House of Cards

by C. E. Murphy

  “Who?”

  He gave her a look that said she was smarter than that, and made a short gesture, encompassing the ballroom and, most specifically, Malik, who stood at Kaimana Kaaiai’s side. “Janx, Daisani, all of ’em, they’ve been rotating by the selkie lord since he arrived. Everyone but Korund, and he’s a fool. The quorum, lawyer. When does it meet?”

  “How do you—?”

  She earned another flat look from the blunt gargoyle. “There’s not a memory of all of us being in the same place at the same time in five hundred years, lawyer. There’s always a quorum when we all come together, no matter what the reasons or what’s to be discussed. When does it meet?”

  “Monday, I think. Three days from agreeing on holding one. I don’t know where.”

  Biali turned away, apparently satisfied, then looked back, his eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. “Watch yourself, lawyer. Our kind will tear yours apart with the best of intentions.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  BIALI LEFT HER, a bolt of white pushing the crowd aside without effort. Margrit stood where she was, watching him go, and was unsurprised when Alban’s voice sounded beside her. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an overture of friendship.”

  “Friendship is not something Biali has any talent at extending.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s been almost as isolated as you’ve been, hasn’t he? Janx said you were the only two in New York.” Margrit looked over the ballroom, searching for snowy-haired men and women. Those she found had neither a gargoyle’s breadth of shoulder nor the ease of movement that marked the Old Races.

  “We are. Our people have never congregated widely in the New World.”

  “So maybe he’s finally forgiven you.”

  “Or perhaps you compel us all to actions we barely comprehend.”

  Margrit glanced back at him with an unladylike snort. “I’m one person, Alban. One person doesn’t change the world.”

  “Tell that to Mahatma Gandhi.”

  Margrit put her teeth together, closing off an argument, and stared at the gargoyle. “Interesting choice.”

  “Would you prefer I’d said Osama bin Laden?”

  “Not really.”

  Alban almost smiled. “One person can change the world. You’ve become a catalyst in ours whether you intended to or not.”

  “You started it.” Margrit pulled a face at her own childishness, and Alban’s near-smile became a full one.

  “I did. Perhaps it’s I who’ve changed our world. But it’s you who’s exotic to us, and therefore to be—”

  “Blamed?”

  Alban fell silent for long seconds. “That wasn’t the word I intended, but now that you’ve said it, I’m hard-pressed to find another.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot.” Margrit wrinkled her nose and looked away. Halfway across the ballroom, Malik still stood with Kaimana, observing the dancers. Tony, taller than either man but less broad than Kaimana, stood a grim watch over them, clearly unhappy with Malik’s presence. “Biali’s right. They’ve been rotating by Kaaiai all evening. Even when he’s meeting with us, one of them has been close enough to overhear.”

  “Us? We haven’t—”

  Margrit flicked her fingers at herself. “As opposed to you.” Another dart of her hand encompassed members of the Old Races. “You’re the only one who hasn’t paid court, Alban.”

  “No. You haven’t, either. Come, Margrit,” he said, when she elevated an eyebrow. “There were representatives of six races there last night. You, as much as I, are expected to have a certain stake in the final arrangement of power, but you haven’t danced attendance on Kaaiai, either.”

  Margrit wet her lips, wishing for the champagne Biali had so handily rid her of. “I think it might be bad for my health to be more associated with your power balance than I already am. Kaimana and I have already discussed what we have in common.”

  “Secret meetings?” There was a heaviness to the teasing that made Margrit look sharply at her companion.

  “De facto, yes, but not by deliberation. Not from you, at least. I’ll tell you after the party, if you want.”

  “That had the distinct sound of dismissal to it.”

  Margrit put her hand on Alban’s chest, smiling. “It was. We all know you’re a lousy negotiator, but I think you should go loom next to Kaimana for a little while and make small talk. It’ll make the rest of them feel like you’re playing along. It might even worry some of them. Alban Korund, with an agenda? Surely it’s a sign of the apocalypse.”

  “You’re a bad woman, Margrit Knight.”

  “But a very good lawyer,” she said cheerfully. “Go on. I have to dance with Janx, so he doesn’t feel left out.”

