by C. E. Murphy
Alban’s expression soured. Margrit smiled, lowering her voice. “We couldn’t just land here, Alban. The observation deck’s open till midnight.”
“There are very few people around,” he muttered back. “It would’ve been safe.”
“Maybe.” She leaned against the wires again. “But I like the elevator. I used to think that being this high would show me how to fly. Anything that can get this high should be able to fly, shouldn’t it?” She spread her arms, spinning slowly. “But I never learned how.”
“You can fly now,” Alban murmured. Margrit bumped her hip against his, smiling as she looked up at him.
“I can,” she agreed in a whisper. “It’s like magic.” She curled her arms around his neck, leaning her head back to look up at the floors above the observation deck, then let go with a start. “This isn’t the top floor, Alban.”
He glanced up. “I know.”
“So it’s not the highest point in the city.” Margrit gestured upward. “There used to be rooftop access below the tower. A gargoyle could still get up there.”
Alban’s jaw tightened and he stepped back. “Wait here.” With a perfunctory look around, he sprang upward, shifting into gargoyle form midaction.
Margrit watched him climb toward the upper floors. “Where would I go?” she murmured to herself before turning back to the view. She was half-asleep on her feet, supporting herself with throbbing fingers wrapped through the wires, when Alban touched her shoulder. Margrit yelped, yanking her hands free, then swore and stuffed them under her arms while she blinked tears away and scowled at Alban.
“My apologies.”
“It’s okay,” she muttered. “Did you find anything?”
He opened his hand silently. A tiny model of a Gothic cathedral sat in his palm, with a tower, complete with miniature scaffolding, at one end.
“That’s Saint John the Unfinished. It’s right next to my apartment.”
Alban, despite the tight line of his mouth, chuckled. “I believe it’s Saint John the Divine.”
Margrit widened her eyes with innocence. “Isn’t that what I said?” She left humor behind, squinting up at the tower. “She must have put it there. Why Saint John?”
“It’s Episcopalian,” Alban said. “Like Trinity. Perhaps it’s a warning. Telling me she knows my daytime hiding spot.”
Margrit’s shoulders straightened as she caught her breath. “You believe me now?”
He folded his hand over the miniature, his hesitation clear. “I don’t see how it’s possible, Margrit.”
She touched his closed fingers. “I know, but we don’t have anything better to go on. Isn’t moving forward and exploring the chance better than holding still and not knowing?”
“My people are made of stone,” Alban said, a whisper of wryness in his voice. “To remain still is natural.”
“Yeah, well, it’s killing people. My people. How do I convince you? If the sapphire isn’t enough, if the carving isn’t enough, if me seeing Biali’s memory isn’t enough, then what does it take?”
“Memory…” Alban’s colorless eyes lost focus, his gaze looking through Margrit instead of at her. Then his shoulders grew tense and he shook his head. “No.”
“What?” She tightened her hands over his. “What was that thought, Alban? Come on. You said—you said your telepathy was your people’s way of sharing memories. Does that mean you can—” She caught her breath, taking half a step back so she could see him more clearly. “It means you can access other gargoyles’ memories, doesn’t it?”
“I have not shared memory in two centuries, Margrit. Even if they let me back in I may not be able to sift through the memories to find the truth of Biali’s recollections.”
“Let you back in? How could they stop you?”
“Those nearby can sense it when we step into memory. With focus, someone can be driven out.”
“Why would they do that?”
His gaze flickered to hers, then away again. “Outcast,” Margrit said after a moment. “Exile. That’s how you’re punished, by not being allowed to join the memories. What’d you do, Alban?”
“That,” he said, “is not my story to tell. No,” he added more sharply, as Margrit drew a breath to protest. “No. Let it be enough for you to know that my people do not refuse to share memory. At most we will exclude a specific memory, and even that returns to the whole when we die.”
