by C. E. Murphy
The blonde blanched, waving one of her kids away as her voice dropped. “Janx?”
“He’s a…” Margrit threw a glance at Alban, who shook his head minutely. “A gangster.”
Grace shook her head. “I’m not asking who he is, love. I know that already. Bad business, is what he is, and more trouble than me and my little gang are worth.” She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, moving a few steps farther away from the children. “There’s a hundred stories about me, and none of them are true, but I’m not in that league and I don’t want to be.”
Margrit smiled. “The tabloids—”
“I’m not,” Grace said sharply. “The things the tabloids make me out to be, I’m not. They want me to be some kind of superhero, but I’m a long way from it.”
“Then what about all the amazing stuff you’re supposed to do?” Margrit couldn’t keep the crooked smile off her face. She felt Alban turn to her, examining her, but didn’t look back, afraid he’d see a light of glee in her eyes that she neither could nor wanted to hide.
Grace made a swift dismissive motion. “Once,” she said. “Once, four years ago, a bloke grabbed one of my girls. Not even mine, yet. I’d been trying to talk her into coming here. Her brother was running with a gang and she had nobody else. This johnny comes out of nowhere, down on the street. I pick up a tire iron and crack his skull, and a week later I’m looking in the paper and there’s three men apprehended by Grace O’Malley what’ve been arrested and put in jail. Inside a year, whenever somebody’s left broken in a place the coppers can find him? It’s me. On one hand, it’s grand. The boys on the street don’t play hardball with me and mine as long as we keep a low profile. On the other? The cops are always itching to bust me. They’re not much for vigilantes.”
She waved her hand dismissively, and a note of fear entered her voice, invading the brash confidence. “But Janx. That’s a man I’ll not tangle with for life and limb. What’s he doing, waving my name about?” Her hand drifted to her waistband. “This place I’ve got here, it’s fragile, you understand? I’m not afraid for me. Grace is harder to hurt than she looks.”
Alban rumbled, a soft sound of curiosity that brought Grace’s attention back to him. “Used to hearing a bit of stuff say that, are you, big man? It’s true. I wouldn’t survive down here if it weren’t. I think you know a thing or two about that, don’t you.”
“I do. It is—” The gargoyle broke off, a smile so faint it might have been imagined creasing the clean lines of his face. “It’s good to see people surviving. Doing more than surviving.” He gestured, encompassing the room, and Grace gave him an open smile that made Margrit’s spine stiffen.
At a glance, Grace fit into Alban’s world in a way she never would. The underground vigilante belonged to dark places and hard living, a life eked out beneath the streets. Alban’s world might lie above them, but it was as much enclosed in darkness as Grace’s. For an instant Margrit saw them from the outside, both tall and pale, Grace’s platinum hair nearly as pure a white as Alban’s. They might have been made to fit together.
And Margrit had no claim on Alban.
She twisted a hand behind her back, closing it into a slow fist as she tried to bring Tony’s image to mind. The pairing of Grace and Alban overwhelmed it, and Margrit looked away, making herself focus on the contained anger that came into Grace’s voice as she answered the gargoyle. “I’ll survive. It’s the kids I worry for. Maybe it don’t look like much, but they’re off the street here. It’s a chance to find a way into the world.”
“It’s a strange place to do it from.” Margrit’s voice was soft but easy, the calm she needed in the courtroom serving her well in Grace’s home.
The blond woman spread one hand, the other staying near the gun at the small of her back. The confidence in her tone was back, but her eyes were still too dark, concern coloring them. “Mostly they try to fix problems from the top, love, but you’ve got to get to the root. I don’t have a church or a lot of money to back me up. The only way I can see to do it is to climb into the guts of the thing and start lifting people out.” She made a stirrup with her hands and jerked upward, as if boosting a rider, then broke her fingers apart with a shrug. “Janx is everything these kids need to stay away from. And he could destroy this with a word.” She turned to survey the boys and girls, some sleeping already, others gathered into quiet groups, studying or reading. “I’ve got books and dreams for them. Janx has got video games and flash. Most days I wouldn’t blame them for taking the glitter. But we hold together with what we’ve got.”
