House of Cards

by C. E. Murphy

  Janx drew his legs beneath himself, catlike, then slammed upward with all the violence he could muster. Alban crashed into the steel ceiling, stunned. His grip loosened enough for Janx to claw him free and fling him away, sending him crashing against a wall. The dragon landed with a grunt, shaking himself and pulling in breath to spout flame again.

  Alban dragged himself into a crouch, ready to face the oncoming flame directly. Only his low vantage point gave him eyes to see what he’d forgotten: Malik’s reappearance, below Janx’s wing, his sword-cane lifted to strike. A warning ripped from Alban’s throat: “Janx!”

  The dragon twisted too late, Malik driving his sword into the softened spot where Alban had ripped away Janx’s scale. Janx howled, bucking in pain, and Malik dissolved again, taking the cane with him. A moment later he coalesced once more, this time slashing a deep and terrible cut through Janx’s wing. Janx screamed again, spraying fire across the room, but it whisked through Malik harmlessly, the djinn re-forming as heat faded. Janx’s next breath was shallow with pain, too weak to birth new flame. Triumph flashed in Malik’s eyes as he lifted his cane-sword to strike a final time.

  “Malik!”

  Margrit’s voice tore through the room, the high feminine sound a shocking contrast to the deep male roars and the crackling fire. Malik twisted as she rose up out of the darkness, a ludicrous lime-green gun in her hand.

  Thin jets of water shot out from the weapon, splashing the djinn’s face and shirt. Steam hissed and sizzled up, silvery burns appearing on Malik’s skin. He howled, full of pain and outrage, and abandoned Janx to fling himself at Margrit.

  She stood her ground, firing the water gun at him, then turning it as though it had the weight of a real gun, holding its muzzle as if she might pistol-whip the djinn. He knocked her to the floor, both of them rolling with momentum. Her hand lifted, then fell again, gun brought to his temple.

  Plastic shattered, emptying the remaining water over his face. Malik screamed once more, rearing back to claw at his eyes. Margrit scrambled away, feet dangerously bare on the glass-littered floor.

  Pride rose up in Alban and mixed with an overwhelming feeling of loss. That Margrit could defend herself against one of the Old Races was to be celebrated; that humanity could find so many easy ways to defeat them was to be mourned. Malik reached for his cane and shoved to his feet, hair dripping and skin still silver with burns.

  Janx had wound his way around the alcove in the brief moments the djinn had been distracted. Now pleasure filled his roar as he bore down on Malik, intent clear even if words were lost to him. Malik unsheathed his blade, lifting it as though he would dive straight down the dragon’s throat, taking Janx’s life even if the price was his own.

  Time crystallized, until each moment of the fight seemed to last an eternity in which Alban could consider it with thoughts racing ahead. Neither combatant would survive Malik’s suicidal attempt, and Janx, most particularly, could not be allowed to die like this, in the midst of human territory, with human police only minutes away.

  Thought, it seemed, was too slow after all. He didn’t remember the decision to leap forward, intent on knocking the dragon’s head aside or shattering Malik’s blade on his own stony hide. Weaponless, the djinn would be forced to dissipate or suffer Janx’s fire, and a resolution could be visited off the battlefield.

  Janx flicked his head to the side as Alban pounced, and instead of crashing into him, his gargoyle bulk smashed into Malik, driving them both against the burnished steel wall.

  Bones shattered with sickening clarity above the sound of fire.

  Alban staggered back in shock as Malik’s body, as solid and mortal as any human, slithered to the floor, the cane bouncing free of his hand.

  A new eternity was born, marked by the crackle of flame and a bewildering hiss of incomprehension inside Alban’s mind. He stared down at the djinn’s broken form, unmoving until Margrit’s voice, small with horror, broke through the chaos to ask, “Is he…?”

  Janx, panting, shuddered back to human form. A grunt of pain escaped his clenched teeth and he clamped a hand above his kidney, trying to stop a flow of blood that didn’t lessen by his shift from one form to another. Even kneeling, even in pain, he dragged in a breath and inserted lightness in his voice as he looked at Malik’s body. “Oh, yes, he certainly is. It’s a shame your third proposal didn’t pass, Margrit.”

