by C. E. Murphy
Eliseo Daisani picked up on the first ring, sounding amused. "Yes?"
"Did you have to call her before eight o’clock? What’d you say?" Margrit lifted a finger, as if he could see her. "And are you lurking outside my apartment playing superhero?"
"I did, and I am. I think Alban is better suited to it. I find myself hoping something dreadful will happen so I have something interesting to do. Do you suppose that’s how the Avengers feel?"
"I can’t even believe you know who the Avengers are. And no. Superheroes aren’t supposed to go looking for trouble. They should be happier out of a job. What’d you tell her?"
She could all but hear Daisani shrug. "I told her you and your friends had agreed to come to my little party tonight, and that given the events of the last few days I thought you might be happier if you had family around, as well."
"You obviously don’t know much about my relationship with my parents," Margrit muttered. "I mean, I love them dearly, but Mother is a busybody and I try not to give her too many details to involve herself in. But you didn’t tell her about the job."
"I did not." Daisani sounded pleased with himself. "I’ll keep them safe until sunset, but I’ll leave running that particular gauntlet to you."
"Who’s going to keep me safe?" Margrit demanded, but he had already hung up. She called Cameron’s cell phone and put an only half-mocking note of alarm in her voice as she left a message. "Come home as fast as you can. My parents are here and I have to survive telling them I’m going to work for Daisani. And we all have to go get fitted for dresses for his party tonight." Trusting that would bring Cam home the instant she heard it, Margrit dropped the phone on the bed and went to take a fortifying shower before facing her parents.
The smell of hot food nearly knocked her off her feet when she emerged. Checking her phone showed a text message from Cam proclaiming, on our way! and voices from the kitchen suggested they’d arrived. Relieved, Margrit dressed and went down the hall, towel-drying her hair, to find both her housemates chatting with her parents. Cole was frying ham and Cameron was perched on the counter, Rebecca and Derek Knight less casual, but still comfortable in the kitchen space. Her father grinned and swept her into a hug that Margrit returned before nervously examining her mother’s expression.
It suggested she’d gotten the general story from Cole and Cameron. Margrit twisted the towel in her hands. "I hadn’t decided when I talked to you yesterday, Mom, I really hadn’t."
"You hadn’t mentioned the possibility, either. Really, Margrit, how much of that conversation was about Russell and how much of it was about Eliseo? Why didn’t you tell me?"
Cameron and Cole exchanged wary glances, but Margrit shook her head at them. "Might as well stay. This is a huge change and you all deserve to know why I’m making it."
Rebecca’s expression altered, as if her daughter had said something unexpected. "Well, you do," Margrit said, half-offended. "It’s a hell of a thing to spring on everyone, and I’m sorry for that. I really was there to talk about Russell yesterday, which is why I didn’t tell you then." That only began to touch on the truth, and she struggled to find an explanation that was honest without being impossible to believe.
"I didn’t think I was going to take the job. Then when I went over to Daisani’s offices after talking to you, I ended up sitting in on a meeting and handling some contract work, and I enjoyed it, Mom. I really did. I wished you were there, because what I don’t know about financial securities would fill libraries, but it was fun. And then there’s…" Margrit searched for words again. "I chose Legal Aid because I wanted to make a difference. I knew it meant defending bad guys, but the positive side was being able to help people who didn’t have anywhere else to go. People like Luka. But Russell was killed for doing just that, and that’s scary. It probably wouldn’t be enough to drive me away on my own." She gave Cole a faint smile. "Because I’m the world’s most stereotypical Taurus, right?"
"Well, you are." He made bull horns with his fingers and mocked charging her. Margrit’s smile grew wider before she turned her attention back to her mother, as if Rebecca were judge and jury.
"But working for Daisani, I’ll be able to help direct where his company’s charitable contributions go, and oversee how that money’s used by those charities. I’ll be able to do pro bono work on my own." Neither of those details had been discussed, but Margrit was confident Daisani would agree. He wanted her working for him badly enough to pull out extraordinary stops among the Old Races. By comparison, what she’d outlined to her family was trivial. "It’s a different kind of making a difference, but I think I can do a good job." She sighed. "And I guess an Upper East Side apartment wouldn’t be awful, either."
"Well," Rebecca said after a long, startled silence. "I suppose Tony will be glad you’re not working for Legal Aid anymore. You two fight about that all the time."
"Yeah." Margrit jutted her chin out and looked toward the ceiling, hoping she might find escape there. Not in daylight hours, though; Alban couldn’t rescue her until nightfall. "Tony and I broke up yesterday. For good."
Later, Margrit had the impression her mother had caught her by the ear and dragged her outside to talk. She hadn’t; Rebecca would never stoop to such crass behavior. Regardless, there’d been an astounded silence that Cole had abruptly filled with banging pans and popping grease on the stove, and then Margrit had found herself on the street with her mother and no clear idea of how they’d gotten there. "Mom?"