“Like great outfits,” Margrit said with a tentative grin.
Grace turned a wry smile back at her. “All the cool kids dress in leather. Besides, it wears well, love.”
“We have no quarrel,” Alban said, making it a question.
Grace’s eyebrows, much darker than her hair, shot up. “I’ve never seen you before. I’ve got nothing against you, though…” She looked him up and down, ending with an appreciative leer. “Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of something against you, at that.”
Margrit felt her shoulders rise again, the hairs on her neck bristle. She put her hands in her pockets and bit the inside of her cheek, dropping her gaze to the floor. Grace noticed the reaction and threw her head back in a startlingly rich laugh. “Prancing on claimed territory, am I? No offense meant, love. Just having a bit of a flirt.”
Margrit mumbled a disclaimer, then lifted her eyes again, avoiding Alban’s gaze. She could feel him watching her, curious, perhaps even hopeful. Just like a man, she thought. Maybe a little more sensitive than the average human male.
She tensed her biceps and forearms to shake away the thoughts. “On the one hand, it’s good you haven’t got a problem with Alban. On the other—” she hissed out a breath through her teeth “—it means Janx played me. I’m getting tired of that.”
Grace gave another laugh, this one short and incredulous. “You’ve dealt enough with Janx to get tired of him playing with you? You’ve got the luck of the Irish in you, girl.”
“Probably somewhere.” Margrit pushed her hands through her hair, ending up pulling her ponytail out as she turned, aimlessly examining the room and the young people in it. “Lost New York. All the places that got built over and forgotten about, but maintained some infrastructure.”
“What about it?”
“It’s your territory, isn’t it?” Margrit turned back to Grace. “Does Janx know you operate down here? Below the streets?”
She shrugged one shoulder eloquently. “Not so’s I’ve told him, no, but there’s not much Janx doesn’t know, especially what with him owning half the police force.”
A thin slice of cold cut its way along Margrit’s nervous system, Tony’s stolid expression leaping to her mind. Why had he pointed her at Janx? Why had he known the name—worse, perhaps, the voice? Could it be—
She cut off that line of thought, aching with unhappiness. They’d been together on and off for over three years. Anthony Pulcella was a good man and a good cop, if unlikely to stick it out through the rough times. But that was her fault every bit as much as his, and it certainly didn’t point to him being bought and paid for. His anger over her involvement with a murder suspect was justified, even if there was simple human jealousy compounding the problem. Margrit didn’t believe she could be that wrong about him, not after all the time they’d spent together.
“You’re a lawyer, Grit,” she muttered, not meaning the words for anyone but herself. “You’re supposed to be a good judge of character. Stop with the second-guessing.”
“Oh, hell.” Margrit looked up to see a combination of disgust and frustration in Grace’s eyes. “That’s where I’ve seen you. Knight. Margrit bleeding Knight, wandering right into my bloody den. Bloody hell.”
Margrit blinked. “You know me?”
“Of course I do.” Course came out with more of an accent than Grace had used before, dragged out into caarse. “You’re the law
yer knocking down my building.”
Margrit’s jaw dropped. “Me? I’m trying to keep a buil—your building?”
“Not mine.” Grace took a few long-legged strides away, covering as much territory at a walk as Margrit would have running. “Of course it’s not bloody mine, for all I wish it was. For five years, six, we’ve had a bloody base right beneath it, as close to a center of operations as I’ve got. We can get all over the city from there, fast. That building coming down is like dropping a bloody bomb on my work. These are good kids.” Defeat sharpened her tone. “Most of them are, whether they’re mine or not. It’s just the choices they’ve got are so damn bad. If I have to start over again—”
“Then you will,” Margrit said. “Because you know it makes a difference.”
Grace let out an explosive sigh. “And that’s why you do it, too, isn’t it, love?”
Margrit shared a rueful smile with the blond woman. “Some days, yeah.” She tucked hair behind her ear, chin lifting in thought. “Does Janx know about your place? Beneath the Daisani building?”
