Heart of Stone

by C. E. Murphy

  “Janx does,” a voice growled behind her ear, and a hand clapped over her mouth.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MARGRIT SCREAMED, A constricted squeak behind the hand over her mouth. An arm slammed around her waist, pinning her own arms against her sides, and she twisted with panic, throat loosening enough to scream again, the sound muffled by the man’s hand.

  “You think you’re good, don’t you?” he breathed in her ear, his voice too soft to be recognized. “Too good to get caught. You’re just another piece of meat, girl. Just another piece of mortal meat. You’re coming with me.”

  The city turned to mist around her.

  Her lungs burned, vision swimming red: the mist was unbreathable, and it went on forever. Streetlights left oily yellow trails of fog through the scarlet, like blood on butter. Cars driving by tore black jagged streaks through her belly, pulling Margrit’s insides out and stretching them until they snapped back and tangled around her feet. She stumbled, her heartbeat crashing in her ears, each thump slower than the last.

  The crimson dimmed, her misty vision narrowing to pinpricks. Margrit’s panic faded into exhausted relief, contentment rising up in slow waves through her body, to burst behind her eyes in white and blue spots. They said drowning wasn’t a bad way to die, in the end. Maybe she was drowning. Sound receded, hollow and distant, and she closed her eyes, waiting to drift out of consciousness and out of life. She tried for a last breath without expectation, like a drowning man facing the inevitable.

  Air flooded back into her lungs, so real and heavy it made her cough. With her arms still pinned at her sides, she clawed at her thighs, inhaling frantically through her nose and choking until tears spilled over the hand covering her mouth. The man holding her swore in a language she didn’t know, yanking his hand away. Margrit gasped in a lungful of thick, palpable air, choking again, then lifted her foot and brought her heel down on the man’s instep as hard as she could.

  He howled and let go of her waist, careening back a step. Half blinded by tears, Margrit spun around and jabbed hooked fingers at his eyes.

  Her hand went through his head and she slammed her stiffened fingers into a steel wall. A horrible pop sounded. Margrit screamed, pinching her fingers with her other hand as she fell forward and leaned against the wall, panting.

  “Well played,” a familiar voice said with admiration. Margrit, gritting her teeth, lifted her head to see Janx, feet propped on his table, applauding her lazily. “Not wisely played, but well played. Did something break?”

  “I’m afraid to look,” Margrit said through short breaths.

  Malik appeared beside her, coalescing from the smoke and shadows in the room. His smile was pained, one part pleased to have frightened her and one part furious she’d gotten in a hit. Margrit bared her teeth at him, as much in defiance as to hold back gasps of pain from the throbbing in her hand.

  “Let me see.” Janx stood and came around the table with more grace than Margrit thought humanly possible. Then she laughed, a rough sound of distress, because it was more grace than humanly possible. His hands were cool and his touch delicate, soothing. He smoothed his palm over her aching fingers, then caught them and pulled them straight. Margrit gagged, sweat standing out in cold drops on her forehead and neck. Janx held her hand between both of his while she breathed raggedly through her nose, waiting for the pain to subside. “Not broken,” he reported. “Badly jammed, but not broken. They’ll hurt for a few days. That was remarkable, Margrit Knight. Foolish, but remarkable. A show of bravado goes so far in making my day.”

  “Don’t. Ever.” Margrit closed her eyes, trying to get her breathing under control. “Don’t ever send him for me again, Janx. Not like that.” She looked beyond the dragon at the smoky room. “Alban isn’t here.”

  “Have you lost your gargoyle?” Janx asked, full of good humor. “I will send who I want, how I want, for you, when I need you.”

  Margrit folded her injured fingers under her arm, the pressure alleviating the pain a little. “Just remember it’s a level playing field.”

  Janx smiled curiously. “Do you really think so?”

  “I think we humans are good at leveling it at any cost. I haven’t lost him, I just thought he might’ve come by here.”

