by C. E. Murphy
“What about honor among thieves, Ms. Knight?”
Margrit shook her head again, looking up with a little smile. “There are limits, Janx. If somebody goes against your orders, it might be bad for him, but it’s going to be a lot worse for me. I’ll drive. Thanks for the car.”
Janx hesitated a moment. “You do know how?”
She snorted and walked around the vehicle, pulling the driver’s door open. “I know how. Just because I’m a New Yorker doesn’t mean I can’t drive.” She ducked inside, watching out of the corner of her eye as Janx and Patrick exchanged glances. Janx nodded almost imperceptibly, and Patrick pushed away from the vehicle.
Margrit let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and drove away.
“Tony, this is Margrit. Dammit, why aren’t you picking up? I’ve got something for you.” Margrit closed her eyes, repeating the European phone number slowly. “I’m pretty sure that’s right. Don’t ask where I got it, but it might help you track down the guy in the security video, the one who killed Vanessa Gray.” Margrit thumped her hand against the inside of the phone booth, swearing when renewed pain flared in her swollen fingers.
“The guy’s a copycat, Tony. Please don’t ask me how I know. I’m calling from a pay phone because my cell phone’s screwed up, so don’t bother trying to call me back. I hope that number’s good, Tony. I hope…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I hope anymore,” she said quietly. “Maybe we’re back where we started, needing to talk. I hope we get a chance to. Bye, Tony.” She hung up, staring blindly through the glass walls. If the number led to Janx’s hired assassin, she’d have done what Daisani wanted.
“If,” she whispered, dropping her hand into her pocket. The sapphire there felt like a dead weight, holding her in place with unanswered questions. She smoothed her thumb over its satin surface, warm now from her body heat, and looked without focus at the PT Cruiser outside the phone booth.
What happened to somebody who disappointed a vampire? Cara’s warning had been vague. Creepy, but vague. Margrit’s laugh sounded brittle within the phone booth walls. She pushed the door open and crawled back into the car, curling her arms around herself for warmth and comfort. Alban would know. Alban would tell her.
If she could find him.
He had to be safe. Almost any building top would have proved a haven against the rising sun. Your kind, she remembered him telling her, don’t see what’s in front of them. A newly arrived gargoyle on a rooftop might go unnoticed. Even if it didn’t, calling someone to remove it would be more than a day’s work. Margrit bit her lower lip, then straightened up. Alban could take care of himself. She had to find Hajnal, prove her theory. Margrit would bring Alban the mate he’d mourned for so long.
A cord of dismay knotted around her heart, creating a cutting sensation she could barely force herself to acknowledge. Finding Hajnal meant losing Alban.
And it was better that way. He wasn’t human, not a man at all, according to his warnings and admonishments. Better to finish this and rebuild her life with Tony, memories of murders and fantastic Old Races left behind.
The idea left a dry and bitter taste in her mouth as she pulled away from the phone booth to find the one person who might know where Hajnal was now.
TWENTY-FIVE
“BIALI! GODDAMMIT, BIALI, I know you can hear me!”
Margrit knew nothing of the sort, but she stood on her apartment rooftop anyway, bellowing into the wind. “Biali!” She’d gone home hoping Alban would be waiting, and, failing that, hoping that shouting from any rooftop would earn a gargoyle’s attention. So far neither hope had proven true. She folded her arms around herself and stomped in a circle, frustration helping to keep her warm, but not enough. “Biali!” Wind rushed through Margrit’s hair, chilled her face. “Biali, dammit, answer me!”
“Have you lost your little mortal mind?” Biali’s rough voice cut through the wind as he landed on the concrete behind her with a thump. Margrit spun around, hair blowing into her mouth and eyes. She clawed it out of the way, wrapping her hands around it and wincing at how the wind stiffened her injured fingers. Biali crouched before her, already in his human form, weight forward on his toes.
“Do you not like people to see your other face?” Margrit asked without thinking.
Surprise creased the scar that ran across Biali’s right eye. “Insightful little bint, aren’t you? What do you want?”
