House of Cards

by C. E. Murphy

  “No point standing on shifting earth.” Biali’s voice rumbled near Margrit’s ear, startling her. He barely paused as he passed by, though he cut a glance from her to the gathered selkies and back again. “No point standing against the tide.”

  Then he was among them once more, white-haired and broad-shouldered as he moved unceremoniously through the crowd of dark-haired selkies. They let him pass without comment, though Margrit saw from some faces that they knew how he’d voted in the quorum, and were pleased with him for it. Kaimana stepped aside for him, then turned back to Margrit and lifted a hand in question. She smiled and came down the stairs, fingertips light on the railing, to work her way to the selkie lord and fall into the steps of an elegant, formal dance with him. “I thought maybe you didn’t dance.”

  Kaimana gave her a broad, bright grin with no artifice to it. “I wasn’t sure I had reason to, earlier.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Party like it’s 1999,” Kaimana said drolly, then glanced around the ballroom. “As Eliseo would have it, it seems. I assume this extravaganza is his way of showing us the advantages of building an alliance with him.”

  “Is it working?”

  Kaimana brought Margrit around in a slow, stately turn, offering her the chance to watch the fluid motions of the dancers around her. A sense of confidence imbued them, not that her dealings with the any of the Old Races had suggested they were less than confident. But it was more than that: a sense of belonging; of joy. “I guess I’d be pretty thrilled to be handed the keys to the—” She broke off, realizing she’d stolen Janx’s phrase. “But you have money,” she said after a moment’s uncomfortable silence. “This isn’t new to you.”

  “Dancing with the elite isn’t,” Kaimana agreed. “But dancing with my own people so freely? With all of us welcomed as what we are by the rest of our kind? I think we could do worse than ally ourselves with Eliseo Daisani.”

  Margrit nodded, unwilling to voice her own reservations. Alban had warned her about just such an alliance too many times—and fruitlessly—but she was human. Kaimana held more cards than that, and had moved with assurance from the moment she’d met him, all toward the end game he’d achieved during the quorum.

  He spun her again, and she caught a glimpse of Tony, his jaw tense with strain. The sensation of dancing on a knife’s edge suddenly blossomed within her. Kaimana had, from all appearances, moved before she’d met him, putting Tony into a position where the selkie lord could get to Margrit through him. Abrupt anger at her precarious position made her steps clumsy. It seemed that there had not been an unorchestrated moment in her life since Alban had greeted her in the park on a frozen January night.

  Kaimana steadied her, his forehead wrinkled with concern. Margrit shook her head and put on a meaningless smile, trying not to feel as though she was baring her teeth. “It’s been a long week. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

  The selkie lord looked rueful. “I think you’ve done your duty by us tonight. You’ve even danced with everyone. I know you support Alban, Ms. Knight. I’m honored that you’ve chosen to throw your lot in with my people, as well. And I think the fact that you’ve chosen Daisani as your benefactor speaks highly of him as a man worth having on our side.”

  “As opposed to Janx?”

  “Janx runs a much darker empire than Eliseo does. There’s something to be said for a life lived in sunlight, don’t you think?”

  Nothing in his expression changed, no hint of a threat appeared in his pleasant gaze, but Margrit stumbled again, heart lurching. Kaimana came to a halt, his hands steady on her waist and his eyebrows drawn down, still with nothing more than genial concern and friendship in his eyes. “Margrit?”

  “I’m sorry.” She stepped back. “I just need to sit down for a little while and catch my breath.”

  She gathered herself and fled the dance floor in search of the man she would never build a life in the sunlight with.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  MOONLIGHT SOFTENED THE city’s shadows, turning concrete and steel to faded lilac and blue. A handful of stars glittered above, defying both city lights and the moon. Music and soft light rose from below, open windows carrying the sounds of Daisani’s party up to the rooftop. Wind played in Margrit’s hair, threatening to finish what the tango earlier had started and emphasizing bursts of chatter with its ebb and fall.