  “You might come here, Margrit. I don’t believe Alban would unless you gave him no choice.” Janx looked stern, shaking his head. “And instead of either his or your voluntary company, I have another murder. Whatever is the world coming to?”

  “Another—another one?” Margrit set her teeth together. “You set your killer loose on somebody else? How many does it take to make a point, Janx?”

  “I did no such thing. Let me be perfectly clear, Margrit Knight. When I want someone killed, I don’t take half a dozen innocents along with her.” Janx pursed his lips, looking thoughtful, then amended, “Not usually, at least. It’s messy, and while you may think me brutal, I’m not stupid. Collateral damage means trouble for me and my people. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

  “Daisani’s convinced you were behind Vanessa’s death, and you haven’t given me anything that convinces me you’re not responsible for the rest of them.” Margrit spat the words as much to distract herself from the pulse in her fingers as in genuine fury and frustration. Air. Cara had warned her that djinn were creatures of air. That Malik could appear and disappear at will seemed obvious, in retrospect.

  “There was a situation to take advantage of, with regards to Daisani’s woman. The rest—you’re hardly worth lying to. And I do have information.”

  “You’re full of shit.” Margrit elbowed past Malik, heading for the door.

  “Margrit.” Janx’s voice came down like a net, sending spasms through her neck and thighs, so she couldn’t move forward. Her injured fingers wouldn’t allow her to clench a fist, sapping her ability to struggle against the dragon’s command. Only when she eased back a step did her body relax. She turned to face Janx again.

  He dipped his hand into a pocket and came up with a polished, egg-shaped stone, which he held balanced on all five fingertips. It was translucent blue, with a fragile spot of lilac at the larger end, just above his fingers. Through the center, a nearly colorless slash of blue blended to half a dozen white streaks of varying widths that wrapped halfway around the stone, then ended abruptly. Janx rotated the object in his fingers, sending a six-pointed star glittering over its surface.

  “It’s a rock,” Margrit said. “So what?”

  “Not a rock. Sapphire,” Janx stated. “Corundum.”

  “Corundum.” Her gaze went back to the stone, a chill settling in her stomach. “Corundum,” she repeated. “Korund. Alban?”

  “It was found this evening at the most recent murder scene.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Margrit came forward, reaching for the stone. “How did you end up with it?”

  Janx winked, lifting the object a little higher so her fingers closed on air. “It belonged to Hajnal.”

  “What?” Her arm fell.

  “Alban gifted it to her, three centuries since. The stone is unique,” Janx said dryly. “I am not mistaken in this.”

  Margrit reached for it again, her expression steady, and Janx smiled, placing it in her hand with a graceful twist that again brought out the star across its surface. She lifted it to the light from the casino, watching the star dance. “Has there been anything else like this?”

  Janx smiled. “Is that your third request, Ms. Knight?”

  Margrit folded her fingers around the sapphire—it filled her palm, egg-size as well as egg-shaped—and scowled. “No. This is part and parcel of the second request, and you know it. I asked for information. You’ve been withholding.”

  “Are you so confident of that?”

  “Actually, yeah.” The question inspired confidence in her and Margrit moved away to lean against the solitary table, folding her injured hand under her arm again, the jewel still held in her other palm. “Yeah.” Knowledge came as she spoke, slowly and th
oughtfully.

  “Two women died before I came to see you, and you eked another night out of me by not giving me Ausra’s name. By that time a third woman was dead. Three’s enough for a pattern, isn’t it? Brown-eyed brunettes, twenty-five to thirty-five years old. Vanessa Gray was a little old, but close enough. You hired a copycat.” Margrit closed her eyes, tilting her chin toward the ceiling for a moment. “Son of a bitch,” she murmured. “You hired a copycat killer.”

  “I deny that most strenuously,” Janx said mildly.

  Margrit opened her eyes. “Give me a break, Janx. I’m not interested in busting you. You could confess your sins to me back to the beginning of time and there’s nothing I could do about it. God, how much did it cost? How do you hire a killer that fast?” Margrit shook her head before he answered, and unfolded her arms, turning the stone in her palm. “I don’t really want to know. What I do want to know is how you ended up with this.”

