by C. E. Murphy
A brief, wry smile curled Rebecca’s mouth as she, too, opted not to finish the sentence the way it was meant to end: for someone you didn’t like. “But you did,” Rebecca said instead. “Despite his flaws.”
“Not all of us are lucky enough to be as perfect as you,” Margrit said ruefully.
Her mother laughed. “I suppose someone has to be.” She squeezed Margrit’s hand, growing more serious. “Will you be all right, sweetheart? I can stay in the city overnight, if you’d like.”
“I’ll be okay. You don’t have to—”
“Margrit.” Janx, voice full of outrageous charm, cut through the dispersing crowd to stop at her elbow and smile at Rebecca. “Don’t tell me you were going to allow this extraordinary woman to leave without making my acquaintance.” He offered a hand, and when Rebecca elevated an eyebrow and took it, he bowed extravagantly. Margrit, caught between dismay and amusement, wished he had a hat to flourish.
“You must be Margrit’s mother, which I say only because I suspect the flattery of suggesting you’re her sister would only set you against me. Instead I’ll say I offered to kidnap you a few days ago in order to provide an excuse for Margrit to talk to me. Now that I’ve met you, I’ll admit that if I were to stoop to such nasty activities, I’d be doing it for my own benefit. My name is Janx. I’m sure Margrit’s gone on about me to no end.” He straightened again, no longer holding Rebecca’s fingers, but resting them over the edge of his own. To Margrit’s fresh bemusement, her mother didn’t retreat.
“To no end at all.” Rebecca’s eyes sparkled and Margrit’s heart sank with helpless laughter. Bad enough that Janx could charm her against all good sense. If even Rebecca was susceptible to his shameless blarney, it seemed unlikely there was anyone who could withstand him. “Rebecca Knight. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Janx, and you’re quite right. False flattery only annoys me.”
“Your daughter is more like you than she suspects.”
Rebecca shot a look toward Margrit, who turned her palms up, unsure if she was ceding control of the conversation to Janx, or simply unable to take it back.
“I try not to point that out to her,” her mother murmured. “She’s doing a fine job of realizing it on her own.”
Janx turned from Rebecca to Margrit, offering another bow, this time mockingly apologetic. “Do forgive me, my dear. I should hate to be a bump in the road on your path to self-actualization.”
“Did you really just say ‘self-actualization’?”
“I did.” Janx sounded inordinately pleased with himself. Rebecca caught her eye and Margrit clenched her jaw, trying not to let a laugh escape.
“I think while you’re trying to recover from the horror, I’ll do my best to whisk your mother away for an illicit affair.”
“You certainly will not.” Rebecca sniffed at the redheaded man. “I’m sure being kidnapped wouldn’t agree with me at all.”
Janx snapped theatrically, about to speak again when a fourth voice joined the discussion.
“You’re quite the vortex tonight, aren’t you, Margrit? Rebecca.” Eliseo Daisani nodded toward the older Knight woman, looking all the more dignified in comparison to Janx’s dramatics. Margrit’s shoulder blades pinched together in anticipation of disaster, though she had no idea what form it might take. Janx, though, only twisted his mouth in teasing disappointment, and Rebecca inclined her head, murmuring Daisani’s name in turn. Then all three of them turned their attention to Margrit, as though she was responsible for calling them there.
In a way, she supposed she was. “I seem to be developing a knack for that,” she admitted beneath her breath. “I’m surprised you’re here tonight.”
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot?” Daisani infused the line with genuine compassion, no hint of music or mockery to his voice. “Where else would I be?” He glanced around, elevating one eyebrow. “But where are the rest of us?”
Margrit kept herself from saying, That’s what I wanted to ask Janx. She could think of no reason Kaimana and Malik might slip away, one after the other, except to keep some arrangement made by the dragonlord. But she felt oddly reticent to ask in front of Daisani, as if her loyalties were torn between the two ancient rivals.