Margrit made a fist of her hand, clenching her teeth when her fingers ached. “All right, fine.” She pushed away the questions she wanted to ask, finding another facet to focus on. “If Hajnal is dead her memories ought to be part of the whole. You know her better than anybody. Better than you know Biali. Look for her memories in the gestalt. If she’s there, we’ll know what happened and we’ll know Ausra is someone else.”
“Gestalt,” Alban echoed quietly. “Is there nothing you humans do not have a word for?” He dismissed the question by following at once with another, his expression bleak as he looked down at Margrit. “Do you insist on this?”
“Yeah.” She heard herself draw the word out incredulously, sounding like a teenager. “Yes. You’ve got to try, Alban. If they won’t let you back in, we’ll cross that bridge, but this is the best way to be sure of who we’re dealing with. Besides, how many of them are there around here to play watchdog?”
A corner of Alban’s mouth curled up, so slowly it was obviously against his will. “Gargoyles are very good watchdogs, Margrit. There are not many nearby, but there may be enough. I’ll try,” he added before she could work up another argument. “I’ll try, but this is not a good place to do so from. Entering memory is usually best done in private.”
“We could go back to my place.” The offer sounded so natural and so absurd Margrit laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth at Alban’s quizzical glance. “Sorry,” she said through her fingers. “Just, you know, that’s sort of a stereotypical invitation to…” Heat built in her cheeks when his expression grew more curious. “Nothing. Nevermind. We can go somewhere else.”
All her humor fled and she turned an inappropriate glower toward the streets below. “Maybe to the safe house Grace offered you.”
Alban slipped a finger beneath her chin, not quite touching her, but encouraging her to look up. “I would be honored,” he said quietly, “to accept your offer of your home as a haven.”
Margrit puffed her cheeks out and exhaled noisily, feeling chagrin slip away into embarrassment. “Oh. Okay. We could stop by the cathedral on the way. It’s just up the street from my apartment.”
“A glide-over,” Alban agreed. “Perhaps she’s waiting for us there.”
A note of suppressed hope rang through his voice, making Margrit’s heart tighten. “You really don’t want to do this, do you.”
“No.” He slipped an arm around her waist and curled one of her arms up around his neck, turning his head as he checked for spectators on the observation deck. A young couple rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Alban shifted in Margrit’s arms, clearing the safety mesh with an easy leap. “But I will do it for you.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE DISTANT STREETS seemed as serene as they had from the building, New York’s frenetic pace left behind. Margrit turned her face against Alban’s shoulder, trusting him to hear even as the wind ripped her question away. “Is it always like this?”
Above her, Alban shook his head. “It’s not always so calm. These last few days have been unusually so.” He paused, then added judiciously, “At least, as far as the wind is concerned.”
“The calm before the storm? I wonder what’s coming, then.” Margrit lifted a hand to block wind from her eyes, watching Central Park increase in size as they soared closer to it, banking to the west. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything but peace down there. Maybe that’s why you’ve been able to stay out of it for so long. Because you see the world from above.”
“You are too generous.” Alban’s voice was a basso rumble by her ear befor
e he nodded below. “The cathedral.”
Margrit twisted, looking down. “Huh. It really is a cross.”
“Cathedrals usually are.”
Margrit tried to elbow him without unwinding her arms from around him, then merely wrinkled her nose. “I’m not used to seeing them from above. Some of us don’t get the bird’s-eye view as a matter of course, you know.” She studied the cathedral as they soared over it, Alban keeping high in the sky as he made slow loops through the air. “I live at the other end of the street and haven’t even been here since the fire,” Margrit admitted guiltily. “I used to do the vertical tours, but you can’t anymore.”
“I’ve never been on one.”
“You could climb to the top of the cathedral on the spiral staircases. I loved it.” Margrit paused. “If she was here, where would she be?”
“I would be at the tower,” Alban replied after a moment’s hesitation of his own. “The highest point. Hold tight.” He dropped into a dive tempered by the flutter of wind against partially folded wings.