  “Are you trying to infuriate me?”

  “You’re not that easy to infuriate.” Margrit’s gaze darted across the room to find Tony again. Alban followed it, then looked back at her.

  “Are you trying to infuriate him?” His voice was low.

  “No, but it will. I’m not trying to play jealousy games. It’s just the situation.” Margrit passed a hand over her eyes without touching them, for fear of smearing her makeup. “We were together for a long time, Alban. I can’t help thinking of him. Having you and Janx and Malik—mostly you and Janx—here tonight couldn’t be more of an in-your-face snub to Tony. I don’t want that, but there wasn’t any way to avoid it.”

  “We could leave.”

  Margrit laughed. “That’s twice in one evening you’ve been impetuous, Alban. I think the world is coming to an end.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to?”

  She looked over the room, then rose on her toes to curl her hands against Alban’s shoulders and steal a kiss. “It means it’s a fantastic idea. Talk with Kaimana. Let me dance with Janx. I’ll meet you on the rooftop when we’re done.”

  “I thought I would have to seek you out.” Janx accepted Margrit’s offer of a dance with a flourish and bow, and swept her onto the floor in a waltz, disregarding the four-four time of the music being played. She clung to the dragonlord, trusting his lead over her own feet.

  “You’ve been hovering around Kaaiai so much I didn’t think you were going to seek anyone out. Unless you were planning to ask Tony to dance.”

  Janx looked toward the police-detective-cum-security-agent and shook his head. “Ah, no. I have somewhat more respect for the location of my teeth than that. I don’t like him being here,” he added less blithely. “Your friend Anthony is a thorn in my side, Margrit Knight, and the more time I spend in his presence, in Eliseo’s, in yours, the closer he comes to finding threads to bind us all together.”

  “Threads like Russell? Or my mother?” Margrit’s voice sharpened more than she thought possible, bringing Janx’s gaze back to her, surprise lightening the jade of his eyes. They slowed on the dance floor, in part because the music ended, but more because Janx was absorbing what she’d said.

  “Russell Lomax. Rebecca Knight.” He breathed the names with admiration. “Oh. Oh, Eliseo. Oh, Margrit. Oh, my dears. For Vanessa? For my men? Is this the story you’ve concocted? It’s very good,” he whispered. “So good I wish it were mine to tell.” New music started up, this time an actual waltz. Janx moved with it automatically, still watching Margrit with respect and regret. “I am outplayed on every side.”

  Something new came into his eyes, a constrained uncertainty. “Stoneheart believing I arranged the mugging in the park to draw you back into our world. This game of tit for tat played in lives that touch all of ours. You, my dear girl. Cutting the wind from under my wings in the matter of Malik’s safety, and ensconcing yourself in Eliseo’s camp. I have not been so well stymied in three centuries and a half.” His hands, usually cool, had warmed, and color stained dark shadows along his cheekbones. “I should like very much to be as conniving as you think me to be, but this one time, I fear I fall far short of your expectations. I had not yet thought out my retaliation for Patrick and the others.”

 
; His lip curled suddenly, revealing a too-pointed canine. “I’ve lost five men, and Malik not among them, no thanks to Alban. He was attacked a little while before dawn this morning.”

  Margrit stumbled over her own feet. “Malik was?”

  “By someone who knew how to fight djinn. Three humans. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm for revenge outweighed his common sense. They’re all dead, and among our other failings, we fairy tales cannot speak with the dead.”

  “He didn’t tell me that.” Margrit’s ears, heartbeat drowned out music and voices alike. Malik’s tension, his approach, his offer, made abrupt sense. Made sense, except in no way could she imagine why he might think she would protect him. The disconcerting thought that he imagined her responsible for his assault, and therefore capable of calling it off, passed through her mind and left her shaky with confusion. “Not that I know why he would.”

  “Aside from the two of you having quite the little interlude on the dance floor?” Janx asked. Margrit nodded, though the dance hardly constituted grounds for exchanging intimacies with the djinn. “And Alban couldn’t tell you,” Janx went on, voice growing colder, “because he’d abandoned his duty.”