  “You call in an old debt,” Janx murmured. “From far away, if you must, but that’s why I love to bargain, Ms. Knight.” He flicked his fingers in a throwaway motion, adding in a more normal tone, “I have people who work for me. You don’t need to know anything more than that.”

  “People who gave you details about the murders,” Margrit guessed. “So your copycat could get it right. God, you’re a smooth son of a bitch.”

  Janx, eyes laughing, bowed from the waist. “Thank you.”

  “Is she alive, Janx? Is Hajnal alive?” A mix of hope and dismay ran through Margrit as she voiced the question.

  “I haven’t heard Hajnal’s name in centuries, Ms. Knight. A week ago I’d have said with certainty that she was dead. But now…?” He nodded to the jewel Margrit still held. “Now I’m not certain of anything about her.”

  “Now you owe me, Janx. You got what you wanted. You sent me on a goose chase after Grace O’Malley—” it hadn’t been a goose chase, but Janx didn’t need to know Margrit had realized that “—to earn time to set up your copycat, and now Vanessa Gray is dead. So pay up. Is this the first thing that’s been left at the crime scenes?” She held the sapphire up between two fingers.

  “It’s the only thing that’s been reported to me, Ms. Knight. The only thing that’s been delivered to me from those crime scenes.” Janx inclined his head.

  “I have to call Alban.” Margrit put the stone on the table and dug her cell phone out of her pocket, beeping the numbers to her home phone automatically.

  The screen popped, graphics winking into a thin line as the phone gave a high-pitched whine. Margrit stared at it, then looked at Janx, who turned to Malik, tsking. “You’ve ruined another phone, Malik. It’s the method of travel,” he explained to Margrit. “The dissipation wreaks havoc on electronics. It makes talking with the djinn who are in the field difficult.”

  Margrit puffed her cheeks in exasperation. “Yeah, well, it makes talking to Alban difficult, too. Can I borrow your phone?”

  Janx’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Oh, come on,” Margrit said. “You just ruined my seventy dollar phone. The least you can do is lend me yours.”

  The dragon shrugged and slipped a phone from his pocket, tossing it to her. Margrit caught it with her hurt hand, unwilling to let the sapphire go, and swore as the plastic knocked against her fingers. Amusement colored Janx’s eyes and Margrit tightened her hand around the sapphire as if she might crush it out of sheer frustration. Trying to keep from cursing again, she turned the phone over, scowling at its red-and-gold-streaked cover plate. “Very nice. All fiery and stuff.” The words were muttered under her breath, but Janx grinned as she dialed home.

  “Cole, Cam, somebody, please be home. Pick up. I need Alban to call me right away, at—” Margrit turned Janx’s phone over, checking for a number on the back. There wasn’t one, and she sighed. “Nevermind, I’m not going to be at this number for long anyway. I just…”

  A prickly awareness made her arms itch suddenly, chills racing down her spine. Margrit cancelled the call with a shiver, mumbling, “Something happened. Lost the connection,” as she scrolled through to the recently-called list. Her home phone number was highlighted, a question mark blinking next to it. Four more numbers, all local, were listed below it.

  “Ms. Knight? Are you well?”

  “I’m just afraid something happened,” Margrit whispered. She hit the screen-down button once, then a second time, watching the numbers that had been called scroll by. Her hands shook and she fumbled, sending an extra screenful rolling by, too quickly to be read. Five blips of sound resulted from the buttons she’d inadvertently pushed. It would take three to get back to the main screen, return to the called list, and dial her home number again. She didn’t know if Janx could hear the tiny beeps.

  You call in old debts from far away. She shook her head, a savage motion. Three more screens of numbers flashed by.

  The second-to-last number on the screen came up with an international calling code. Margrit stared at it, a block of ice forming in her stomach and spreading throughout her body.

  “Ms. Knight?”

