Hands of Flame

by C. E. Murphy

  “Probably.” Margrit drew a deep breath. “All right. Tell me where to find the twins, and leave me to face my housemates.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE SOUNDS OF argument cut off as Margrit closed the front door. Cameron, pink-cheeked with distress, looked out of the bedroom she shared with Cole and whispered, “We didn’t think you’d be coming home.”

  “I thought maybe it would help to talk.”

  “Talk?” Cole’s angry voice sailed past Cameron. “What is there to talk about? When you said it was too much to deal with a couple weeks ago, I thought you meant it was over, Grit.” He appeared behind Cam, who turned out of the way so her taller form wouldn’t block his view or his conversation.

  Conversation. That was an unusually polite word for the exchange. Margrit sighed and went to lean on her bedroom door. Cam, falling into an old pattern, stepped away from Cole to lean against the front doorframe, making an unequidistant triangle between the three of them. They’d spent uncountable time in those doors, standing around talking for hours after they should’ve slept. A spark of hope lit in Margrit’s breast, even though Cole’s tight expression told her there was no reason for it. “I think I said I was too tired to fight about it right then and we’d talk about it later. I guess it’s later now.”

  “Yeah? And what do you want me to say? That it’s okay you’re screwing a freak?”

  “No.” Margrit’s reply was very soft, even to her own ears. “Mostly what I want you to say—to promise—is that you won’t tell anybody, under any circumstances, what you know. Because if the rest of them find out you’ve learned about them, if they think you’re any kind of risk, they’ll kill you, Cole. Both of you. Their existence depends on secrecy.”

  “Of course we wouldn’t tell.” Cameron sounded confident and strong, her expression laced with challenge as she looked toward her fiancé. “Aside from who would believe us, it’d be a death sentence. Not for us,” she said as Cole’s gaze darkened. “For them. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for killing somebody, would you, Cole?”

  “That thing isn’t a somebody. It’s a monster. How do you even know it’s safe, Margrit? How do you know it’s not going to turn around and tear you apart someday?”

  “Because if he wanted me dead, I’d be dead half a dozen times over already.” A shiver turned Margrit’s skin to goose bumps as she realized how true her statement was. She’d been in more danger in the weeks she’d known Alban than she’d ever known before. “He wouldn’t have had to have done anything. He could’ve just let that cab run me down in January.”

  “Was that on purpose?” Horror filled Cameron’s question and her voice shot higher as Margrit nodded. “Grit, what happened back then? Did Alban kill all those people?”

  “No.” Margrit glanced upward for strength, then plunged on. “It was another gargoyle, a woman who thought Alban was her father and had abandoned her and her mother. She tried to kill me. Alban saved my life.” She rubbed her hand over her forearm, remembering the pain of its break. “He’s been protecting me for a long time.”

  Cole demanded, “How long?” as Cam’s worry relaxed a little.

  “Years,” Margrit replied reluctantly. Cole’s expression said the same things she had thought when she’d first learned that Alban had been watching over her: that she’d been stalked by a lunatic. “He doesn’t think of it that way,” she said to the unspoken accusation. “Gargoyles protect. That’s what they do. It’s what they are.”

  “At least somebody was keeping an eye on her.” Cam’s smile wavered hopefully. “I mean, she wasn’t out there running every night all alone after all.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Cole asked.

  Cam’s tottery smile fell away. “It does me.”

  “Knowing there was a monster stalking your best friend makes you—” Cole broke off with a sound of fear and frustration, then turned on his heel and reentered their bedroom. The door closed behind him at a decibel and speed just shy of a slam.

  Cameron flinched and Margrit dropped her chin to her chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” Cam sounded exhausted and bewildered. “Grit, I don’t know…”

  Margrit lifted her gaze again, tightness pricking at her eyes and throat. “I know. It’s one thing to date somebody your friends don’t approve of, but this is different. This isn’t the guy you think might be violent or have a drug problem or who’s just a jerk.” She chuckled and put a hand over her face for a moment. “In fact, Alban’s about as far from any of that as you can get. But it’s a little hard to ignore what he is.”

