Heart of Stone

by C. E. Murphy

  But no one was skulking nearby, there was no sign of her sometimes lover, and who else would be watching? Sunset was still more than an hour off, Alban imprisoned in stone until then. A bus lumbered up, belching and groaning, and Margrit limped up its steps, watching shadows gather in the park as it pulled away from the stop.

  “Ow ow ow ow ow.” Margrit slid down the inside of the apartment’s front door, untying her boots and peeling her socks off carefully. She crawled into the bathroom to find astringent and bandages, while Cole came to frown at her.

  “Cops rough you up?” He was only half kidding; Margrit looked up at his tone and cracked a smile.

  “Yeah. Friction burns to the feet. It’s a new torture—eeeyow, that stings!—device.” She wrinkled her face and waved her feet in the air, hissing as hydrogen peroxide worked into blisters and raw spots, clearing potential infections away.

  “That why you decided to take a nap at the dining room table this morning?” Cole’s voice was brusque to hide worry, and Margrit gave him another fond smile.

  “No, not really. They let me go around 1:00 a.m., I guess. I had some stuff to do after that. Thanks for picking me up this morning, Cole. I thought I could just tough it out, but the last thing I remember was putting the yogurt down. My stupid feet are from going running in dumb shoes.”

  “Something happened with the case.” Cole walked back down the hallway to the kitchen, making his words a statement instead of a question.

  “Yeah. I think I found out why Daisani wants that building knocked down. It looks like it might be some kind of long-term personal thing for him.” Cara, she realized, had never verified that Daisani was a member of the Old Races. Margrit muttered under her breath, wondering if the girl had avoided answering because it wasn’t true, because she didn’t know or out of misplaced loyalty to discretion in the face of discovery. Bandages in place, Margrit abandoned her socks on the bathroom floor and hobbled down the hall after Cole, still mumbling.

  “Is there any point at all in suggesting you should think about dropping this case, Grit?” Cole stood over the stove, intently watching a pan of oil heat. Margrit peered around his shoulder hopefully.

  “Is that going to be fried chicken?”

  “I don’t know how you can tell it’s fried chicken from a sauté pan full of oil. Don’t avoid the question.”

  “Possibly the chicken in the fridge this morning tipped her off,” Cam said from her perch on the dining room table. She’d cleared several inches of space, piling Margrit’s paperwork even more precariously than it had been. Every time her weight shifted, so did the stacks of files. Margrit came over to extract a portable file box holding folders labeled Important, Really Important and Russell Will Kill You If You Don’t Finish This. The last was stuffed to bursting, and Margrit shuffled through more papers from the table, sliding them into the appropriate folders.

  “Hello, how are you, it’s nice to see you, too, and what’d you tell him, anyway, Cam?”

  “Just that the mayor came looking for you personally to head you off on the Delaney case. You know—” Cam looked over her shoulder with a grin “—the truth, and that sort of thing.”

  “We lawyers try to stay away from that,” Margrit said, mock severely. “Anyway, you’re the one who told me I was bullish in my acquisition and destruction of targets, Cole. If you want me off it, you should probably be telling me to go for it gung ho. Do not,” she added, “suggest that path to my parents. It’d probably fool me if they tried pulling it.”

  “Eliseo Daisani and Mayor Leighton and who knows who else…” her friend murmured. “Are you sure you’re not in over your head, Grit?”

  “Not at all. Fortunately, it’s my head. Besides.” Margrit leaned on the table, making it wobble threateningly. Cam put a hand out for balance, looking alarmed. “Besides,” Margrit repeated, “for one, it’s just starting to get interesting. For two, there’s no way to see if I’m in over my head without going for it, right? And for three, if I win this case I am going to be like unto God.”

  “Or dead.” Cole turned to face her worriedly, while the oil gave a sudden pop. “Margrit, I’m wondering if you being hit by that car wasn’t an accident.”

  “Dear Lord,” she exclaimed. Her pulse accelerated and she grinned faintly, oddly relieved to be talking with a mere human and not to Janx. Then she almost laughed at herself. A mere human. How quickly she’d become accustomed to the impossible. “Now I’ve got hit men after me? Cole, are you sure you’re not turning into my mother?”