Rebecca marched toward the cathedral, heels clicking on the sidewalk. Margrit ran to catch up. "Mom?"
She didn’t stop until she reached the corner. Then she took a breath and faced Margrit with a calm that utterly belied her swift departure from the apartment. "All right, Margrit. This isn’t a topic I care to discuss, and I won’t in front of your father, but I feel I have to ask. Does your breakup have anything to do with Eliseo Daisani?"
"With-what, like am I dating him? Mom! God, you’re as bad as Cole! I’m going to work for him, that’s all. Tony and I have nothing to do with that." On the surface it was true. For one sharp, aching moment Margrit searched for a way to tell her more. But what little Rebecca knew about Daisani went nowhere near allowing Margrit to explain the circumstances that had driven Tony to break up with her. Miserable, she said, "Tony and I just didn’t trust each other enough in the end, Mom. It wasn’t going to work."
Nothing was going to work without trust. Exhausting loneliness rose up in Margrit and she swallowed against the desire to share all of Daisani’s secrets, just so she wouldn’t be alone. Heat burned her cheeks and tears stung her eyes as she gazed at the sky, wishing again that the one person she could talk to wasn’t out of reach during daylight.
Rebecca touched her arm. When Margrit looked back at her, her expression was gentle. "I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s been a very hard week for you."
"You can say that again."
A hint of a smile played around Rebecca’s eyes. "I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s been a very hard week for you."
Margrit snorted a soft laugh and stepped closer to hug her. "Thanks, Mom. I really am sorry I didn’t talk to you earlier about going to work for Daisani. I honestly didn’t think it was going to be an issue."
"I believe you." Rebecca’s assurance sounded like a deliberate choice more than inherent confidence. "And I suppose if we’re celebrating, your father and I will attend the gala tonight. If you really want us to."
Surprise lit Margrit’s smile. "I really do. You’ll look amazing. Really?" She hugged her again impulsively, and caught her hand. "Come on, let’s have breakfast, then go see what kind of costumes he’s got lined up for us."
"Oh my God. We are so far out of our league." Cameron clutched Cole’s arm, whispering her assessment. Margrit, fingertips on a silver-lined glass railing, could only nod in silent agreement.
"Don’t be silly." Rebecca Knight sounded amused, her voice entirely at odds with the elegant linen-and-gold costume she wore. Margrit thought Egy
ptian queens would envy her mother, and that pharaohs would find themselves lacking next to her broad-shouldered father, whose skin gleamed with gold dust. "No one here is the least bit superior to you."
"Maybe not superior, but they’re all a lot richer! I mean, just look down there!" Cameron gestured, laughing at both the excess and her own awe of it.
The Daisani ballroom spread out below them, a broad oval between two sweeping staircases. Their little group stood on a landing, with glitter and crystalline light bouncing all around them. Beyond the dance floor itself lay secondary rooms, walls peeled back to make one enormous functional area lined with buffet tables, bars, and scattered seating. Between shards of crystal-born rainbows the lighting was golden, radiating from globes whose brightness mimicked the sun without hurting the eyes. Marble dance floors were covered with hundreds of guests, most in formal wear and wearing simple masks, but with a weighty contingent in costume, or bearing masks of delicate and exquisite creation.
"I can’t believe who’s here," Cole admitted. "I see these people in tabloids."
"I see them in entertainment magazines." Cam nodded toward a young Marie Antoinette whose powdered wig added two feet to her height. "I think that’s actually one of the costumes from the movie she starred in. Come on, let’s go down."
"Go on, all of you," Margrit said. "I want to watch you make your entrance. You all look incredible."
"So do you, sweetheart." Rebecca kissed her cheek, then went down the stairs, arm in arm with her husband.
Cameron beamed at Margrit. "You’re going to have to introduce us to Mr. Daisani, so we can thank him."
"I will." Margrit smiled and waved her friends off, watching them with pride and pleasure. They made a desperately striking couple on the stairs. Cameron, taller than Cole in any case, wore heels that put her several inches above him in height, which seemed to bother him not at all. Her blond hair fell in thick, styled waves over a crimson satin gown, folds of fabric creating a low scoop neck and falling beyond the dimple of her back. The skirt’s train was long enough to require carrying on the steps, and had a delicate loop fashioned into it for just such occasions. Long gloves played up the strong lean muscles in her arms as she clung to Cole’s elbow. He wore a charcoal-gray zoot suit, pinstripes and shirt the same scarlet as Cameron’s dress. Their masks were painted on, an idea Cole had objected to until he’d seen the effect beneath the long-feathered fedora the tailor had set on his head, and then he’d acquiesced so quickly Cameron had teased him.
"They’re quite extraordinary." Daisani spoke from Margrit’s side before she realized he’d joined her. She turned and he took her in with a glance, putting a hand over his heart before he bowed. "As are you, my dear. Would you care to join me on the dance floor?" He offered an arm, but Margrit hesitated, still looking over his outfit.