  Margrit jerked her gaze up, feeling as if the phone number must be imprinted across her eyes. She shivered again, then smiled as if embarrassed. “Couldn’t remember my own number for a minute.” She cleared the screen, returned to the called list and let the phone redial the number.

  Eleven blips. The number needed to call a New York City number. Janx couldn’t know she’d searched his calls. Margrit met his eyes as her home answering machine picked up again. “Sorry, I got cut off. I hope this is recording. Look, if you see Alban, just tell him to be careful. Really careful. I’ll talk to you later.” Margrit turned the phone off and handed it back to Janx, the European number rattling in the back of her mind. “Thanks. I’ve got to go.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Margrit picked up the sapphire. “I’m going to find Hajnal.”

  “With that?” Janx’s eyebrows arched with amusement and he nodded toward the gleaming stone.

  “I wasn’t planning on using it as a homing device, but I’m taking it with me, yeah.”

  “Why ever would I let you do that? Do you have any concept of the value of that stone?”

  Margrit opened her hand and looked at it, then shrugged. “Honestly, not a clue.” Curiosity welled up and she glanced at the redheaded dragon. “Do you really have a hoard?”

  Janx laughed aloud, his pleasure so obvious it brought a smile to Margrit’s mouth, as well. “If I did, Ms. Knight, I wouldn’t answer that.”

  “Worth asking.” She curled her fingers around the sapphire. “I need the stone, Janx. Alban’s not going to believe this without it. He thinks she’s dead.”

  “She’s been gone for over two centuries, Ms. Knight. Odds of her survival are not good. I may not be certain, but I wouldn’t place a bet on her survival without further evidence.”

  “And you’re a betting man.”

  Janx flashed a brilliant grin. “Yes, I am.”

  “Right now I’m inclined to bet on almost anything. A week ago I didn’t even know any of you existed. A missing gargoyle turning up after two hundred years of being presumed dead isn’t that hard to believe.” Margrit lifted her eyebrows. “You going to let me take it?”

  “You and a priceless sapphire alone in East Harlem at night?”

  “Looks like it, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting him take me anywhere again.” Margrit shot Malik a glare.

  “I will allow you to take the sapphire,” Janx murmured, “because I am curious as to how this passion play of yours will turn out, Margrit Knight.”

  “Passion plays are morality stories, Janx.”

  “And so might this yet prove to be,” he agreed smoothly. “You’ll return the stone to me when the performance is done. And in the meantime, permit me to arrange a car,” he said, his pleasant tone cushioning the iron in his voice.

  Margrit set her jaw and leaned against the table, folding her arms under her breasts. Her finger
s protested, but the pain had faded. Like it or not, Janx’s ministrations had probably done the injury some good.

  “Do what you have to do.” She bit her lip, repeating the international phone number in her brain, a soundless recitation. Janx spoke in the background, then broke into her silent litany.

  “Malik will walk you down to the street.”

  “I’d rather you did,” Margrit blurted.

  Surprise darted across Janx’s face. “Very well,” he said after a moment, and offered his arm. Margrit put the sapphire in her pocket, hissing as she bumped her fingers against the denim seam, then took the dragon’s elbow. “Not many people would prefer my escort to Malik’s,” he murmured as he ushered her down a set of stairs.

  “I told you before,” Margrit said. “I trust your honor. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

  “Djinn are difficult to throw.” Janx smiled. “They tend to dissipate. It’s hard to get momentum from fog.”

  “See?” Margrit grimaced at her toes. “Honor among thieves.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not,” Janx said dryly, pushing open an exit. In the alley outside, a PT Cruiser idled, its red paint like drying blood in the darkness. One of the men who’d walked Alban and Margrit into Janx’s office a few nights earlier leaned against the hood like a displaced mountain, arms folded. “Patrick will drive you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Margrit said. Janx’s eyebrows lifted.

  “You’ll be perfectly safe,” he assured her.

  She shook her head. “I’ll drive me. You can send somebody for the car in the morning.”