“Tell me what you know about Hajnal.”
Biali came to his feet in a movement that bespoke anger and grace all at once. “Hajnal’s dead. Has been for centuries. Don’t tell me you’re up here crowing your throat dry to be told that. What are you trying to do, lawyer? Call every Old Race in the city to your doorstep? They’re not all as friendly as I am, and Korund’s not here to watch over you.”
Margrit let go of her hair with one hand, strands of it instantly snapping into her face, and pulled the sapphire out of her pocket, letting it rest in her palm. Biali snarled with recognition, pouncing forward to snatch it from her. Margrit flinched back faster than she thought she could move, closing her fingers around the stone.
“You’ve got no right to that,” Biali growled. “It belonged to Hajnal.”
“I’ve got at least as much right to it as Janx,” Margrit said. “That’s who I got it from. Know where he got it?”
The gargoyle dropped into a crouch. “Tell me.”
“He got it from the latest murder scene, Biali. Now, want to try again? Tell me what you know about Hajnal. I don’t think she’s dead.”
Anger reflected in Biali’s eyes. “Where’s she been for two hundred years, if she’s not dead? You want to know what I know? The women who are dying? They all look like her.”
Margrit took a step back, startled. “They do?”
Biali smirked, dropping his chin. “Korund didn’t tell you, did he. Maybe he doesn’t even realize, though I’d think he would. Two centuries alone with nothing but memories of the one he lost. I’d think he’d recognize her anywhere. She was little, not like most of us, and dark, and that’s really not like us.”
“Dark? They’re all white, the women who’ve been killed.”
Biali snorted. “Dark hair, dark eyes. Some color to her skin.” He looked Margrit over, curling a lip. “Less than a darkie like you, but compared to the rest of us she might’ve been black as midnight.” Faint pleasure creased his face when Margrit tightened her fingers around the sapphire, warmth flushing her cheeks as she fought not to rise to the insult. Satisfied with the barb, Biali went on, flicking a broad hand toward his nearly white hair, close in color to Alban’s. “We mostly come in pale, but her family name was Dunstan for a reason.”
Margrit shook her head. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Dark stone.” Biali seemed to get peculiar satisfaction from translating the name, as if it was another jibe at Margrit herself. “Her family bred true, but not often. Hajnal was a rare one. That stone isn’t yours to keep.”
“I’ll give it to Alban,” Margrit said. Biali pushed his lips out, but nodded.
“She’s dead, lawyer. You’re just digging up old graves.”
“But what if she’s not? Could she do something like this?”
“Could a gargoyle rip apart a few human women?” Biali snorted again, sarcastically. “One of our children could kill a mob of unarmed adult humans. If we’d done that a long time ago we might not be so few, and you so many.”
“Is that what you think should have happened?”
Biali studied her, then set his jaw and looked away. “I think your people would’ve outbred us and the war would’ve been lost in time anyway. It wasn’t only Hajnal’s family that bred rarely. Korund’s right, not that I’d say it to his face. There aren’t enough of us. There never have been.”
“Will your people die out?” Margrit let her hair go and wrapped her arms around herself, frowning at the gargoyle as curls whipped her face again.
Biali barked laughter. “W
e live a long time, lawyer. Maybe when your folk have destroyed themselves, we’ll have a chance to try again. There aren’t many of us, but don’t nail the coffin closed yet.”
“I don’t want to.” Margrit tightened her arms, surprised at her own ferocity. “You think she could do this.”
“Any gargoyle is physically capable of it. But if she were alive, I don’t know why she’d kill women who looked like her. We don’t kill for fun.”
Margrit’s eyebrows rose a little. “I thought you worked for Janx. Beating people up.”
Biali shrugged. “Gotta make a living, lawyer. It’s survival, not entertainment.” He grinned suddenly, toothily. “Can’t say that I don’t enjoy it, though. Kind of a chance to get—” He broke off. Margrit’s chin came up.