Margrit swallowed a yelp, knotting her arms around his neck and struggling with laughter that was half terrified, half gleeful. Their plummet ended with a snap of his wings, catching air again to bring them up in a swoosh only a few dozen feet above the cathedral tower. Margrit’s heart hammered against Alban’s chest, giggles running through her.
“I can’t decide if that’s the best thing ever or tantamount to suicide,” she said against his collarbone.
He tightened an arm around her briefly, solid and comforting. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You’re in no danger.”
Margrit nodded, then loosened one arm to look down as Alban circled the tower. “I don’t see anyone. Should we land?”
Alban rumbled disapproval. “I’d prefer not to endanger you in that way. It may be that I can’t fall, but you don’t share that advantage. I see no one, either. Perhaps the carving is nothing more than a warning.” His wings pumped as he spoke, bringing them higher into the city night.
“Maybe. But why would she bother? It seems more like a game of cat and mouse to me. Like it’s a clue.” Margrit twisted to look back at the receding cathedral. “I think we should look more carefully.”
“I will,” Alban promised. “But not with you so vulnerable. Do you have a rooftop access key?” He wheeled again, bringing them down on top of Margrit’s apartment building.
“Uh. Yeah, I think so.” She stepped out of the gargoyle’s arms to gingerly slide her hand into a pocket. It came out with keys dangling from her fingertips. “Here we go.”
“All right. I’ll check the tower and come to your balcony in a few minutes.”
Margrit laughed. “That’s going to be kind of hard to explain if either Cam or Cole are home, Alban. I can wait here.”
A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone.”
Margrit’s laughter faded to a crooked smile. “I’ve gotten along without you for this long, Alban. Look, if you don’t want to leave me, we can walk down to the cathedral after you try the gestalt for information. All right?”
He tilted his head, birdlike for all his size, and murmured, “You’ve gotten along with me guarding you for this long,” before nodding. “All right. I hadn’t thought of the balcony being a problem,” he admitted as she unlocked the rooftop door. “Too accustomed to flight, I suppose.”
“Isn’t that a sort of dangerous habit?” Margrit’s question echoed in the stairwell, the fire door clanging shut behind them. “Wouldn’t it be safer to walk places instead of risking a fire escape or an alley for changing your form?”
“Yes.” A note of strain came into Alban’s voice and Margrit glanced over her shoulder at him, curious. He’d returned to his human form while she wasn’t watching, his expression dark, eyebrows drawn down and his mouth thin. “It would be much safer. There would be no chance of being noticed in the skies, or caught unawares by a deal going on in the dark.”
“So why risk it?”
“Margrit.” His voice altered, deepened even more, and she turned again in time to see his wings snap out, flaring in the narrow stairwell. He looked barely contained, all raw earthy power, with one taloned hand turned up in supplication. The other curved around the railing, less for support than to show the dangerous strength in those hands: beneath his grip, steel buckled, all too ready to give way to his demand.
Embarrassment and desire crept up by degrees, heating Margrit’s cheeks as she stared at the unearthly being on the stairs above her. His chest rose and fell in tight breaths, as if the air wasn’t enough to sustain him, and his gaze, usually so colorless, was dark and demanding. Margrit took one step toward him, reaching out to put her fingertips against his diaphragm. He shuddered under the touch, and his upturned hand slowly closed in a fist. “I have lost much to your people.” Gentleness was gone from his voice, leaving granite to scrape across Margrit’s ears. “I will not let you take the skies.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were a blurted whisper on the edge of a rising tide of overwhelming sorrow. Margrit slid her fingers up his chest, marveling at the smoothness of his skin, like polished stone. She pulled herself onto the stair with him, then onto the one above, where she was tall enough to sink her hands into his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and found his mouth with her own, driven by a desperation she’d never known.
He made a small sound, surprise coupled with urgency, and lifted her as easily as he had earlier. Margrit wrapped her legs around his waist, fingers knotted in his hair, her tongue seeking his insistently. Her heartbeat took the air from her lungs, turning it into heat that spilled through her body. She laughed, breathless soft noise that bounced against concrete walls, and shimmied out of her jacket, letting it fall to the steps.