Janx followed Daisani’s gaze and expanded on it, turning to search the church grounds with an air of concern. “I set Stoneheart searching for Malik a few minutes ago. I hadn’t realized, until these proceedings sent him skittering for the shadows, how accustomed I was to his sour countenance haunting me. I’ve seen less of my so-called bodyguard in the past week than in the past five years, I think.” A moment passed before he shook off heaviness and looked back to Rebecca. “Do forgive me. I don’t mean to be such a bore as to bring business into a social occasion.”
Her eyebrows flickered upward. “Is that what this is?”
“Not a merry one, and perhaps also an obligation, but also an occasion. The one hardly precludes the other.”
“They left together. I thought—” Margrit broke off, staring at Janx.
He tilted his head, mouth quirked with a lack of comprehension. He was a consummate actor; he had to be, and yet his jade eyes held none of their usual taunting mirth. “Who did, my dear?”
Margrit’s heart rate leaped. No doubt she shouldn’t believe what she read in Janx’s gaze; no doubt she shouldn’t trust the all-too-human impulse that told her to. But human or not, emotion rode all of them, and Margrit blurted, “I thought you knew. I thought—You didn’t send Malik after Kaimana?”
“Margrit,” Janx said, full of gentle sarcasm, “if you had a golden slipper with which to tempt the prince, would you send a lackey in your place to do so? We all know how fairy tales go. It is the servant girl bearing the gift who catches the hero’s eye. Her cruel mistress is banished to the forest, and she is lifted to the throne to be good and generous and wise for all of her days. If I was putting on a ball, I would not send Malik with the invitations.”
“Then what—”
“Margrit.” Rebecca’s voice was thready and washed out, utterly drained of the vibrancy she’d had only moments earlier. Mist danced behind her, as she put a hand over her chest, her eyes clouded with confusion. “I think there’s something wrong with me, Margrit. Something wrong with my…”
A sleek black-haired man Margrit had never before seen coalesced behind her mother, one hand thrust out. Thrust into Rebecca, from behind, his arm turned up to suggest he held something in the palm of his hand. His smile was sharper than Malik’s, more deadly, and he finished Rebecca’s sentence for her with one soft word: “Heart.”
THIRTY-TWO
MIST AND SHADOWS. Malik had become mist and shadows, and had failed to return to Janx’s side. He’d gone north instead, the corundum head of his cane quietly pulling Alban’s attention. The gargoyle circled the island reluctantly, staying closer to its southern end than he ought to have, as though he could draw Malik back that way through willpower alone.
Amusement flashed through him. It was of little enough use to ferret out bits and pieces of sapphire, except as a way to earn money now and then. If he could draw those who wore or carried the stone to him, now that would be a talent. One he’d never confess to: the idea of what Janx would do, knowing Alban could command those who were enamored by sparkling stone, didn’t bear considering. The dragonlord would find himself an enclave of gargoyles, each tuned to the stone of their family name, and wreak havoc with his influence. With that skill, a thousand years past, when Aztec priests sacrificed their subjects to the gods with obsidian knives, a gargoyle of Hajnal’s line might have made herself an immortal queen to an eager people.
Oh, but Margrit was a bad influence. The world was a bad influence; Alban had never, in all his long years, entertained such thoughts, much less found entertainment in them. Bad company, as he’d told Janx, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.
Malik had settled wherever he was; a low thrum of contentment was coming from the stone. Even long accustomed to being moved, it see
med more comfortable, somehow, when at rest—or perhaps that was Alban bending his own perceptions to suit an object. No matter; the point was Malik could be found easily enough, and watched over whether he liked it or not.
It would take a little time for Alban to wing his way there, but the church was only moments away. A few seconds to glimpse Margrit from above would mean nothing in matters of Malik’s safety.
It might compromise Alban’s own, though. Enough people were still gathered at the church that he sailed away and found an alley, transforming as he landed. Humans might not look up as a matter of habit, but soaring above an open space would be taking an unnecessary risk.
Leaving the alley behind, Alban hesitated at Trinity’s gates, his pale hand curled around wrought iron as he looked beyond it at what had been his home for so many decades. The hidden door was still there, less of a secret now, but it would take no time at all to slip through it and visit the room he’d abandoned hastily and never since returned to. Yet there was no reason to do so. He had his belongings, and the deep vault was no longer a safe haven.
