.” She stared out at city rooftops. “It was going to be a very good trade. You were going to lie to me about being behind Janx’s murders and I was going to accept your job offer in exchange for you sparing Malik’s life.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Daisani’s jaw actually fall open a few centimeters. She glanced toward him as he pulled himself together, his spine straightening. “You’ve surprised me, Miss Knight,” he said after a few long seconds. “I would never have imagined you to be so opportunistic, especially with the body still cooling. I’m caught between utter admiration and being completely appalled.”
Margrit’s stomach lurched and she came to her feet, cold sweat standing out all over. “Body? What—Malik can’t be dead.” Her heartbeat was suddenly loud and
fragile in her ears. If the djinn was dead, those beats were numbered, and she had a frantic desire to count them, acknowledging each last one.
“Malik? No. My God. You don’t know.” Daisani stood as well, reaching for her elbow. “No, as far as I know, Malik is alive and well. It’s Russell Lomax, Margrit. He was found dead this morning at the Legal Aid offices, less than an hour ago.”
ELEVEN
MARGRIT LOST HER case, and lost it badly. The judge asked twice if she was interested in the proceedings, and Jacob Mills gave her more than one concerned glance across the aisle. She rallied a little for the closing arguments, but Jacob’s obliterated hers. As she watched her client being led away, she only hoped she hadn’t done so badly as to earn an appeal.
Tony met her just outside the courtroom doors. She stopped dead, taking in his drawn expression and the lack of color in his usually ruddy skin. “So they’re investigating it as a homicide.”
Dread washed out of Tony’s features, replaced by dismayed relief. Margrit squeezed her eyes shut, unable to blame him for not wanting to be the one bearing bad news, and equally sympathetic to his sorrow that she’d already learned what he’d come to tell her. “Are they investigating it as a homicide? Or are you just here because I need you?”
“Both.” Tony’s voice cracked on the word and Margrit moved forward, walking blindly into him. He caught her and she knotted her arms around his ribs, trembling with the effort of holding on. People brushed by them, reporters and lawyers, witnesses and victims. A camera flashed and the weight of Tony’s arms lessened as he reached out. Margrit caught a glimpse of him putting his hand over the lens. The photographer swore, but backed off, and Tony tugged Margrit a step or two away. “C’mon. Let’s get somewhere more private.”
She nodded, letting him lead her from the bustle. Her heels clacked and echoed as they stepped out of the main hall into a quieter passageway. Tony turned to her then, expression still serious. “We don’t know anything yet. We’ve been reviewing security tapes, but we haven’t seen anyone unusual entering or exiting the building, at least not this morning. It happened early enough that we’re pretty sure we’ve already talked to everyone who did enter the building through normal channels. We’ve started going through last night’s tapes, and we’ve got somebody working on his case files.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Margrit’s voice sounded thick to her own ears.
Tony put his hands on her shoulders in gentle concern. “Probably not. Most of your office has taken the day off, Grit. Maybe you should, too. We just have to do our job.”
“I could—” She swallowed. “I’d feel better if I could do something, even if it’s trivial. Maybe I could…help go through case files.”
“Margrit.” Tony squeezed her shoulders carefully. “It’s our job, not yours. I’ll keep you as informed as I can, okay?”
“Yeah.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again hastily, the tiny weakness too clearly a prelude to tears. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He frowned until it looked like it hurt. Margrit reached up to run a thumb over his forehead, smoothing wrinkles, and his scowl turned to a weak, concerned smile. “You okay?”
“No.” Margrit smiled just as weakly. “No, I’m really not, but I can’t fall apart yet. Not here.”
Regret spasmed over Tony’s face. “I wish I could bring you home and take care of you for a while.”
“It’s okay.” She summoned a better smile into place and squeezed his arm. “I’ll be all right, really. I’ll take a cab home and go to pieces on Cameron or Cole.”
“Yeah. It’s just, you know. I’d kinda like to be the one you go to pieces on.”
“I know.” Margrit stepped into his arms to hold on to him again for a long moment. “I know. But you’ve got to go to work and find out what son of a bitch did this. Be careful, Tony, okay? For me?”
“I’m always careful.” Tony stole a kiss, then brushed his fingers over her cheek. “You be careful, too, okay? I’ll let you know everything I can, as soon as I can. Walk you out?”
“Yeah.” Margrit held still, though, making Tony turn back to her. “How did he—How…?” She took a breath as reluctance darkened Tony’s eyes. “It’s going to be in the papers anyway. I’d rather you told me.”
“Yeah.” Tony thinned his lips, then sighed. “He was suffocated. They don’t even know with what yet.”
Margrit lifted a hand to her throat, coloring with the recollection of struggling for air, and shuddered. “Okay. Thank you.”
Tony frowned again, taking her hand and pulling her into another hug. “We’ll get him, Grit. Whoever it is, we’ll get him. C’mon. Let’s get you in a cab to go home. I’ll come by tonight if I can, all right?”