  “God, I hope not,” Cam said fervently. Margrit laughed and Cole cracked a grin that faded quickly.

  “I’m just worried, Grit. Eliseo Daisani is big guns.”

  “Ah, but I’m faster than a speeding bullet.” Margrit looked at her abused feet. “Well, usually, anyway. And chicken’s almost the only thing you actually fry. Usually you bake stuff. If I peel potatoes will you make homemade french fries?”

  “I’m not getting across my sense of urgency to her, am I,” Cole said to Cam.

  She laughed. “Try again after dinner. You know how she is about food.”

  Margrit glanced out the kitchen window. “Better hurry, if you’re trying again after dinner. I’ve got a date.”

  “With Tony?” Cam and Cole chorused the question, both turning to gawk at her.

  Margrit blinked. “Yeah. Because things are going really smoothly with us right now, what with him picking me up for murder and all.” She pressed her lips together, then muttered, “Shit. The Superbowl’s tomorrow.”

  Cole and Cameron exchanged guilty looks. Margrit snorted. “You guys should go. I just don’t know that I’ll be joining you, under the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances might be exactly why it would be good to go,” Cam suggested.

  Margrit shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe if I talk to Tony. I don’t know if I bend that far. Besides, I’ve got a lot of work to do, especially with missing Friday because of the concussion.” She lifted a hand to press her palm over her goose egg, wincing mildly. “So don’t worry about it.”

  “Mmm. Who’s the date with, then?” Cole turned back to his oil, rolling flour-breaded chicken into it.

  “Oh, you know.” Margrit sighed. “The usual. Alban Korund with the knife in the bookstore.”

  SEVENTEEN

  CAMERON, LAUGHING, DUG out the Deluxe Edition Clue game, and between fried chicken and home fries they determined it was really Miss Scarlett in the library with the rope. Margrit slipped away to her date—coffee with a coworker, she’d finally ended up claiming, since neither of her apartmentmates would believe the truth—a couple of hours after sunset.

  Huo’s On First was startlingly busy, with a book signing and reading going on in its crowded foyer. The bells on the door rang as Margrit pushed her way in, apologizing in murmurs to both the author and the people there to see her. Chelsea waved from atop a bookshelf—apparently it was her natural habitat—and nodded toward the back room. Margrit edged her way through the stacks and brushed the beaded curtain aside as quietly as she could.

  In the prosaic yellow light of reading lamps, Alban seemed larger than she remembered him. He sat in an armchair meant for someone smaller, his shoulders overflowing it as he leaned to one side, head braced against his fingertips. He looked, Margrit thought, exhausted and terribly human. Suddenly at a loss, she hung back in the doorway, watching him. It was long moments before he lifted his head, and she saw his eyes dilate with surprise before she smiled crookedly. “Hey.”

  “You came.” Relief filled the gargoyle’s rumbling voice. “I thought—”

  “I might not have, if I hadn’t found a cabbie who knew what Huo’s On First was. I was thinking, What’s on second? But I’m here. I’m here, and I’ve got an awful lot of questions, Alban.”

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes again, sinking into the chair. “I’m sure you do. This—might not be the best place for us to stay, though.”

  “Somebody might’ve follo
wed me?” Margrit teased. Alban lifted his gaze again, no humor meeting her question. She swallowed, remembering her own cynical thought that Tony might’ve let her go just for that purpose. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “There’s rooftop access from here. If…” Alban hesitated, lifting his pale eyes to her. “If you trust me.”

  Margrit let go a breath of laughter, averting her gaze. “I’m here, aren’t I? Maybe it’s good I didn’t get a chance to say so last night. Running off with you would’ve convinced Tony I was guilty, and now he just thinks I’m a victim.” She winced as she glanced back at Alban. “A potential victim.” She winced again. “That’s not coming out right.”

  “But you,” he said. “You don’t think so?”

  Margrit held her breath and the gargoyle’s gaze before letting both go with an explosive sigh. “I think you’re not the one killing women in the park, anyway. It’s not your style.”