“Like I said, love, there’s not much he wants to know that he can’t find out. We try to keep quiet, but maybe somebody noticed us. We’ve used that space a long time.” Grace hooked her thumbs in her belt, rocking back on her heels as she studied Margrit. “If he knows…”
“I’ll find out,” Margrit said flatly.
Grace laughed again, more quietly, as if she knew without looking that some of the kids were sleeping. “And how’ll you do that, I’m wondering?”
“He owes me a favor, if nothing else. Maybe I can get the truth out of him.”
“He owes you?” Grace kept her voice low, mindful of the nearby teens, but the tone changed to reflect disbelief. “How’d you manage that?”
“By promising three unconditional favors in return.” Margrit made a face.
Grace rocked back. “That was a bad idea.”
“You don’t say.” Bad idea or not, thinking about it sent tingles of adrenaline through her system. “It’ll turn out all right. I hope.”
“I hope God himself will come down and give me the kiss of angels,” Grace said. “Hoping won’t make it happen.”
Margrit smiled curiously. “Kiss of angels. I’ve never heard that expression before. Sounds like a blessing.”
“Or a curse,” Alban murmured.
Margrit and Grace gave him equally sharp looks, Grace ending hers with, “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? And I would be, too, if I were you. Look, I’m no enemy of yours and I hope you’re none of mine, but if you’ve brought Janx down on my head…” She shifted her weight, her hand drifting to her waistband. Alban rumbled deep in his throat, and Grace swaggered forward, challenging him.
“For God’s sake.” Margrit stepped between them, scowling up at Grace. “You wouldn’t really have shot me.”
Grace’s lips curled. “That’d be telling, love.”
“Janx scares you,” Margrit said, keeping her voice low even as Grace stiffened in offense. “He scares you, and I’m not surprised. He could ruin you. That’s enough to frighten anyone, even if they’re running a more legit business than yours. I will figure out what’s going on here and make it stop.” Determination hardened her voice and she found herself curling her hands into fists. “People are trying to bulldoze me every way I turn, and I am not going to let them do it. Even if I didn’t like what you’re doing here, you’re de facto on my side right now, so I’ll be your advocate.” A smirk fell across her face at the unintentional play on words. Grace snorted in approval, falling back a step.
“I will find a way to stop this.” Margrit shoved her fingers through her hair again, relaxing marginally as some of the tension ebbed. She was making that promise a lot recently, she reflected, and then sighed as she glanced around at the labyrinth of doors and tunnels leading from the basement chamber. “I’ll find a way to stop it,” she repeated. “As soon as somebody tells me how to get out of this room.”
Margrit was only half certain Grace had made the exit route more complex than necessary. Half certain; for all she could tell, every twist and bend they’d taken had been part of the shortest route to the street. They’d surfaced closer to Trinity than she’d expected, Grace leaving them with a nod. Margrit watched the platinum-blond woman disappear through a storm gate, then shook her head. “I hardly even thought she existed.”
“You said there were stories in the papers about her,” Alban pointed out.
Margrit shrugged and turned back to him with a smile. “There are stories in the papers about Elvis sightings, too. All right. Let’s go.”
Suspicion darkened the gargoyle’s expression. “Where?”
“To see Janx. I’m going to kick his butt.” Margrit almost believed herself, and grinned toward the sky.
“I am not bringing you to the House of Cards.” Alban’s tone was flat, his gaze fixed on the disappearing point of the city streets. Margrit’s grin faded and she shrugged, turning to cut down a side street. Silence followed her, then Alban’s footsteps, and his wary question: “Where are you going?”
“To a subway station.”
“Margrit…”
“Why does everyone have to sound like my father?” Margrit wondered out loud, turning back to the gargoyle. “Look. Fine. I don’t care. Don’t bring me there. I’m going anyway, so you may as well just suck that up, all right? It’s late, I’m tired and I want to find out what the fuck is going on and why my life is getting jerked around.” She stepped forward, putting her fingertips against his chest, almost a shove. “Maybe you can afford to spend fifty years lying low and hiding from the cops, but know what? I can’t. In fifty years I’ll have used up my allotted three score and ten, and frankly, I can think of better ways to spend it.”