“To get back at us for not knowing you even exist,” she guessed. Biali’s scar creased as he grimaced and shifted his gaze away. “I’m not even sure I can blame you,” Margrit said. “You all live in a shadow world, don’t you? You gargoyles especially. The rest of them can at least participate during daylight. You never even see the sun rise.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for us,” Biali spat. “Our world is something you’ll never know.”
“I’ve seen a little bit of it,” Margrit said. “I’m beginning to understand why you do what you do. Why Alban’s made the choices he’s made. I don’t think I’d want to put myself through two hundred years of solitude, but maybe it seemed like there wasn’t anything else.”
“There wasn’t.”
“There’s always something else,” Margrit argued. “There’s always a choice. Maybe not a good one, but there’s always a choice. Alban says your people don’t change their names.”
Biali’s eyebrows drew down. “That’s for dragons and djinns,” he said derisively. “We gargoyles know what we are.”
“But what if you had to make a choice?” Margrit asked. “What if you had to change?”
“I got no idea what you’re talking about, lawyer.”
“My name’s Margrit. Margrit Knight.”
“Knight,” Biali said after a few long moments. Margrit ducked her head, savoring the small triumph. “I got no idea what you’re talking about, Knight.”
“Alban said Ausra means dawn. Just like Hajnal does.”
Wariness came into Biali’s eyes. “So?”
“So I think two hundred years ago, Ausra was Hajnal. And I think you know where she is.”
“I told you before,” Biali grated. “I never heard of Ausra.”
A woman, bedraggled with travel but carrying herself with pride, stepped into Margrit’s line of vision. Her hair was black with rain, the water pulling curls out of shape, and her skin was amber-tinted, translucent. She was lovely, delicate in facial structure and body, but there was a coldness in her dark eyes, an absolute lack of empathy that made Margrit feel uncomfortably like prey. Not until the woman shifted her shoulders, half spreading graceful wings, did she recognize her as a gargoyle.
Shock coursed through Margrit, the crash of her heartbeat suddenly noticeable. It felt wrong, too slow, and at the same time as if it had suddenly leaped to a rabbit’s pace. Then Biali’s rough voice came from within Margrit’s own throat, filled with astonishment. “You’re dead.”
A sharp smile cut the gargoyle woman’s face and she moved, so quickly Margrit flinched, trying to avoid her.
Memory shattered with the movement, leaving her alone on the rooftop facing Biali. Margrit held a hand to her head, blinking from the echoes scraping around in her skull, then lifted her gaze to the gargoyle. Nothing had changed in his sour expression; no hint remained of what had transpired between them. Alban hadn’t known humans were capable of hearing the telepathic link that allowed gargoyles to share their memories. Neither, it seemed, did Biali.
A faint smile curved Margrit’s mouth, telltale admission of having won a round. “You’re lying.” The confidence in her own voice fed on itself and she stepped forward, challenging the blunt-featured gargoyle. “I don’t know if your kind go crazy or not, but—”
“We don’t.”
Margrit’s smile faded and she rubbed her temple again, as if doing so would push away the memory of the gargoyle woman’s cold eyes. “Well, that means Hajnal, or Ausra, or whatever you want to call her, is killing people deliberately and with malicious forethought. That doesn’t really make me feel any better. I know that the human justice system can’t deal with this, Biali. We’re not equipped to, even if it’s humans who are dying. Is there—Do the Old Races have a justice system? You must,” she said, the realization striking her even as she spoke. “Cara called Alban an outcast. Why? How did that happen?”
Biali laughed, a sharp sound. “Cara? That’s not a name belonging to one of ours. Who is she?”
Margrit hesitated, remembering the young mother’s reticence in naming which races others of the Old Races belonged to, even when it proved clear that Margrit already knew they existed. “A woman I’m helping. A new case.”
“Oh.” Biali’s lip curled, turning his scar into an angry wrinkled slash in the nighttime shadows. “That selkie girl in the vampire’s building. Her people are dead, lawyer. Don’t listen to stories told by the last of a dying race. It’s superstition and lies. Our justice system is nothing like what you’re talking about. War tribunals, maybe, but even those aren’t something you’d recognize.”