  Alban alighted behind her with a soft thud and a rustle of wings. Margrit glanced back at him, smiling. His silver-shot tuxedo was gone, abandoned in favor of the jeans he typically wore in his gargoyle form. Typically, or rather, for her benefit: her first glimpse of his natural shape had been staggering, and he’d donned clothing he didn’t normally bother with so she might be able to meet his eyes. Bare-chested and pale in the moonlight, he looked like a dream come to life, warm and comforting and not at all human.

  “When I said meet on the roof, it didn’t occur to me until too late that you didn’t have an elevator key for rooftop access.”

  “It occurred to me that you didn’t have wings.” Alban sounded amused. “I assumed you had some method of getting yourself here, but it seemed like a curious place to meet.”

  “I wanted to see the view. Eliseo’s office faces west. I wanted to see…” Margrit gestured to the south. “I wanted this one.”

  Alban stepped up behind her, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. “No, you didn’t.”

  “What?” She frowned.

  “This isn’t the view you wanted. You’re looking for something that isn’t there.” He offered a cautious smile as Margrit turned more fully to gaze at him. “I know a thing or two about searching skylines for memories, Margrit.”

  She looked back at the city. “I guess we all do now.” Alban opened a wing and folded it around her, garnering a quiet sigh of contentment as warmth drove sorrow away. “We have the whole night to ourselves,” she said after a moment. “I don’t think there’s a single member of the Old Races in town who’s not at the party downstairs. What do you want to do?”

  “With that introduction, I feel I ought to propose my insidious plan to take over the city.”

  Her voice brightened. “Do you have one?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Alban’s tone went dry. “If you’re looking for someone to conquer New York with, you might want to invite Janx up here instead.”

  “Not at all.” Margrit turned against his chest, winding her arms around his waist and closing her eyes. “Why did you leave?”

  “Because Biali was right.” Alban’s heartbeat counted long seconds beneath Margrit’s ear before he spoke again. “Perhaps because I didn’t want to bear responsibility. But mostly, because he was right. I haven’t been part of my people’s world for centuries, Margrit. I didn’t have the right to answer the question the quorum asked tonight.”

  “Questions,” Margrit corrected, and pulled a crooked smile when Alban leaned back to look down at her. “Kaaiai wasn’t the only one with an agenda. I asked them to overturn the other two rules, as well.”

  Alban went so still beside her that Margrit glanced up to see if stone had swept over him. “On telling humans about us?”

  “And exile for killing another of the Old Races. I was sure I’d lost that one, when Biali took your place.”

  “Margrit.” Alban’s voice sounded strangled, and he stepped back from her. “You thought I would support changing that law?”

  Surprised offense pinked Margrit’s cheeks. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s your neck I was trying to save.”

  “Margrit, we have those laws—that law—for a reason. We aren’t so many that we can afford to lose each other to personal battles. Tell me it was overruled.”

  “What? I was trying to help you, Alban!”

  “I understand that.” The gargoyle’s voice dropped low, edged with dismay. “But I would not have voted with you. Margrit, how did the quorum decide?”

  “It was a hung jury.” Margrit moved away, folding her arms around her ribs. �
��Janx and Biali voted with me. Daisani, Kaaiai and Malik voted against.”

  “Biali—” Alban made another strangled sound. “That Biali voted with you should tell you everything you need to know as to why we cannot allow that law to be undone, Margrit. Even if it’s my neck, as you put it.”

  “But…” Embarrassed chagrin filled her. Margrit’s chest ached with disbelief.

  “No. Margrit.” Alban came forward again, enormous hands curled to brush knuckles against her cheeks. “It is a gift that you tried,” he whispered. “A gift I wouldn’t have asked for. Wouldn’t have thought to ask for. I understand that in the human world it makes sense. That there are circumstances when a despicable action is the only recourse, and when turning to it may save more lives than it takes.

  “But we must hold a threat over our own heads to ensure our own safety. Banishment from our communities is a difficult thing to contemplate. We have so little besides each other. We can’t let that go. If we do we may lose ourselves forever. I understand your reasoning, but I beg you, never try this again. Please, Margrit. If you would grant me a gift, grant me this. Do not try to undo this law, even to save me.”

  Tears pricked at Margrit’s eyes. “You should’ve been a lawyer.” Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard, averting her gaze. “I was trying to help you.”