Alban put his hand over hers, the warmth of his fingers making her suddenly aware of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “Can you,” he murmured.
Margrit’s breath hitched and she went still, caught not by his touch, but by his words. There was hope in them, running deeper than she knew how to respond to, though she found herself fighting the urge to step forward into his arms. The visceral memory of his body against hers in flight took her by surprise, of the way his strength and surety had kept her safe as they soared above the city.
Soared above the city. The man before her could take wing and fly, a creature wholly unlike herself, a mere mortal bound to walk the earth.
Margrit took a step back. “I’m going to see Janx. Are you coming or not?”
Alban sighed. “Does it have to be the subway?”
“You lied to me.” Margrit leaned over the lunchroom table, aggressively facing her opponent. “You lied to me, and I found you out, Janx. You owe me.”
Janx gave her a lazy grin and let his focus flicker to where Alban stood behind her, arms folded across his chest to make himself a living wall. The gargoyle wore his human form, hair so white it reflected in the burnished steel walls, but even without his stone breadth, he was wider across the shoulders than any of Janx’s men.
“Alban,” Janx said cordially.
Alban dropped his chin a fraction of an inch, the barest acknowledgment he could make.
Janx snorted thin blue smoke and swung his feet off the table, standing with liquid grace. “You don’t keep very polite company, Margrit Knight.”
“Especially these days.” She kept her gaze on him, deliberately including him in the bad company. Then, to her dismay, she found herself struggling against an answering smile as Janx turned an amused look on her. He enjoyed being himself, so much it was nearly impossible for her not to like him. Worse, he knew it: deeper amusement flickered through his eyes, turning them from the green of new leaves to jade.
He came around the table with long, fluid steps and lifted a hand as if to touch her chin. Margrit’s smile fell away abruptly, and Janx froze as if she’d caught his wrist in an icy grip. Neither of them looked at Alban, though Margrit was sure Janx was as aware as she was that the
gargoyle had tensed.
“Ah, yes.” Janx dropped his arm, eyes shifting color with the changing shadows as he moved. “My lady prefers not to be touched. I remember now. So.” He stepped back, just out of Margrit’s personal space, his gaze narrowed on her. Goose bumps stood up on her arms, making her fully aware that Janx’s motions, his choice of distance, were deliberate. He was giving her the space she needed for comfort, the dancing amusement in his eyes hidden now as he studied her and ran his tongue over one of his curved eyeteeth. “What lie have you caught me in, and why are you so certain of it that you’re willing to come to my territory and accuse me?”
“Grace O’Malley is not Alban’s enemy.”
Janx’s eyebrows shot up so fast they seemed like a streak of flame crossing his forehead. “Don’t tell me you found the notorious pirate queen and asked her!”
Margrit flicked her fingers in dismissal, then found herself rubbing her thumb against her index and middle fingers, as if pantomiming a sign for cash. Janx turned his head a fraction of a degree, studying her action. Disappointment slid through his gaze before he lowered his eyelashes and gave her an unexpectedly sly look. “I suppose how you learned it doesn’t matter that much, since you’ve managed to find me out. But do you really think that means I owe you something new and fresh, my dear?”
“Yeah.” Margrit took the step forward that Janx had taken back, putting him once more into her personal space. He was taller than she was—everyone was—but she looked up at him with all the challenge she could muster.
He quirked an eyebrow, good humor restored by her audacity. “And if I disagree?”
“Then I think I don’t owe you anything else. Come on, Janx. You sent me on a wild-goose chase, and I want to know why. And I want any other names you’ve come up with since I was here last night. Don’t tell me you’re going to disappoint me.”
Janx glanced over her head at Alban. “You really don’t deserve her, Korund.” He returned his gaze to Margrit, lips pursed with hopeful curiosity. “I don’t suppose you’d abandon the good and true Stoneheart to live a life of decadence and depravity with an aging gambler?”