  “How—” Alban’s voice cracked.

  Margrit, pale even in the shattered light, came forward with her hands clenched. “Salt water. I had salt water in the gun. I’d been keeping it under my pillow because I was afraid he’d come after me again. I…oh my God. I killed him.”

  “No.” Despair laced Alban’s voice. “No, Margrit. I did.”

  Janx laughed, a hoarse sound of pain that turned Alban back to him. “Oh, don’t be so greedy, Stoneheart. I think we all deserve some credit for this. Margrit, why on earth did you not use that absurd weapon against Tarig?”

  “Tarig?” Margrit’s voice was high and shaking.

  Irritation displaced pain on Janx’s face for an instant, his teeth bared and his gaze dropping as though he chastised himself. “The djinn who held your mother.”

  Margrit lifted her eyes from Malik to stare at Janx for a few long seconds of befuddlement. “You knew him? And you didn’t…” She stopped, clearly unable to think of what the dragon might have done, then put a hand over her face. “I couldn’t remember if it solidified them right away or just made them unable to mist. I was afraid it would turn him solid with his hand in Mom’s chest.”

  “It seems we now know.” Janx glanced around the disaster of his alcove. “If I may make a humble suggestion, Margrit?” She nodded tightly and Janx’s voice went dry. “Run. Get away from here. Be anywhere but here tonight, my dear.”

  Margrit dropped her hand to look first at Janx, then at Alban. Then she nodded, another jerky movement, and ran silently from the burning alcove. Alban made an abortive gesture to follow, then closed his hands into fists, uncertain of himself. Uncertain of anything, anymore. Empty horror coated his insides, an overwhelming numbness where true emotion should lie. Bad enough to fail to protect a charge. Actually causing his death… Cool disbelief wrapped him in safety, leaving him unable to process what had happened.

  Janx exhaled painfully. “Good girl. Probably the only sensible thing that woman has done since meeting you.” He reached for Malik’s cane, teeth gritted as he twisted the sword back into its sheath, then used it to shove himself upward. “She’s human, Stoneheart. We’re not. Don’t expect too much from her.” He curled his hand around the cane head, dropping his voice. “I cannot fly, Alban. I cannot escape this place and the human police without your help.”

  Anger and sorrow knotted themselves in Alban’s chest as he looked at Janx. “This will cost you, dragonlord.”

  Thin, fluting laughter escaped Janx’s lips and he lowered his head. “Yes. Yes, of course it will, my old friend. Come.” Pain sharpened his voice, but not enough to make the word a demand. “Let us leave my fallen House and discuss the price of salvation.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ONE BEWILDERINGLY CLEAR thought stood out: Janx’s scale could not possibly be found by the police. Glass lay everywhere, shards glittering and dangerous as they reflected neon and firelight. Margrit hadn’t thought there was enough wood in the place to burn, but Janx had done his work well, if not deliberately. Fire ate at the building’s structure, heat sending lights into brilliant sparkling explosions as it leaped around, working its way from one vulnerable spot to another. It moved faster than she thought it could, gobbling up its resources and sending showers of sparks down to the casino floor. She searched through the arc of glass below the dragon’s alcove, heartbeat hammering sickly.

  There was almost no screaming anymore in the fire-ridden building, only men and women accustomed to desperation turning their focus on getting out before the walls came down. Most of those who were left moved with the uncanny grace of the
Old Races, and they, having chased off the mortals, eyed one another. Treaties meant little in the face of ancient rivalries. Margrit ignored them, digging through glass and rubble more frantically.

  Screams did come from the dance club directly below Janx’s alcove, a more youthful and enthusiastic crowd discovering the fire there. The fire, or police raids. Margrit turned her gaze up as a new burst of flame gouted from the alcove. Not the battle any longer; that was over. Just the effects of disaster laid down by monsters. Janx was right. Getting out, getting away from the Old Races, away from the world she’d immersed herself in, was the only way to stay alive and retain her own sanity. They were not what she’d thought they were.

  Fury, fear and self-disgust rose at her own silent protests. Alban was precisely as he’d always claimed he was. Her refusal to see it, her inability, was her own flaw, but infuriatingly, she’d blamed him. Easier. Safer. She was not a woman who ran from things she feared or didn’t understand.