  “Because Malik had threatened me. My family.” Margrit shook herself, upsetting her steps in the dance. Janx steadied her, his expression still cold. “Are you sure Malik didn’t just kill some poor sons of bitches, and invent a story to make Alban look bad and himself look beleaguered?”

  Janx smirked. “You give him too much credit.”

  “Maybe.” Margrit glanced across the dance floor, seeking, but not expecting to find, the djinn. “If you didn’t send him after Russell, why’d he threaten my family?”

  “At a guess? Two of us will vote against the selkie in our quorum.” Janx shrugged, then assumed a superior expression and measured, lecturing tones when Margrit wrinkled her forehead. “The gargoyles won’t shatter tradition, especially not with Stoneheart holding the vote. Even if they’ve changed enough to accept half-breeds, he’s been apart too long to know it. Kaimana himself can’t vote. There will be a tie.”

  “So?”

  “So then we must turn to the sixth in our quorum.” Mischief replaced the solemnity of his words. “You hold the decisive vote, Margrit Knight.”

  “That’s absurd.” Margrit had no strength to put behind the objection. “I’m human.”

  “As are they. It gives your opinion power. Either way you choose, the weight is significant, my dear. Either way, you change a people’s history forever.”

  “It’s everybody’s history,” Margrit breathed. “All of the remaining Old Races’, even humanity’s. Even if most of us never know it. If I say they’re Old Races, then the injunction against breeding with humans is shattered.” Her heartbeat picked up speed, warmth spreading through her body. “That allows you all to go forth and be fruitful.”

  “God was angry when he said that,” Janx said unexpectedly. The heat building in Margrit’s cheeks broke with her laughter.

  “Yes, he was.” She laughed again, then ducked her head in thought. “Oh. Oh, so if I’m not there, if my boss has been murdered, or my family’s been hurt, or even if I’m just afraid something might happen, and stay away…”

  “Then the tie holds and the selkies are rejected. There must be a majority.” All of Janx’s humor drained away as well, leaving him as solemn as she’d ever seen him. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be above the plot you’ve accused me of, but this once, my dear, I ask that you believe me.”

  “Is that your third favor, dragonlord?”

  Something in Janx’s gaze became shuttered, as if Margrit’s light question had struck deeper and more painfully than she’d imagined it could. “Must I make it so?”

  The question hung between them for a few heartbeats before she groaned. “I’m going to regret this, but no.”

  “Thank you.” Gratitude larger than the answer warranted infused Janx’s response.

  “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Only one thing?” His voice regained to its usual teasing charm. Margrit wanted to elbow him, but her hands and arms were caught by the frame of the waltz. She rolled her eyes instead. Janx’s smile sparkled.

  “There are more djinn than any of the rest of you, right? So maybe I can understand why they wouldn’t want to take the path the selkies have. But why preemptively condemn everyone else? I know it’s tradition, but you’re dealing with an ancient law whose reversal could save your people. All of you.”

  “It might, if we chose to intermingle the bloodlines.”

  Astonishment widened her eyes. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  Janx shrugged as he spun her in a wide circle. “Look at your own people’s racial divides. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

  “But the Old Races don’t have the luxury of numbers. Most of even our smallest ethnic groups have at least hundreds of potential mates to choose from. Those kinds of numbers can obviously be wiped out, but there’s a fighting chance of survival within the group. When you’re talking about mere dozens…”

  “Then you may be talking about desperate pride that would prefer to die its slow death than contaminate its few survivors with alien blood.”

  “What would you do?”

  Janx smiled. “I would choose to survive, Margrit. I would choose to live. And I know you, my dear lady Knight. You won’t condemn my people to death. Not when you find such joy in discovering magic in the world.” His smile turned serpentine and deadly. “Not when you share the nighttime sky with a gargoyle lover. You’ll give us the keys to the kingdom and change all our people forever.”

