Heart of Stone

by C. E. Murphy

  Malik chuckled, a thin sound that cut the air. “You will of course come in.” He gestured to the entrance. Footsteps echoed quietly around her, men appearing out of the door and from down the street to move closer, surrounding her.

  “That’s not necessary,” Margrit said, pleased with the steadiness of her voice. “I didn’t come for trouble and I don’t need to be herded like a cow.”

  Malik’s eyebrows went up fractionally. “A young woman who speaks her mind. How nouveau.”

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Margrit muttered as she stepped past him. Malik laid a hand on her arm, very gently. She stopped as if he’d dropped a wall in front of her, the hair rising at the back of her neck. His touch was light, but it bespoke possession, as if Margrit were a thing, not a person. Anger and fear washed through her, giving her the edge she needed to turn her head and look up at him. He was no more than three inches taller than she, with dark eyes and lashes that any woman would envy. He wore a goatee, tight and neatly trimmed to accentuate a full mouth. His hair was long and pulled back in a glossy ponytail, and his shirt, colorless from a distance, was of melded grays that looked like running water.

  “I assure you,” he breathed, “I know which century we’re in, and I know which century I come from. There are advantages to this one, but there are traditions from my childhood that I’m eager to uphold.”

  Margrit’s fear drained away, leaving her as buoyant and cheerful as if she’d just been on a late-night run through the park. “Mr. al-Massri,” she murmured back, “Malik. I’m a lawyer, and I’ve seen a hundred guys like you. You think you’re the shit because you’re carrying around a gun and a history of being the top dog. Let me tell you two things. First, you’re the doorman, which means not in charge here, so you probably ought to get over the superiority complex. Second, while there are things that scare me, little men with little dicks aren’t one of them. You want to try me, someday you’ll get your chance. But not tonight, so you might as well get over yourself and let go of me.”

  Color leeched from Malik’s face until his cheekbones stood out as ugly blue shadows in the city night, rage compressing his lips and taking the blood from them. He removed his hand from Margrit’s arm, gesturing sharply to two of the four men who’d joined them. They jogged forward, taking up the lead and the back, with Margrit between them as they went through the shadowed door Malik had appeared from. The sharp-featured man stayed behind, his rage palpable and directed at Margrit, as if he could shred her with his will alone.

  That, she thought, was very possibly the most supremely stupid challenge she’d ever made.

  She grinned, falling into step with her escort, cold spilling down her scalp with a tingle like mint shampoo. Supremely stupid, but a lot of fun.

  The House was not, and had never been, a home. Margrit was led up two flights of stairs before entering the occupied area of the warehouse, concrete stairs turning to cast-iron grating that creaked beneath her feet. A windowed alcove overlooked a room that ran the length of the building, glaring with dark neon lights and the desperation of an off-Boardwalk Atlantic City casino. Men and women lingered around poker tables and pool sharks, losing cash and hope. The air felt dirty, as if it had absorbed too much grease and needed to be taken out for a wash. High windows were boarded over in places and let streetlight through in others, though it didn’t permeate the gloom.

  Margrit followed her escort, her knees feeling weak and loose, each step a cocky swagger. Hands in her pockets, she sauntered through the alcove door as one of Janx’s men held it for her, and walked into a room where the air was too thin to breathe.

  Everything stilled, as if the lack of air had preserved the place in a time capsule. Margrit’s last breath lingered in her lungs, the waiting exhalation promising to be a cough, as if she’d somehow stepped from sea level to a mountaintop.

  The single table in the room had more to do with elementary school cafeterias than power-lunch offices, and the seats were metal folding chairs without cushioning. The back wall, of semi-mirrored steel, gleamed with faint reflections of neon from the space it overlooked, and the floor shook with raucous music playing in a room beneath the casino.

  A slender, handsome man with green eyes and a shock of dark red hair sat alone at the table. His feet, clad in expensive, dull-leather shoes, were crossed at the ankle and propped lazily on the table; he held a cigarette in one hand, smoke curling idly around his head. He smiled when they entered, eyes crinkling in the same way Chelsea’s had, but what looked wizened on her appeared ageless on him. He gestured easily, indicating the seats. Margrit’s feet felt heavy, and an inexplicable panic thrust her shoulders back, as if she was preparing to escape the room and the man by running. She took a sharp breath, trying to fill her lungs, and was grateful it didn’t send her into spasms of coughing.