All unconsciously he was moving, intent bringing him where wisdom would avoid. He knew the dark graveyard intimately, had no need to watch his feet as he whispered greetings to those whose tombs he’d slept beneath. A few more steps would have him hidden below them again.
“Alban?” The unfamiliar voice was curious and friendly. Alban went still for the briefest instant, resisting the urge to allow stone to sweep him and hide him from prying inquiries. But that would be suicide, where facing his questioner would be nothing more than a brief delay. He turned, wondering who knew his name when he didn’t recognize the voice.
A priest with an untamed white beard stood a few yards away, his solemn expression and dark cassock suggesting he’d just left the mourners who were dispersing from the church’s front walkways. “It is Alban, isn’t it? I must have startled you. I’m sorry. I’ve never had the opportunity to say hello before.”
“Before?” Even to his own ears, the word grated dangerously, though less from threat than surprise.
The priest’s beard shifted with a wry, hopeful smile. “You’re a subtle creature, for all your size. This has been my parish for years. I’ve…caught a glimpse of you, now and then.” He nodded toward the hidden door, and Alban looked that way as well, half expecting it to stand open, as if it had somehow betrayed him. “From the days when you slept beneath our church. My name is Ramsey. I spoke with Margrit Knight about you once. She promised me that I was right to believe you were one of God’s creations.”
A chuckle rumbled from Alban’s chest before he could stop it. “And not from your imagination born?”
Ramsey’s eyebrows wobbled up. “Or anywhere more dire. I’ve been watching for you, since January. I hoped to tell you that you still have a home here. Maybe not as discreet as that hidden room, but the church is a sanctuary, and you’re welcome to use it whenever you need.”
Surprise struck Alban silent, too many questions coming to mind for any of them to be spoken. “I would love to hear your story,” Ramsey said a bit wistfully. “Miss Knight made it clear it wasn’t hers to tell, but perhaps someday you might want to share it with an old man who loves this church and its secrets. Not tonight,” he added more briskly. “You look like a stoned ox just now. I imagine you’re not used to being noticed.”
“Or accepted.” Alban rumbled, and Ramsey dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“God is much more creative than I am. Why should I refuse what he’s seen fit to give life to? Someday,” he repeated. “Perhaps someday… I should get back to my parishioners. Good night, Alban.” He strode away as though the conversation had invigorated him, for all that most of it had been on his side. Alban remained where he was for long moments, staring after him in pleased astonishment before reminding himself of his purpose.
The time to dally had been eaten away. He turned from the hidden doorway reluctantly, searching the scattering crowd for a glimpse of Margrit. He found her embracing an older woman, and when he might have taken a step toward her for a brief greeting, Janx arrived at their sides, his outrageous flirtation visible across the distance.
Rueful annoyance pulled Alban’s mouth out of shape. Janx would be most displeased to find him there, and Alban didn’t relish a confrontation with the dragonlord. There would be time later, he promised himself; they would have time later. Sufficiently convinced of it, he slipped back around the gates, casting one last regretful glance toward his onetime retreat.
Tony Pulcella emerged from the hidden door, a briefcase in hand.
An unexpected breeze in the evening air chilled Margrit’s skin, and with it her throat constricted. Panic bloomed within her, adrenaline spurting through her system. She wanted to run, to fling herself at the djinn, knock him away from her mother—anything, so long as it was action. But she had only one weapon on hand, and terror wouldn’t leave her mind clear enough to remember whether its use might save or condemn Rebecca. Tremors were all Margrit could allow herself, a tiny outlet for outrage and fear. “Let her go.”
“Or you’ll attack?” The djinn moved subtly, closer to Rebecca. “I think not.”
Her mother gasped, a tiny cry of dread and pain. Margrit recognized the sound too well, though it’d been her throat, not her heart, that a djinn had sought. Tears had scalded Malik’s hand, making him pull away, but Margrit could not recall whether he’d released her before salt water had stung him. There was no way to act, nothing more to offer than a shaky promise: “It’ll be okay, Mom.”