“I know what a war tribunal is,” Margrit said dryly.
Biali turned his head and spat to the side, his disgust palpable. Margrit watched him, not yet finished with the conversation, but curious about his anger.
“You know what your war tribunals are. Ours are different. We can’t afford the kind of battles you people pick.”
Margrit shook her head, letting the subject of Alban go. “You can’t afford a renegade gargoyle, either. You loved her once, Biali. I need your help to stop her, to locate her and find a way to get her out of sight, now.” The guy’s a copycat, Tony. Margrit wished she hadn’t said those words. “Doesn’t she understand what will happen, if my people catch her?”
Biali put his weight on his knuckles, shifting and frowning one-eyed up at Margrit. She waited a moment, then stepped closer to him. “Do you know where she is, Biali?”
“No. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Whatever’s between her and Alban is their business, not mine.” He scowled at her. “Korund took my eye and gave me my life. We don’t owe each other anything.”
“Not even the survival of your species?”
Biali shook his head. “Not even that.” He turned, loping a few strides away, the space around him imploding as he shifted from human to gargoyle form.
“Biali!”
The scarred gargoyle turned back to her. The right side of his face was shattered, raw stone with edges smoothed by time. What was left had once been handsome, in the massive way of the gargoyles, though he’d never been as chiseled as Alban. How much of that played into the ancient antagonism that stood between the two, Margrit wondered. “You loved her once, Biali,” she said. “Would she have wanted you to walk away from this?”
He smiled, a ghostly expression that rent the craggy ruin of his face. “No,” he rumbled, “but she didn’t choose me.”
Margrit closed her hand uselessly around the sapphire as the gargoyle pitched himself from the building and disappeared into the sky.
Evasive answers and half-truths. Margrit left with an unfocused destination in mind, not wholly surprised to find herself climbing the stairs to Cara’s apartment not too much later. She had questions she wanted to ask Alban, but with no way to contact him, Cara or Chelsea Huo seemed the best people to talk to, and Cara’s apartment was closer than the bookstore.
For the second time that day, there was no response at her knock. “Cara, are you home?” Margrit tried the knob again, startled when it turned under her hand. She cautiously pushed the door open. “Cara? The door was—shit!”
The apartment was empty. Even the bedraggled furniture w
as missing, the rugs picked up from the floor and posters gone. The floor had been swept clean and the walls seemed to have been scrubbed, as if someone was trying to erase all signs of recent habitation. Margrit took a few steps inside the door, looking around in dismay. “Cara?”
The girl’s name echoed through the empty rooms, frighteningly loud. Only that afternoon Cara had promised she could handle her neighbors, and now she had disappeared, so utterly that Margrit could hardly believe she’d ever been there.
Margrit took the stairs down in leaps, breaking into a flat-out run once she hit pavement, to find a pay phone and dial Tony’s number. His answer was composed mostly of silence, before he made a tight promise to be there as quickly as he could. Margrit paced outside the building, keeping warm through movement, until the detective arrived, looking as if he hadn’t slept.
“I’m only on my way back to the station, Grit. I can’t stay. I’ll take a look, but…” He shrugged, a movement of exhaustion and anger. “You know we can’t file a missing person’s report until she’s been gone twenty-four hours. Come on. Show me the place.” He brushed by her without further greeting, frustration in his movements.
Margrit hung back a few steps, eyebrows drawn down. “Tony?”
He stopped just inside the building, shoulders pulled back and full of tension. Margrit reached out to touch him, then stayed her hand, unsure how the gesture would be taken.
“There’s been another murder, after the two last night. One of those was Gray. The other happened in the park, over on the east side.”
Margrit slid her hand into her pocket, tightening her bruised fingers around the sapphire Janx had given her. “I’m sorry, Tony. Another?”
“In the last hour. Down on the park’s southern end.” He swung to face her, defeat clearly written on his features. “This guy’s going to disappear, Grit. He’s got one on each side of the park now. He’s done. I can feel it. He’s going to get away with murder, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”