  “Yes. As a human would, in the human world. But I don’t belong to that world, Margrit. I glide on its edges. I know it’s not easy, but you can’t think of me as one of you. You’re reluctant to imprison Janx or Daisani,” he whispered. “Turn that reluctance to me. The laws that govern me are not the same as those that govern you.”

  “I should know that by now.” Her throat remained tight, constricting her answer. “I thought—” She’d thought like a human. “Okay.” A tiny, harsh nod accompanied the word. “Okay. I get your point. I shouldn’t have tried. I should’ve talked to you first. I just—”

  “You saw an injustice and were determined to make it right.” Alban smiled cautiously, as if afraid the expression would earn her ire. “It is a gift, Margrit, but not one I can accept. One I’m relieved to hear has not been granted.” He drew in a deep breath and dropped his hands, stepping back again. “Perhaps I should leave you.”

  Margrit reached for his arm. “Don’t you dare.” She consciously echoed him, taking a deep breath of her own and feeling it shudder in her lungs. “Don’t you dare. We’re finally talking. We’re finally together. Even if we’re talking about my colossal mistake,” she added beneath her breath. “I’m not letting you go now.”

  “Not a mistake, Margrit. You meant well.”

  “I meant well, but I didn’t think. I didn’t think like one of you,” she amended, and Alban chuckled.

  “Perhaps because you’re not one of us. All right.” He drew her close again, Margrit sighing into his warmth. “What now?”

  “Take me flying.”

  “You’ll be cold, in that gown.”

  “Alban.” Exasperated humor colored Margrit’s response. “You’ll just have to think of some way to warm me up.”

  “Humans,” he murmured under his breath, but lifted Margrit with both hands, letting her bury her arms under his warm hair and snuggle against the expanse of his chest. She clung to him, nose against his shoulder to hide a grin, then squealed with excitement and laughter when he crouched and surged upward, broad wings snapping out to catch the air.

  “You’re better at that than Biali,” she shouted into the wind, once they were airborne.

  Alban turned his head, wrinkling his nose as strands of her hair came loose and whipped across his face. “You flew with Biali?” His low growl made Margrit hug him in reassurance.

  “When he brought me to see Janx the other night. Wouldn’t sully himself with the subway. It was like riding a roller coaster, all surges and stops. You flow.” Margrit nuzzled his neck, putting her lips against his skin before she spoke again. “Don’t be jealous. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “It’s more of a dragon’s trait,” Alban rumbled, “but we’re not immune to it. Your ability to conquer the men around you is somewhat distressing, Margrit, you must admit.”

  “Oh, so now you’re men.” The wind stung her, bringing with it burgeoning desire as her nipples tightened against the cold, satin caressing them like a lover’s tongue. She spoke to distract herself, a halfhearted attempt at taking her mind from the heat of Alban’s body pressed against hers. “I haven’t conquered anybody, Alban. Janx flirts like he breathes, without thinking about it. Daisani plays at being charming, but I’m just a tool to him. Don’t fool yourself. Don’t let them fool you. This house of cards you Old Races have is fragile enough without introducing trouble where it doesn’t exist.”

  “And that tango?” The grumble left Alban’s voice, leaving ruefulness behind. Margrit tucked herself closer, her nose in his hair as she breathed in the scent of cold stone and wind. He shifted a hand beneath her bottom, pulling her closer, and she slid her thigh over his hip, fighting slippery fabric to hold it there.

  “If I’d had any idea it would be a tango…”

  Alban chuckled. “Malik is the least of my fears, so far as your attention is concerned.”

  “Implying there’s another reason to be concerned.” Margrit tilted back, her eyes closed and her hair flattening as the wind pressed it against her cheeks and shoulders. Alban’s grip tightened as she loosened one arm from around his neck, then the other, bringing them up straight above her head, as if she was diving through the air.

  “I don’t want to talk about Malik or the others anymore,” she whispered, trusting the wind to bring the words to Alban’s ears. Cold cut through her gown, heightening her awareness of its thinness. She’d felt the same erotic charge when flying with him before, arching in his arms in just such a way, but now her clothing hid nothing of her desire, the fabric fitted to her skin by wind as much as by design. “Do gargoyles make love in the sky, Alban?”