  “Would you have told us?” Cam folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself tightly as she watched Margrit.

  “Yes. I wanted you to get to know him before I did, because…” Margrit gestured toward the closed bedroom door Cole had retreated behind. “I thought it’d be easier to explain if you already basically thought he was a decent guy. I can’t think of a much worse way for Cole to have found out than the way he did.”

  An image of Alban wrestling with Janx against a backdrop of fire flashed through her mind and Margrit curled a lip. That would have been infinitely worse. Even she’d been frightened and angry. “I would’ve told you,” she said with a sigh, pulling her thoughts back to what had actually happened instead of dwelling on more dreadful might-have-beens. “You guys are my best friends. I didn’t want to keep secrets.”

  “But you did.”

  “Biding time isn’t quite the same as keeping them.” Margrit brushed away the cautious suggestion. “No points for lawyering my way out, huh? Sorry.”

  “It’s not that I don’t understand, Grit…”

  “I know. It’s just that with things as they are, there’s no real way out. I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault.” Optimism crept into her voice, but faded before she was finished speaking. “I hope Cole can forgive me. That you both can.”

  “What if he can’t?”

  Margrit looked away, regret knifing through her gut and cutting into her lungs. Janx’s insistence that she hadn’t yet crossed an irrevocable line, that she could still return to the world and life she’d known, rang in her ears. “I know I’m supposed to say I’d choose my friends, Cam. That I’d choose my life. But I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  Cameron pushed off the doorjamb, sorrow in her face and voice. “Yeah, you do. You just don’t want to say it out loud because you don’t want to hurt my feelings, and maybe because you’re not quite ready to make it real. But you said it the other night, didn’t you. Alban lets you fly.” She spread her hands, then let them drop as she shrugged. “If he turns out to have wings of wax, I’ll try to be there to help catch you when you fall.”

  At least her headache had faded. Margrit leaned against the train window as it left the station, grateful for the few minutes of dark before it climbed up to ground level, and for the cool, fresh air that blew in from somewhere. Her mind still felt awash with static, though that, too, was less distracting than it had been. Cam’s promise, full of friendship and concern, had followed Margrit out of the apartment and still haunted her now. Cole’s anger had heavily tempered Cameron’s enthusiasm, and Margrit had few illusions as to whose side, ultimately, Cameron would stand on.

  Not that she blamed her friend; she, too, was finding herself choosing sides, and leaning toward the one that inevitably cut her off from most of the world she’d known. That her old friendships might not survive cut deeply, but Cam was right: it seemed to be a sacrifice Margrit was willing to make.

  As was her job. Margrit turned her wrist up to glance at her watch. It was creeping past seven. If meeting with the twins went extraordinarily well, she might make it back into the city by nine. In hopes of doing so, she had dressed professionally. Even a brief appearance at work was better than nothing. Her coworkers had planned a going-away party for her that night. Margrit wondered if it would still be held if she’d failed to come into work at all for her final two days at Leg
al Aid. The calendar would read eight hours left, if anyone had bothered to tear off pages while she wasn’t there.

  The train’s automated voice announced her stop and she got off mechanically, glad to hail a taxi and let someone else worry about getting her to the specific address. It seemed as though it had been a noticeable portion of forever since she’d last gone for a run, though careful counting told her it had only been two days. Maybe at lunch, if she had a period of time as defined as lunch that afternoon.

  The cabbie pulled over at a well-kept brownstone. Margrit studied it out the window for a few seconds, as if she could learn something about the women who lived inside by doing so, then paid the driver and climbed out, hesitating at the walkway for another moment.

  Not much could be deduced from their front yard: it was neatly mowed, with a scattering of just-blooming snapdragons and tiger lilies against the house, their scent carried by a brief twist of breeze. There was no evidence of children, something Margrit wouldn’t have thought of had there not been tricycles and play sets in other yards. The idea of locating not only a dragon or vampire heir, but an entire litter of grandchildren and great-grandchildren brought a smile to Margrit’s lips, and, buoyed, she opened the gate and made her way to the front door. Another quick glance at her watch told her it was still far too early to arrive unannounced on a stranger’s doorstep.