  “My—” Alban broke off, staring at her with dismay. “Do I want to know why you think I have a style?”

  “Probably not, but if we’re going to get through this, you’re going to have to hear it. For what it’s worth, Alban, I’m on your side.”

  He came to his feet slowly, with the massive grace Margrit was beginning to recognize in him. “It’s worth a great deal,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Who’s Biali?” Soften him up, Margrit thought, and then hit him when he’s not prepared.

  Alban gave a start, like a cat being jolted out of sleep. “Biali is—where did you hear that name? He’s an old…acquaintance.”

  “To be forgot?” Margrit asked, her tone deliberately light, though it did little to mask the sharpness. “I got the name from Janx.”

  What color there was leeched from Alban’s skin, leaving him paler than new ivory. “Janx?” He barely whispered the name.

  “I’ve been busy since you saw me.” Margrit pursed her lips, judgmental and not hiding it as she studied Alban’s pallor and the surprise in his eyes. Now or never, Grit. She pulled her gaze away once more and looked around the room, taking the calm beat of her heart as the Richter scale to judge her fear by. “So where’s this rooftop access?”

  “This way.” Alban offered a hand and Margrit slid hers into it, momentarily struck by the size and strength of the fingers enveloping hers. Aside from dancing together, it was the first time he’d really touched her, and that…hardly counted. She hadn’t known his secrets then; hadn’t known what manner of man held her. She hadn’t known how his appearance would change her life.

  Alban led her through a back door in Chelsea’s tiny apartment, both of them silent as they climbed the stairs to the roof. Once there, he drew her close, so gently she realized how easy it would be for him to injure her through carelessness. A surge of dangerous warmth swept over her. It was foolish to be drawn to things that could harm her, but she trusted the gargoyle. Trusted him far more than she trusted the New York City nights that she ran through every evening. Any man could be dangerous the way Alban was: strong, certain of himself, sensual. And the city where she jogged nightly had none of the gargoyle’s gentle side, no need or desire to protect without possessing.

  Possessing. The word lingered in her mind, bringing color to her cheeks as Margrit curled herself against him. More than one person had treated her as a trinket in the past day, but Alban, who might have seemed the most possessive of them all, had nothing of that in his touch. His heartbeat was steady and slow beneath her cheek, making her own seem absurdly quick in counterpoint, but there was nothing inhuman about the arm he slipped around her waist. Solid, but not like stone. Simply like a man, warm muscle and sinew holding her safe.

  Margrit closed her eyes, tightening her grip around Alban’s neck. “I’ve never done this.”

  He chuckled, his breath stirring her hair. “I would think not.”

  She looked up to find a teasing smile turned down at her, and felt laughter well in response. “I meant at all.” She bumped her hip against his in admonition, smiling even as the action made him draw her against him a little more solidly. “I’ve never flown.”

  Alban ducked his head toward hers. “Then this will spoil you for your people’s methods of flight.” He crouched, then sprang straight upward, unhindered by Margrit’s weight.

  Space imploded around her as he shifted forms within the circle of her arms. Blood tingled beneath her skin, pinpricks shivering over every inch of her until she was achingly aware of Alban’s body pressed against hers. There was no human softness left to him, his muscles stronger and ropier than they had been moments before. His face changed, centimeters from her own, with rougher lines replacing the more familiar human form, and warm white hair washed over her forearms like heated stone. His wings spread, so close and broad they blocked out what few stars shone through city lights, though the crescent moon made a spot of brightness through the thin membrane. Not human, but his body heat and the way he cradled her told her he was still far from stone.

  A thrill bordering on panic fluttered in Margrit’s stomach, pulling laughter from her. Her body stung with need, a runner’s high pushed to the point of ecstasy and desire. She tilted her head back, making a vulnerable line of her throat, and pressed her breasts against Alban’s chest as she arched in his arms. Her breath was torn away, tears streaming from her eyes as the wind straightened her hair and slapped strands of it against her cheeks. Buildings sailed by beneath them, their familiar forms utterly changed from this new vantage. Margrit heard herself laughing and pulled herself up against Alban again, burying her face in his shoulder. “This is fantastic.”