  “Only if we’ve flown very high first.” Alban’s voice had gone deep. “We’re not made for hovering.”

  “So you fall together.” Dizzy laughter swept Margrit, blooming into body-weakening desire. “My God. I thought running in the park was a rush. I don’t have wings.” She drew her arms back down, folding them behind herself as if seeking them. Instead, she found the zipper of her dress and slid it open until Alban’s arms, secure around her waist, stopped it. She pressed one hand to her breasts, keeping the dress in place, watching Alban’s gaze darken. “Will I be able to catch you when you fall?”

  “Far too late,” he murmured. “I’ve long since fallen.”

  “Take me higher,” Margrit whispered. “As high as we can go.”

  Alban said, “Look,” very softly.

  She tipped her head back and gasped. The city lay impossibly far below, glittering silently in the darkness. “How high are we?”

  “High enough. You’re not dressed to go higher.”

  “I’m not dressed to go this high!”

  “But I’ve thought of a way to keep you warm.” Alban drew her closer, creating more points of heated contact where their bodies met. He loosened an arm from her waist, confident in his own strength, and slipped his hand over her ribs, smoothing the fabric with his palm. Margrit caught her breath, slowly unfolding to allow Alban to draw the gown away from her breasts. She trilled laughter, half in dismay at the increased cold, half heady with excitement. Alban murmured something senseless and lowered his head, finding her nipple with his mouth and tasting her with absurd delicacy, given his size. Margrit wound her fingers into his hair, arching beneath his mouth, the gown’s satin touch nothing compared to the exploring heat of his tongue.

  His flight pattern changed, muscles no longer working to lift them higher into the sky. Instead his wings stretched wide, a faint cant coming into his gliding so they could sink in slow circles rather than in a dangerous plummet. Margrit made a soft dizzy sound expressing both relief and disappointment.

  Alban lifted his
head, pale eyes bright in the moonlight. “Forgive me. Was the fall the only rush you were looking for?”

  Margrit shrieked in laughter and batted at the grinning gargoyle, tangling her fingers in his hair. “This will do. Stop talking. I need you close to keep warm.” Giggles ran through her, boundless delight that increased with every sting of hair in her eyes and every shift of Alban’s strong hands against her body. Loving was meant to be shared in laughter, but the outpouring of joy that flooded her went beyond that, a heart-pounding acknowledgment of danger and power, things outside ordinary human scope. Her cheeks ached from smiling, an expression so broad it seemed embarrassing.

  Rather than try to trust words, she shifted downward until she could kiss him, her ardency rising as she learned the shape and softness of his mouth. Wide mouth, far wider than hers, but fitting better than any lover she could remember. He tasted of champagne and stone, a mix of ordinary and impossible ricocheting through Margrit’s body like a call to battle, a delicious, irresistible challenge. He was so nearly human, so clearly not, as evidenced by the shifting moonlight above them, blocked and dimmed by Alban’s wings, then bright again, even through the tangle of her closed lashes. That they soared so near the stars gave truth to both what he was and what he was not, a creature beyond her scope and yet possible within the compass of her arms. He was the dream she hadn’t known she’d wanted, couldn’t have imagined existed, until he came into her life in an erotic offering, fear superceded and drowned by excitement.

  She could feel caution in his kisses—not a lack of passion, but borne out by gentleness, as if he knew how easily his size, his alien form, might overwhelm her. For all that they sailed amongst thin clouds and cool moonlight at Alban’s whim, Margrit felt heart-pounding power, as if he offered her control by knowing how easy it would be to deny it.

  She was sure her eyes stung from the cold wind, not a shocking rise of sentimentality and trust so profound she had to smile to avoid tears. Margrit slid one of Alban’s hands to her lower back, finding the gown’s half-fastened zipper and guiding it down, making the gesture as much his as hers. His chuckle, warm and low, came through the wind with a warning: “If I pull it any farther, someone will find a very expensive and beautiful dress strung over a flagpole or telephone wire tomorrow morning.”