  The man smiled again. “Malik told me we had a visitor.”

  To her shock, Margrit saw Malik standing against the reflective wall, his mouth still pressed in a thin line. She was certain he hadn’t come up the stairs with her, and her bewilderment brought a nasty smile to his face.

  The other man’s gaze raked over Margrit—undressing her, she thought uncomfortably. “He spoke quite eloquently of you, Margrit Knight. Welcome to the House of Cards. I am, of course, Janx. Please, sit down.”

  “Of course.” Margrit shuffled toward one of the chairs, wondering where the looseness she’d felt a moment before had gone. She felt earthbound for the second time that evening, as clumsy as she had in the interrogation cell. Janx smiled again, this time revealing teeth that looked pointed. Margrit sat down heavily, wetting her lips. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice!” He sat back, spreading his hands expansively. “Not terrifying? Not alarming? Not frightening?” He flipped his cigarette, holding it between his index finger and thumb, and took a slow drag, watching Margrit intently.

  She wet her lips again and swallowed dryly. “Those things’ll kill you.” Her voice was too hoarse, her confidence gone, but Janx flung his head back and laughed out loud. Smoke sailed from his nostrils in thin streams as he stubbed out the cigarette, then smiled merrily.

  “No, my dear young woman, I don’t believe they will, but I do give you credit for having balls.” His eyebrows shot up challengingly. “Please don’t tell me you object to the phrase. I would be so disappointed.”

  “No.” Margrit cleared her throat and pulled her shoulders straighter. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “Excellent.” Janx grinned and unfolded his legs, swinging them down and leaning across the table. “A lovely woman, out without her gargoyle protector, even with dawn being so many hours away. One hardly expects a gargoyle—particularly Korund—to take risks, and the sunrise is so terribly dangerous. Still.” Janx clucked, mocking dismay. “How disappointing, don’t you think? A wonderful treat like you, all alone. It’s been a long time since a woman’s been here.” His eyes lit up, glittering hard and gemlike.

  Margrit glanced out the windows, down at the casino. “What about them?”

  Janx gestured dismissively. “Old, used, desperate goods. They’ve paid everything they can pay, and all that’s left is a carcass that refuses to die. But you, mmm, yes. You’re much tastier.”

  A thin trickle of outrage slid through her belly, lending her strength. “I’m not a snack.”

  “Oh, but you are. With spice, at that.” Janx flicked a hand out and curled a lock of Margrit’s hair around his finger, letting go again too quickly for her to react. “Creole, perhaps. Something old and slow-roasted. Am I right?”

  Margrit straightened her spine with a deliberate breath that returned strength and the sense of freedom, both emotionally and physically. She smoothed her hair back with both hands, pushing it over her shoulders, and offered a polite smile that went nowhere near her eyes. “My people are from Virginia.”

  “Such a pity.” Janx clucked again. “Ah well. Not even I can be right all the time. Now.” He laid his hand
s on the table, palms down, fingers spread. His fingernails were perfect, smooth rounded arcs with delicate half-moons at the base. “Tell me, Margrit Knight, whose people are from Virginia, what is it that you think I can do for you?”

  “Three things.” Margrit kept her eyes on Janx’s face, more than half afraid he would strike like a poisonous reptile if she stopped watching him. Her voice was steady, though, even challenging. He shouldn’t have fondled her as if she were to be assessed as an investment. It made him too fallible in her eyes, relegated him from something worth fearing to someone whose interests could be bought and sold, just like anyone else. From that perspective, he was no more than another lawyer across another courtroom table, negotiating a deal. Her actual life wouldn’t be hanging in the balance if that was true, but the silent reminder was enough to keep her calm.

  Janx’s eyebrows shot up again. His eyes were very green and full of mirth.

  “Three. Either you have no idea what you’re asking for, or you are far, far braver than your people are generally given credit for.” He examined her judgmentally, and amended, “Perhaps a bit of both. Three things. You understand there is a price for anything you ask.”