“Margrit.” Alban rasped her name, breaking the kiss long enough to put his forehead against hers, his breath coming in quick gasps. “Margrit, we’re in a stairwell.”
She leaned back, looking down nine floors to the bottom of the shaft, then turned a sly smile on the pale creature who held her. “Yeah. We are.”
“You can’t…” His protest trailed off as she deliberately undid the buttons of her blouse and let it slip from her shoulders with a whisper of silk. Alban’s gaze slid from the curve of her breasts within her bra, to her eyes, then back again, astonishment warring with prudence and want.
“Yeah. I can. I really can.” Margrit laced her fingers into his hair again, teasing his earlobe with her lips and tongue. “If I take your pants off you now, will they be gone in your other form?”
Alban laughed, a throaty sound of amazement. “No. You’ll have to do it all over again.”
“That,” Margrit breathed, “has promise. But not right now. Sit.”
“What?” He sank down even as he asked the question, wings folding behind him. Margrit unwound her legs from around his waist, settling on his lap as she slipped her hand over his shoulder and traced one of the delicate-looking tarsals. Alban caught his breath, arching under the touch, and Margrit laughed, a quiet sound of delight.
“Sensitive,” she whispered. “Very nice. Now change.”
“What?” he asked again.
She leaned back, laughter dancing on her lips. “Change. I don’t want to have to undress you twice, but more to the point, I’m sorry, Alban, but you’re almost two feet taller than me and I’ve seen you naked in this form. I’m just not that brave.”
His brows furrowed, injury clear in his expression. “Am I that…oh,” he said with dawning clarity. “Oh. Oh. Yes.” The last word was accompanied by an implosion of space, Margrit squealing a laugh as his lap shifted and became human in size. “Margrit…”
She arched an eyebrow playfully. “Don’t tell me you’re too staid and proper for horsing around in the stairwell.”
“No,” Alban said hastily, then hesitated and amended ruefully, “Yes, probably.” Despite herself, Margrit laughed again, the bright sound reverberating do
wn the stairs. Still rueful, he murmured, “But I was thinking more that while I may not feel cold the way humans do, concrete steps are still far from comfortable.”
“Humph. I thought men were supposed to be willing to forgo creature comforts at any time for the sake of a little nookie.” She couldn’t put censure into her teasing, instead dropping her mouth to kiss his throat again.
Alban ducked his head over hers, curling her against his chest. “Perhaps,” he whispered. “But I am not a man.”
“So you keep reminding me.” Margrit slid her hand down his stomach and beneath his waistband. He drew in a sharp breath, lifting his head as his eyes dilated. She glanced up, putting her lips against his mouth before whispering, “But I think you’ll do.” Then she scooped her blouse from the floor and slipped it on without buttoning it, before putting her jacket back on.
“All right, Alban ‘Mr. Propriety’ Korund. We’ll go downstairs to the apartment. But if my housemates are awake, you’re just going to have to suffer through a concrete-numbed butt.” She leaned in for another lingering kiss, then climbed off his lap and offered a hand, which he took as he stood.
“You make a compelling argument.”
“Of course I do. It’s my job.” Margrit wound her fingers through his to lead him down the stairs.
“Margrit. We’ve been trying to call you back all—shit!” The door swung open before Margrit had time to turn the key in the lock, Cole’s worried expression turning to outright alarm as he took in the man behind her. The heat of desire fled as Margrit lifted her hands guiltily.
“It’s okay, Cole. Cole. It’s all right. You heard my messages, right? That the cops know it wasn’t Alban?” She delivered the reminder with all the cool certainty she’d learned to project in law school, utterly ignoring the minor detail that she skirted the truth so widely it might as well have been an outright lie.
“Yeah.” Cole’s jaw set as he stared at Alban. “He can’t come in, Margrit.”