“That’d be good.” Weary emotion knocked at Margrit’s heart, a brief wish that it might be Alban who’d see her that evening, but the gargoyle had made it more than clear that she was no longer his concern. Living in both worlds was impossible.
That, unexpectedly, broke her. A sob caught in her throat as Tony led her down the courthouse steps and hailed a taxi. “You’ll be okay,” he promised as he helped her into the vehicle. “Just hang in there, Grit. I’ll see you tonight.”
Margrit nodded, not trusting her voice. Tony gave the cabbie her address, then closed the door and stepped onto the curb to watch her go. She waved goodbye and slid down in the seat, keeping her eyes closed throughout the drive. A litany of disbelief ran through her now that the court case was no longer a distraction: “No, oh no,” whispered over and over again. She tilted her head back, trying to stretch tightness out of her throat, and swallowed against the sting there, to no avail. The cabbie’s voice telling her they’d arrived startled her, and she handed over a twenty and climbed out without waiting for the change. Reaching her apartment seemed like the only important thing to do; in its refuge she could let go of control for a few minutes and give in to grief and shock. For once she took the elevator, exhausted by the idea of five flights of stairs.
She let herself in quietly, as if the sound of the lock turning might send her flying apart. Closing the door just as silently took concentration, and when she had, she put both hands on the knob and rested her forehead against the door.
A high-pitched giggle broke the silence. Margrit’s mouth turned up at the corner and she tipped her head toward her housemates’ bedroom, glad she’d come in quietly. They’d get drawn into her misery soon enough. It would’ve been a shame to interrupt their time together by storming in. Margrit took a step back from the door, inhaling deeply.
Their bedroom door flew open. Cameron leapt out with a shriek that rang octaves above Cole’s bellow from the kitchen end of the hall. Water sprayed everywhere to the whir of machine guns, with Margrit caught in the cross fire. She gasped, too startled to scream as Cameron’s and Cole’s shouts turned from glee to surprise. The machinegun sounds ceased, as did the rain of water, and Margrit, dripping, looked back and forth from one to the other.
Cole wore boxers and nothing else, his black hair slicked with water and dropping into curls around his ears. He stood in a puddle on the kitchen floor and clutched a brilliant green water gun awkwardly, as if it might disappear if he held it still enough. Cameron, at the other end of the hall, wore a sports bra and boy shorts, her long blond hair plastered to her skin. Her machine gun was orange and she held it aloft, water running down her elbow toward the floor. Her eyes bulged with surprise, and her cheeks were flushed with laughter and embarrassment.
Margrit drew herself up and faced Cam, who stood only a few feet away. She put her hand out imperiously and Cameron, turning ever-pinker with guilt, handed the gun over. Margrit turned on her heel and stalked to Cole, her other hand extended. Cameron followed behind her, footsteps squishing in the damp carpet. Cole, looking mortified, gave Margrit his gun. She stepped past him into the kitchen, gun muzzles lowered, then looked back at her sheepish housemates.
“It’s two in the afternoon,” Cole mu
mbled. “What’re you doing home, Grit?”
“That’s, um, not a dry-clean-only outfit, is it, Grit? I’m sorry,” Cameron said just as diffidently. “We didn’t expect you to come home.”
“It’s not dry-clean,” Margrit assured her, then lifted the guns and smiled at Cole. “I’m slaughtering you both, that’s what I’m doing.”
The guns whirred and shot bolts of water as Cameron and Cole split, both shrieking like children. Cole slid across the kitchen floor, crashing into the balcony windows with a shout, and Cameron disappeared down the hallway, returning seconds later with a much smaller water pistol, the trigger of which she pulled repeatedly as she waded forward against Margrit’s onslaught. Cole sat down, howling with laughter and kicking his feet against the slick linoleum and Cameron wrested one of the machine guns from Margrit. The two women stood three feet apart, shooting water and laughing until the tubs were empty. Margrit threw hers away, cheeks and stomach aching, then passed a wet hand over her face. Hot tears warmed her fingers, high emotion shattering the defenses she’d gotten through the morning with.
“Margrit?” Cameron’s hilarity fell away as Margrit’s face crumpled, and Cole scrambled to his feet.
“Grit, what’s wrong?”
Margrit took a shaking breath, trying to control herself. “I’m home early because Russell was murdered this morning.”
Cameron’s arms closed around her, and Margrit began to cry.
“What I really want to know,” Margrit said a while later, still sniffling, “is where you got the water guns.”
Cole, who’d pulled a T-shirt on and brought Cameron a robe, ducked his head and smiled. “Chef brought them in this morning. His oldest turned twelve yesterday and they had a blowout water fight birthday party. Everybody was supposed to go home with one, but some of the parents wouldn’t let them, so he brought the spares in to work.”
“Bet getting rid of them was his wife’s idea, not his.” Margrit rubbed her wrist under her nose. The couch sucked her in, even with Cameron’s arm around her shoulders.