  “And it can’t be settled ahead of time.” It was an educated guess, but the faintest smile quirked the corner of Janx’s mouth. “I know. I understand.” Margrit lifted a hand, stopping his speech, and went on. “But they’ll be of equal value. The price of a question answered will be another question answered, not an action or an inaction. That much I insist on.”

  Janx pursed his lips. Thin blue smoke swirled around him and faded again before he leaned forward a fraction of an inch. “You insist.”

  Margrit nodded, lifting her chin.

  “What,” he asked, “makes you think you can insist, young lady?”

  “Because I’ve met men like you,” she answered with quiet determination. Behind Janx, Malik hissed in a breath. Margrit let herself smile a little, but otherwise ignored him and met Janx’s vivid gaze. “Being a criminal isn’t the same as being without honor. I think your honor is of more worth to you than a bad bargain.”

  “The bargain,” Janx pointed out, “would be bad on your side, not mine.”

  Margrit shook her head. “Still. I want your word, Janx. Equal value, or I walk out of here now.”

  Astonishment darkened his eyes to jade. “And what,” he asked, fascinated, “makes you think you could do that?”

  She leaned back in her chair, suddenly confident. “Because if I do, I’ll owe you something.”

  Janx sat back in turn, his chair scraping against the hard floor, and clapped his hands together once, a sharp sound echoed by a bright laugh of delight. The smoky air swirled again, trails lingering around his shoulders as he beamed at her. “My God. No wonder Korund chose you to break centuries of silence with. Very well, Margrit Knight. Your bargain is struck. Three things, with payments of equal value to be rendered at a later time. Name the first.”

  Margrit exhaled, letting her eyes close briefly. “First,” she said, looking at Janx again, “first I want to know why you’re talking to me at all.” It was a weak question and she knew it, but she squelched the impulse to shake her head, and kept her gaze steady. Weak, but necessary. Without understanding why Janx was willing to play her game, she wasn’t going to survive.

  He blinked once, then smiled a snake’s smile, the expression slithering across his mouth and away again. “Fascinating. Perhaps I sense a kindred spirit in you. A certain pleasure in laying cards on the table, mano a mano, yes? Perhaps it’s that you put Malik in his place, something that needs doing more often than he might care to remember. Perhaps it’s merely a rare occasion that I speak with a young woman of such temporary and fragile beauty and so little fear. Why are you not afraid of me?”

  Margrit tilted her head to the side. “Is that your exchange question, Janx? I’ll answer, but it’ll bring me down to two payments owed.”

  Admiration slid through his green gaze. “Balls of solid gold. Fair enough. For you, my worthy adversary, I think the price is worthwhile. Why are you not afraid of me?”

  “There’s no point.” She slid her hands into her jeans pockets to keep from folding her arms over her chest defensively. “You could kill me before I blinked, and there’s not a damn thing I could do to stop you, so why be afraid?”

  Janx’s eyebrows rose until his pale forehead was wrinkled with laughter. “How fatalistic. But do go on, Ms. Knight. My answer came in three parts. I expect the same of you.”

  The corner of Margrit’s mouth turned up in a little grin. “Fair enough.” She dipped her chin, acknowledging that she’d stolen his words even as she considered the answer. “Part of it is my job. I’m a lawyer, Janx. If I crumpled every time I had to face down a powerful man, I’d be useless. So even if I was afraid of you, my training is to not let it show.” The impulse to flee rather than admit to being afraid made her feet itch, and she swallowed on a dry throat. Janx’s pupils dilated as if he sensed and responded to the physical changes in her body. He was a formidable enemy, but Margrit found her grin widening. A formidable enemy, but God, what fun! “Mostly, I trust your honor even if I don’t trust you.”

  “Not many people would see a difference.”

  “Not many people are me.” Margrit pulled a hand out of her pocket to put two fingertips against the cafeteria-style table, her wrist arched high. “Second. I want to know what you know about Alban’s enemies, including whether he and I have any in common.” Her heart rate accelerated, betraying her uncertainty about whether Janx would accept the two-part question as one.