  Given the rush of wind in her own ears, she was uncertain he could hear her, but he laughed, a deep sound of delight that seemed to shiver through Margrit’s body. “I thought it would suit you.”

  “It does.” The impulse to curl her leg over his hip to hold herself closer to him sent a deep jolt of desire through her groin. The impulse was as alarming as it was appealing, and Margrit shoved it away, stretching into the wind.

  As if it was less dangerous to trust the gargoyle with her life than to find him desirable. Margrit let go her hold around Alban’s neck with first one arm, then the other. She curved back, making a rainbow arch, until only the gargoyle’s grip around her waist kept her from falling hundreds of feet through the air. Delight and fear shivered through her like a drug, heightening her awareness of tactile sensations. The wind against her face cut like ice shards, tasting clean and cold so far above the city. Exquisite counterpoint came from Alban’s warmth where her hips pressed into his. Heat surged through her again, this time mingled with laughter that she didn’t dare release. Arching into the wind had not been the way to escape her growing awareness of the intimacy offered by sharing the sky with a gargoyle. Another blush and shiver seized her, sheer curiosity making her wonder if a winged creature could make love to an unwinged one in the air.

  “Margrit?” Alban’s voice, always low, seemed to carry more question in it than usual. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one becoming ever more aware of the familiarity of their pose. Margrit caught her lower lip between her teeth, deliberately twisting to look down on the city beneath them.

  The lights were bright and stationary despite the wind that flattened her hair into her eyes. Flight, to her modern mind, was a method of rapid travel, leaving things behind in an instant, but with Alban it was different. For him it was a thing of nature, not languid, but not mechanically quick. Wholly natural, yet completely unnatural to human expectations.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be seen?” Even as she asked the question a pang of regret slipped through the heat building in her core. It wasn’t the response the gargoyle had looked for when he’d spoken her name. For an instant she wished she could take it back.

  “I do not do this…often,” Alban rumbled after a moment, the deep granite of his voice cutting easily through the wind. “When I do, I try to stay above the towers, so no one simply looks out and notices me. It helps that I can
only come out at night. City lights help block curious eyes looking up, and the sheer improbability of my existence helps people doubt what they see, if they do catch a glimpse of me. And,” he added prosaically, “I’m usually very, very careful.”

  “Usually.” Margrit tilted her head back again, looking down at the streets gliding below. “This isn’t being careful.”

  “No,” Alban agreed, “but I thought you might enjoy the scenic route. Hold on,” he advised. He cupped his hand behind her head, pulling her out of her arch and against his body again. Margrit slid an arm around his neck, closing her eyes and inhaling his scent in the instant before the wind ripped it away. He smelled like raw broken stone, newly shattered, an outdoors smell that Margrit was surprised she recognized, having been raised in the city. Alban banked, slowing, then rolled her in his arms, making her yelp as her eyes popped open with surprise.

  The city was right side up. Alban still held her firmly around her waist, but instead of being pressed chest to chest with him, her hip fitted against his, her ribs stretched along his side and her arm wrapped securely behind his shoulder. The intimacy was gone. “You’ve done this before,” Margrit said into the wind.

  “Not recently. What would you like to see?”

  “The Chrysler Building,” Margrit said. Alban flashed a smile, no distress evident in his expression. Maybe the surge of want had been only on her part, she thought, but shook her head even as Alban banked again, climbing higher into the sky. Human or not, the gargoyle was male, and Margrit had felt evidence of his attraction when their hips had been pressed together. He might have been as uncertain as she of the right steps to take to address that interest.

  Powerful muscle worked beneath her arm, Alban’s wings gathering air and pushing them higher as they angled through the city toward the glittering steel-peaked building. Triangular windows in the massive arches glowed yellow, blazing with friendly light. As they neared the skyscraper, Alban caught an updraft and soared on it, his great wings suddenly all but still. Margrit laughed breathlessly, reaching out as if she could touch the building.