  Her other choice was to stand there waiting for the hour to grow later. Margrit set her jaw and pressed the doorbell firmly, then took a step back to wait out its ring.

  It opened much more quickly than she expected, revealing a snow-haired woman hobbled with age. Margrit blinked in astonishment, realizing she hadn’t asked Alban how old the twins appeared to be. She’d assumed they’d be like their Old Races parent: unaging. “Well?” the woman demanded irascibly.

  Margrit pulled herself to attention, feeling a blush mount her cheeks. “Hi, sorry. My name’s Margrit Knight. I’m a friend of Alban Korund’s, and I’m looking for Kate or Ursula Hopkins…?”

  “Never heard of ’em.” The woman began closing the door.

  In a fit of surprised panic, Margrit slapped her palm against it, crying, “Wait!”

  The woman stopped, clearly more annoyed than alarmed, and glowered at Margrit, whose blush intensified. “I’m really sorry. I might’ve gotten the names wrong, but I’m looking for two sisters who used to live here. Maybe you bought the house from them…?”

  “I’ve lived here since 1962,” the woman snapped. “Now go away.”

  “Oh.” Margrit fell back another step, confusion and concern bubbling within her. “I’m really sorry. I must’ve been given the wrong address.” She looked at her watch a third time, as though the hour might deny the already-risen sun. There would be no calling Alban for an explanation until nightfall. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Thanks for the information.” Bewildered, she retraced her steps to the sidewalk and found herself looking both ways, as though a clue might lie within sight. The old woman closed the door with a resounding click, making Margrit jump.

  Bad enough that the twins weren’t there. Worse, this was a residential neighborhood, one taxis didn’t run through every few minutes as a matter of course. Margrit sighed, wishing she’d worn shoes more meant for walking, and pulled her cell phone out as she struck back the way she’d come. At least if she called a cab and was picked up, she could make it to work on time.

  An auburn-haired young woman in a bathrobe came out of the house at the end of the row to retrieve a newspaper. Margrit nodded a hello and shook her phone, as if doing so would cause someone to pick up. “Come on, c’mon, why aren’t you answering?”

  The woman’s voice followed her in response: “Sometimes we don’t want everything answered.”

  Margrit twisted around in surprise to see the woman’s smile as she added, “Never could resist a rhetorical question.”

  “You may as well come in,” she continued. “Crank your jaw up first. Wouldn’t want you to trip on it.”

  Margrit snapped her mouth shut and said, “Never mind” as the cab company finally answered. She hung up, still staring at the woman. “I saw you a couple days ago in the city.”

  “Yesterday, actually. Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Is that all?” Margrit thought back, realized the woman was right, and shook herself. She was losing time badly enough to wonder how the Old Races, effectively immortal, dealt with the slip of one day into another. It seemed possible that the woman standing before her might be able to answer that question, but another one surfaced first: “Were you looking for me?”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Should I have been?”

  “No.” Margrit pressed a hand to her forehead, then let it fall. “No, it’s just that it never rains but it pours, so in retrospect I thought you might be. You are Kate or Ursula Hopkins, right?”

  “I used to be.”

  “I’m sorry,” came an annoyed female voice from the house behind the auburn-haired woman. “You got the cryptic twin.”

  A second woman, this one with darker hair than the first and already fully dressed, came out of the house to elbow past the redhead and open the gate. “She’ll keep you out here for a week, being mysterious at you. I’m Ursula.” She shot a look at her sister, and, clearly to keep the peace, said, “Or I was.” Then, back to Margrit, “If you’re a friend of Alban’s, there must be something wrong. Come on inside.”

  Margrit, feeling light-headed, said, “Because Alban doesn’t have any friends, or because he’s sent one to find you?” and came through the gate.