  His pupils dilated a second time, a tell as clear as anything a human might reveal. Margrit drew in a slow, deliberate breath, working to slow her heartbeat. Amusement curved Janx’s mouth again and he nodded very slightly, confirming her suspicion: he could hear her heart. It jumped in her throat, making her next swallow thick.

  “And if I say I know nothing?”

  “Then find out.”

  Janx’s eyebrows rose, comically surprised. “Are you delivering me an ultimatum, my dear?”

  “You promised me three things, Janx. You have a network I don’t have access to.” Margrit lifted her own eyebrows innocently. “Of course, if you’re telling me you’re incapable of finding anything…”

  His eyes narrowed, darkening to jade. “You tread on dangerous ground.”

  “I’ve been on dangerous ground since I walked in here. I need answers. People are dying.”

  “That,” Janx said icily, “is not my concern.”

  “It is if you want to be able to hold the second and third prices over my head.”

  Janx bared his teeth. They were pointed, slightly curved in. Margrit swallowed the impulse to ask how he kept from biting his own tongue. “And your third request?”

  “I never said I was going to ask for all three tonight.”

  Anger lit Janx’s eyes, green paling to the color of new leaves. “That wasn’t established at the beginning of the game.”

  Margrit made a moue, shaking her head. “Not my fault.”

  “The third price will be high,” he warned her. Margrit felt the pulse thud in her throat, a sick and slow beat, but she inclined her head in a nod.

  “I’ll pay it. You have my word.”

  “Remarkable,” Janx murmured, then flattened his hands on the table again. “Very well. I can give you three names right now. Perhaps more later, but for now, these three. Grace O’Malley. Biali.” A youthful, impish grin brightened his face. “And the one you have in common—Eliseo Daisani.”

  “I haven’t even served the injunction yet.” The words came out numb and foolish, but Margrit couldn’t stop them.

  Janx laughed and leaned in confidentially. “My dear girl, I don’t believe he intends for you to do so at all. I believe his words were, ‘incapacitate her.’” Janx smiled beatifically at her.

  “What?”

  “The problem with handing things off to underlings,” Janx said,
full of mocking sympathy, “a little term like ‘incapacitate’ turns into a hit-and-run. Such a pity.”

  Margrit’s gaze snapped to Malik. The word irrational whispered through her mind, but she seized on the hunch anyway, her voice sharpening with accusation. “You were driving that car!”

  Malik smiled and spread his hands.

  “You sent him after me.” Margrit turned back to Janx, her voice low and shaking with anger and fear. Janx chuckled and leaned forward, taking one of her curls in his fingers again. The gesture was possessive, even more so than earlier, as if her coolness had no effect at all. Icy rage splashed through her, the angry need to make an impression of autonomy on Janx and all his ilk.

  “I’m not your enemy, Margrit. Don’t damn the messenger.”

  She wrapped her hand around Janx’s wrist. His skin was cool, his pulse fluttering fast as a bird’s beneath her fingers, and his eyes widened fractionally. Not many women—not many people, she thought—would have touched him.

  “Don’t push it, Janx.” The accusation bled from her voice, leaving cold dislike in its place. She moved Janx’s hand away from her hair, slowly and deliberately, then released him. His eyebrows lifted as she stood, putting her fingertips against the table. “I’ll be back tomorrow night to see if you have any more information for me.” Cold with fury, she turned her back on him and stalked from the room, feeling his gaze follow her out.

  FIFTEEN

  HE’D LOST HER, afraid—wisely afraid—to stay near her building, with the police investigating her so closely. And the cryptic message may have been too cryptic, but Alban hadn’t wanted to risk the others understanding and warning the police where he or Margrit might be in another twenty-four hours.

  Surely a day would be enough time for Margrit to extract herself from police proceedings. Especially when she shared a connection with the officer who had called her. Alban had seen it in the way her body language shifted, in the change of her scent, guilt mixing with surprise. Guilt was an emotion that belonged to humans, not the Old Races, but its toll was easy to recognize. Anyone seen with a suspected murderer might feel it, but it had run deeper in Margrit while she’d spoken to the detective below.