  Margrit closed her hands around the scale and, clutching it to her belly, ran.

  Cops poured into the abandoned casino. Margrit came up against a wall of them and scrambled backward, running for the shadows, as if she had something to hide. An ancient sprinkler system finally kicked on, dribbling water over five stories of fire-blackened warehouse. She slipped in a sooty puddle, crashing to her knees. An officer grabbed her arm, twisting it up behind her, his commands to not resist all but lost in the roar of fire and shouts of police and Old Races alike. Pain from banged knees and a twisted arm, combined with the acrid scent of smoke, brought tears to Margrit’s eyes, feeling thick as they trickled down her cheeks. She looked up, blinking through smoke and water and fire, uncertain she could trust her eyes.

  No, Alban’s broad pale form was unmistakable, even in the fire-guttered conditions of the ruined casino. He took the steel stairs up to the rooftop three at a time, unburdened by the weight he carried in his arms. Janx.

  A thrill of alarm tempered by confusion and fear shot through Margrit. She dropped her head, gasping out a sob, not knowing if it was relief or dismay that the two combatants had fled. Relief; she held on to that belief, heart aching with it. There would be police on the roof. Despite everything, Margrit hoped Alban would look for them before transforming, before making his escape into the night sky. She wanted to run, wanted freedom from the world she’d become embroiled in, but even so, the idea of losing the fantastic people she’d met to human science and curiosity horrified her.

  The cop hauled her up, and she went without protest, stumbling over her own feet. Voices remained raised all around her, some young and frightened, others older and belligerent. A few people moved as she did, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, only visible in glimpses as they moved past her. Many more walked with the smooth arrogance of the Old Races, and she wondered how long any of them would stay behind bars. Janx’s scale lay against her stomach, inside her shirt, where she’d once hidden a selkie skin. So many things were hidden under the surface. She wondered if she would ever find clarity again.

  As if in answer, she began to cough when clean air filled her lungs, coolness a salve to the smoke and bitterness of the burning casino. A hand on her head pushed her down into a cop car, and she leaned on the door when it was closed behind her, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Exhaustion more emotional than physical swept her, and for a while she was only distantly aware that bright flashes of red and blue assaulted her closed eyelids, or that people bumped against the vehicle, shaking it as they were removed from the House of Cards. Sirens howled, fire trucks announcing their arrival—all the sounds of city life compressed in a microcosm.

  A sharp rap on the window startled her awake. She stared first through the windshield, the officer outside her window little more than a blur at the corner of her eye.

  The House of Cards was in ruins, only the alleys between it and other warehouses keeping the whole block from bursting into flames. Smoke and steam rose up in equal parts, a few areas of heat still glowing through the wavering silver. Margrit half expected Janx to stalk out of the aftermath of destruction, eyes bright.

  Instead, the knock came against the window again, and then the door was pulled open, Tony bracing his hands on the car’s roof. “Grit, what the hell are you doing here?”

  She turned her attention to him, sudden bleakness rising up. “I don’t know.”

  “You look awful. What were you, inside? Jesus, Grit, you could’ve gotten killed. Come on, get—”

  A voice rose in sharp protest and Tony waved it off, calling, “She’s all right, she’s the one who got us here,” before finishing, “Get out of there.” He offered her a hand and Margrit took it numbly, allowing him to help her out of the car. “You just can’t stand not being part of the action, can you. You don’t belong here, Margrit.”

  “I know.” She knotted her hand around Tony’s, looking back at the fire. “I’m sorry. I won’t do this again.”

  He ducked his head and breathed a curse she was sure she wasn’t meant to hear, then looked up at her again. “You said that last time.”

  “No.” Margrit flinched as something within the House collapsed, sending a boom into the air. “Last time I very carefully didn’t say I wouldn’t get involved in this kind of thing again. This time I’m saying it. Did you…get him?”

  “There’s a body upstairs in his office. We don’t know who it is yet. Crushed, though. Doesn’t take a genius to see it wasn’t the fire that got him.” Tony glanced at her. “I hate to ask, but you know anything about that?”