  More than anything else, it was Tony Pulcella who stopped Alban from addressing Kaaiai. The human male watched over the selkie lord as though ferocity of expression might keep danger away. Despite recognizing its absurdity, Alban respected the detective. Being involved with the Old Races wasn’t easy, especially when their bewildering lives went unexplained. Bad enough for Margrit, whom he’d given no choice, and who had grown to understand and accept what she’d become entangled in. Far worse for someone like Tony, whose nature was as protective as Alban’s own, but who was purposefully excluded from comprehension. Approaching Kaimana seemed too much like flaunting the breach between where Tony stood and where Alban had brought Margrit. Too much like flaunting the woman he’d unintentionally won, for all that she wasn’t now at his side.

  As if Alban’s thought brought Margrit to Tony’s mind, the detective looked beyond him, to where she danced with Janx. Alban glanced that way, then drew his attention back to Tony, watching difficult emotions change the other man’s expression. Uncertainty, anger, envy; at least two of those were familiar to Alban when it came to dealing with Margrit Knight, most particularly when she flirted with Janx. Worse for the human male, though, for Janx was a criminal in his world, and for Tony to watch his newly lost lover amuse herself in Janx’s arms no doubt cut deeper than Alban’s own foolish fears. For a moment an ironic camaraderie seemed to join them.

  With that sour thought in mind, Alban slipped through the crowd to approach the selkie lord and his human security agent. Tony’s jaw set, though he deliberately looked beyond Alban, his focus roving over the gathering.

  “Korund.” Kaimana offered his hand, his voice jovial in greeting. “That was quite a show you put on earlier. Not like the man I’ve heard stories of.”

  “It appears none of us are quite what we seem anymore. Margrit tells me I should come pay court to you and make the others wonder what my agenda is.” Alban hesitated over the last words, uncomfortable with them.

  Kaimana chuckled and folded his hands behind his back in a relaxed, broad stance. “And what is your agenda?”

  Alban fell silent, chiding himself for not anticipating the question, then lifted a shoulder and let it fall in a heavy shrug. “To find out what secrets you and Margrit have shared behind closed doors, I suppose. To wonder how those secrets affect the rest of us.” He spoke carefully, too aware of Detective Pu
lcella within easy earshot, though he did nothing to indicate he was listening in.

  Kaimana pushed his lips into a thick purse. “You know we’re looking for legitimacy. She supports us.”

  “She would.” Humor tinged Alban’s answer. “She’s drawn to those who need a champion.”

  “Just as well for you, I understand.”

  He nodded without speaking. Kaaiai waited a moment, then went on. “And what about you? You’ve needed a champion. Are you willing to be one now?”

  “Alban is more of a watchdog, I should think.” Daisani came through the crowd, taking up a position in front of them. Alban glanced over his shoulder to gauge Tony’s reaction, unsurprised to find the detective had subtly tensed. “Safeguarding the old ways from new-fangled corruption.”

  Alban murmured, “Someone must,” and Kaaiai stiffened as slightly as Tony had. Ruefulness almost sent Alban back a step or two. Negotiating was not, as Margrit gladly pointed out, a gift of his, and it was easier to draw lines in stone than he meant for it to be.

  Amusement flashed over Daisani’s face and he turned to examine the ballroom. “We’re all here,” he said. “Alban, have you decided to stand for your…family?”

  Alban opened his hand and closed it again in a wordless agreement. Daisani nodded and drew himself up, full of purposeful, commanding attention despite his slight form. Halfway across the room, Janx glanced toward them, then stepped gracefully off the dance floor, Margrit’s hand captured in his own. She lifted an eyebrow curiously, looking where he had, then fell into step as though they’d walked together a thousand times.

  Alban’s shoulders tightened and he refused to allow himself another glance toward Tony. Neither of them had a rival in Janx, but Alban doubted the detective could make himself fully believe that any more than he could himself.

  Malik brushed past Tony and stepped up between Kaimana and Alban, their heights making the djinn seem petite. “What’s happening?”

  At the sound of his voice, Daisani relaxed marginally, letting go the commanding air that had drawn Old Races eyes to him. When Margrit and Janx joined them he said, “We are all here, with no plans to replace anyone. Why wait three days, when we can have this game done with tonight?” His focus sharpened on Janx, whose expression changed to a snarl and relaxed again so quickly Alban was half-unsure he’d seen it happen.