Daisani shifted at Margrit’s side, touching the curve of her back in reassurance. Margrit swallowed hard, trying to keep herself in place, and caught a hard glance shared between vampire and dragonlord. Janx shook his head, a jerking of motion that, had it not been so graceless, she might have imagined it. Daisani’s answering nod was equally short and harsh, an acceptance that Janx disavowed responsibility. God help him, Margrit thought with icy clarity. God help the charming dragon if he lied.
With no further communication, Daisani and Janx moved in tandem, casually placing themselves so that passersby couldn’t easily see the impossible: that the djinn stood with his arm half folded into Rebecca’s back. Daisani broke the silence, his voice so low Margrit strained to hear it from only a step or two away. “Release her and you may yet survive the night.”
Sneering laughter curled the djinn’s mouth. “Had the glassmaker made that threat I might heed it.” He threw the jibe at Janx, who tensed and relaxed again so faintly that Margrit looked twice at him. There was nothing in him to read, but certainty made her cool: they were acquainted, the djinn and the dragon. But the djinn didn’t pursue it, turning his attention back to Daisani. “You voted to stay your hand within our peoples.”
“So did Malik.” Margrit’s voice broke on the accusation and brought the djinn’s gaze to her. His eyes, like Malik’s, were crystalline: amber, the color of sand. Malik’s were aquamarine, both startling, Margrit thought, in a people born of the desert. A heartbeat later she understood; they were the colors of their world, sky and sand. Maybe a few djinn had jewel-green eyes, the color of an oasis.
“Malik.” The djinn drew out the name as if it tasted of mud. “Malik was wise in voting conservatively, but his choices did not necessarily reflect the will of our people. He does not, as yet, hold the rank to speak for us.”
“Margrit.” Rebecca’s voice faded with pained exhaustion. “Margrit, I love you, sweetheart.”
“Mom—” Margrit jolted forward, but Daisani lifted a hand to stop her, such confidence in the gesture that she froze.
“I will be fascinated to hear the details of that admission,” Daisani breathed. “But now you have a choice. Let Rebecca Knight go, and survive, or die with her within the circle.”
“Circle?” Disdain broke over the djinn’s face. “I see no salt water to make a cage with.”
Daisani whispered, “Look down.”
A thin river of blood glistened
around the djinn’s feet, around Rebecca, a wet ring on the stones. The scent of copper rose up and made Margrit gag, now that she knew to breathe for it. She wiped her hand across her mouth convulsively, her gaze jerking to Daisani.
He lifted his right hand to tidily fold a torn coat, a torn sleeve, to reveal a still-weeping crimson gash down the length of his arm. It closed bit by bit, visibly healing even in the brief moment Margrit took to understand.
The djinn grasped its portent before Margrit did. He howled in pure outrage and lashed his free hand toward Daisani. Scarlet flashed in the air, a surge of power that for an instant turned the djinn to mist.
Another breeze stirred Margrit’s hair, and then Rebecca was outside the circle, free of the djinn, caught in Daisani’s arms. For a few bewildering seconds, Margrit felt as though she’d come upon two lovers who were otherwise hidden from sight.
They might have been gargoyles caught by sunlight, so sculpted and motionless did they seem. Rebecca was slightly taller, but Daisani held her weight, her hands on his chest as she leaned into him. Margrit could see the pulse in her mother’s throat, and how near to Daisani’s mouth that fluttering beat was. His attention, though, was on Rebecca’s eyes, and all Margrit could read in their locked gazes was an intensity that embarrassed and enthralled her. She strained for a memory she didn’t have, as though trying hard enough could call up Alban’s recollections of Hajnal, or perhaps of Sarah Hopkins. As though her own regal mother, standing so close to Eliseo Daisani, had somehow taken on a leading role in a tragedy played out over centuries. Margrit’s throat and heart tightened, fear of losing her mother tangling with a weightier loss of years, so heavy she could barely comprehend it.
Daisani drew breath to speak, breaking the stillness. Rebecca put a fingertip against his lips, a sharp, smooth movement. Daisani froze again, the pair standing together for another impossibly long moment with an intimacy that made Margrit look away in discomfort.