  “You mean, did I come by here this evening to pulverize Janx before you got a chance to arrest him? I didn’t.” Margrit smiled faintly. “There was some kind of fight up there,” she said a moment later, smile gone. “Just before you guys came in. The fire started there.”

  Tony sighed. “Maybe somebody tipped him off. There’re people on the force working for him, I know that. Arson might’ve been his way out. Grit, you should go home, get some sleep. You’re going to be all over the news tomorrow. We lost Janx, but we took down his operation, all because of you.”

  “Not because of me,” Margrit said softly. Tony looked askance at her and she shook her head. “You’ve got no real link to me, Tony. Deep Throat gave you those files.”

  Tony scowled. “Why?”

  Dizziness swept her and Margrit pressed the heel of her hand against her eye. “There’s always Daisani.” Another lie. Misery swirled around her and she shoved it away, unable to offer anything else to the detective. He frowned, then nodded slowly, and she managed to drag a smile into place. “Don’t forget to take a shower before the press conference. Good luck.”

  He nodded stiffly, full of uncertainty, and Margrit waved herself off, leaving Tony behind in a halo of firelight.

  “So this is what your promises come to.” Grace O’Malley’s voice came out of the darkness. Margrit jerked awake with an aborted scream clogging her throat, clutching covers like an ingenue. She flung them away, disgusted with herself, and shoved out of bed, squinting in the faint red light offered by her alarm clock.

  “Grace? What’re you—How’d you get into my house?”

  “Grace has her ways.” The black-clad vigilante stepped forward, light gleaming off her leathers, highlighting her curves. “You promised your war wouldn’t come to my world.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Margrit reached for the bedside light, dismayed when clicking the switch did nothing. She rubbed her face and kicked a pile of laundry out of the way as she stalked to the wall switch. Light flooded the room and she squinted again, eyes watering. Grace turned to follow her path, one hand lifted and wrapped in gold links. “What is that?”

  “Payment,” Grace spat. “From Janx.”

  “A dragon gave you gold?” Margrit chuckled hoarsely. “He must really be trying to curry favor. What’s going on?”

  The blond woman tightened her fist, metal shifting with quiet clinks. “Your gargoyle brought him to me.
Down to where my kids are. He’s made my haven Janx’s new center of operations.” She opened her hand abruptly, flinging the gold links onto Margrit’s bed. “You promised me!”

  Margrit pulled her gaze from the snake of gold on her comforter. “You invited Alban into your world, Grace. This one’s not on me. I’m sorry, but I never dreamed he might do something like that. Where is he? I need to see him.” She’d come home without trying to find him, and closed herself in her room, unwilling or unable to face her housemates. She’d showered and then crawled into bed still clutching Janx’s scale; it lay beneath her pillow now, where the water gun intended to keep her safe from Malik had once been.

  Malik. She had been so careful not to let herself think of him, of the way his body had fallen, salt water preventing the transformation into mist that would have saved his life. Janx was right: they all shared the burden for that death, and the price would be higher for her than for Malik’s Old Races brethren.

  Dark light slid into Grace’s eyes, nothing kind in her expression at all. “Yeah, love, and I want to taste the kiss of angels. We don’t get what we want, do we. I can’t have Janx down there, stealing my children and showing them the posh life crime can earn them. You promised me, Knight. I don’t care what it takes. Get him out of my tunnels and out of my kids’ lives, or angels help me, I will haunt you for the rest of your days.”

  “How would I get somebody like Janx out of your life?”

  “You got him into it,” Grace said implacably. “You’ll figure it out, love.” She turned away, hand on the doorknob before Margrit said, “Your necklace.”

  “Keep it. A prettier piece than Iscariot got, don’t you think?” She closed the door behind her as Margrit surged forward to snatch up the links, then run for the bedroom door, to fling the necklace after Grace.

  The hallway was empty, the front door closed and the chains on the locks in place. Margrit threw the necklace anyway, sending it clattering against the door, then sat down on the floor, her face in her hands. A creak announced Cole and Cameron’s door opening. Margrit cursed into her palms, then looked up to find Cole frowning down at her. “I thought I heard voices.”