  Ursula latched it behind her. “Both, and on top of it you’re here during the day, which isn’t when anybody he’d usually call friend could visit. Kate, go get dressed.”

  “And miss something? I don’t think so.” Kate padded past both Margrit and Ursula, moving with ordinary human fluidity. Margrit lurched into step behind her, wondering if she could turn the Old Races grace on and off, or if her human upbringing had tethered her to the earth.

  Kate led them into a kitchen-dining room at the back of the house, where a bowl of cereal was growing soggy on the table. She picked it up and dropped into a chair, then gestured with her spoon. “There’s water or juice if you want some. Or cereal. Or toast.”

  Ursula gave her sister another hard look and went to fill a glass with water, handing it to Margrit. “Would you like anything else?”

  Margrit curled the glass against her chest and shivered as a draft caught her. “No, this is fine, thanks. I ate breakfast before I came out here.”

  “All right.” Ursula poured granola into a tub of yogurt and joined Kate at the table, inviting Margrit to join them. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, she did, and clutched her water glass as she studied the sisters.

  They weren’t identical, but nor did Margrit doubt they were twins. They looked to be somewhere in their twenties, younger than Janx and certainly younger than Daisani, though like them, there was something about their hazel eyes that hinted at more years seen than their faces acknowledged.

  They shared a high roundness of cheekbone that must have come from their mother: neither Janx nor Daisani had any such roundness to their features. Kate’s hair was a flawless shade of auburn, so perfectly caught between brown and red it was impossible to say one or the other dominated. Ursula’s was black, reminding Margrit that she’d heard red hair was only one genetic marker off being black. Even though Kate was barefoot, they’d both stood taller than Margrit. Given that they’d been born in an era where the average height was considerably shorter than in modern day, that struck Margrit as unfair.

  “So whose are we?” Kate said when she evidently thought Margrit had looked long enough.

  Ursula rolled her eyes. “Don’t be rude.”

  Margrit, too curious to be cowed, shook her head. “I honestly can’t tell. Don’t you know?”

  “Of course, but we hardly ever get to ask. What are they like?” This time, despite Kate’s bluntness, even Ursula sat forward, a s
hard of interest changing the color of her eyes.

  Surprise thumped through Margrit. “Alban hasn’t told you?”

  “Of course he has, but he’s a gargoyle. Ow!” Kate glowered at Ursula, whose weight shifted again as she drew her feet back under herself. “This woman wouldn’t be here if she didn’t know about all of us, Urs.”

  “Margrit,” Margrit said. “Margrit Knight.”

  “I knew that,” Kate said with asperity. “You do know about us, right? You see?” she added in triumph at Margrit’s nod. “So tell us about them.”

  “Katherine, if she’s here, she’s got something more important to discuss than their personalities.”

  “Oh, now I’m in trouble.” Kate rolled her eyes, making her look even more like Ursula. “She dragged out the full name. Mother got to do that successfully, not you, Urs.” She turned her attention back to Margrit, expectation lifting her eyebrows.

  “Janx eats up all the air in the room,” Margrit said. “Just by being there. It’s hard to breathe, as if your chest weighs a hundred pounds more all of a sudden. He likes to tease. Eliseo’s sort of more ordinary, except he bulldozes you to get what he wants and you’re kind of left wondering what hit you. They both subscribe to getting more flies with honey, but Janx is better at making people laugh. They’re lonely,” she said, surprising herself with the qualifier. “And they just learned that you survived.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  BOTH WOMEN WENT still with a fullness that removed any question of their heritage. It wasn’t a gargoyle’s absolute immovability, but it went far beyond human, coming from their centers and moving out until they were wholly encompassed by it. Their gazes were locked together, giving Margrit the eerie sensation that they communicated wordlessly. Twins, she knew, were reputed to share each other’s thoughts and mental processes to a greater degree than other siblings. Adding nearly four centuries of practice to that made her imagine their ability to come to silent agreements was quite literally inhuman. A draft spun through the air, chilling Margrit as she watched the two.