"I expected you to come as the Phantom," she confessed. "This is better. You look like Professor Moriarty."
Outrageous delight sparkled behind the monocle Daisani sported, its presence his only nod toward a mask. He wore a top hat and a fingertip-length black cloak lined in red silk that lent bulk to his slight form. Beneath it was a suit cut in a fashion over a century old. Margrit saw clearly that the finely cared-for fabric was aged, worn to a lighter shade of black at the seams, and that it looked soft with wear.
"The Phantom." His eyebrows rose, shifting his monocle so it caught the light and glittered. "Why did you think that?"
"I don’t know." She found herself smiling. "Because what better costume to make it clear that this is your party, and that you’re in control?"
Daisani turned to the ballroom below, his cape swishing with the motion. A ripple ran across the dance floor, voices stilling and bodies pivoting toward him, heads tilted upward. He turned back to Margrit almost instantly, and the flicker of attention faded, leaving no doubt that he’d commanded it. "Do you really think I need the Phantom’s extravagance to dominate this dance hall, Miss Knight?"
"Evidently not." His smile stayed in place, though sorrow crept through her as she studied the vampire. On impulse she asked, "You wore this the night you met Vanessa, didn’t you?"
Daisani canted his head in surprise before he gave her a brief, acknowledging bow. He offered his elbow again in an elegant gesture, and Margrit tucked her hand into it. "I would be honored to accept your escort."
Surprise filtered through his expression again, and this time it was he who hesitated. "Are you afraid of nothing, Margrit?"
A genuine smile blossomed. "I’m afraid of lots of things, Eliseo, but not you. Not tonight."
"An unexpected gift." Daisani tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and escorted her down the stairs. People made space and offered greetings as he spun her onto the floor. Skirts swirling, laughter on her lips, Margrit put care and politics aside, and gave herself up to the joy of dancing.
He had only seen her dance once before.
That time had been in a club, the raucous music there nothing like the strains of a string quartet, one of three groups spelling one another in Daisani’s ballroom. She had worn less formal clothing then, and had ridden the pulse of music like it was lifeblood, lingering in his arms without a care for her own safety. Taking freedom where the world offered it, just as she demanded it from her nighttime forays into the park.
She wore gold, a color he’d never seen on her. The sheath shimmered with her movements, following her hourglass curves. Thin straps tied at her nape, their length helping to create an illusion of height. A handful of loose curls trickled around her shoulders, high-lights of copper playing up the color of her gown. She wore no mask, only a glittering makeup that brought an exotic touch to her coffee skin tones. Everything about her was warm and full of life, a direct contrast to his own cool silvers and whites.
Tony Pulcella, maskless and clad in a simple black tuxedo, moved through the dancers, disturbing their enjoyment with his purposeful strides. Margrit had yet to notice him, but she was clearly his quarry. Alban fell back a step from the balcony railing, unexpected envy making fists of his hands.
"You can’t back out now, Stoneheart." Janx’s voice came from behind him, dry sibilance. "You’re here and you’ve been seen, but more important, I’m sure she’s expecting you."
Alban scowled over his shoulder. In the ballroom lighting Janx’s costume was even more impressive than it had been at the House of Cards, red and gold patterned to subtle scales that gleamed and shimmered like a living thing. The cut was traditional Chinese, though his knee-length coat was built of fluttering layers instead of being fitted and stiff. Even the pants were loose enough to flow, and the turned-up toes of his shoes were bedecked with fanciful claws that matched long, painted nails on his fingertips. His mask was a wisp of dragon whiskers-thin ribbons of blue and silver that floated and tangled in the shock of red hair that fell over his jade eyes. The end effect was subtle and elegant, except to one of the Old Races. To Alban’s eyes, Janx’s costume was a statement of intent to dominate, such a blatant challenge that even he was inclined to rise to it.
Instead, he shook his head and turned his attention back to the dance floor, quelling jealousy that had no place in his heart as he watched the crowd below.
Tony stalked past Margrit and Daisani, jaw set, with no greeting for either of them. She slowed her movements and Daisani released her hand, an easy action hinting of long rehearsal. Dancers stirred and parted ahead of the detective, then closed ranks again to continue their revelry. Only Margrit and Daisani remained still among the swirl of people, Margrit watching Tony as he disappeared beneath the balcony, and Daisani’s gaze on Margrit. A brief patter of applause rippled out across the floor as dancers turned toward the balcony, their attention directed forward, not up.
An arrowhead contingent wedged its way through them, led by Kaimana Kaaiai. His thick dark hair, cropped short, seemed to capture rainbows from the crystal chandeliers, but his masquerade costume was indefinable from above. Tony flanked him on the left, body lan
guage stiff as they strode forward. Others followed behind, a stream of selkies and humans. Cara Delaney walked among them, her pale shoulders left bare by a velvet gown as deep and soft a brown as a seal’s fur.
The formation broke as Kaimana stopped to greet Daisani. His escort washed around them, moving forward, smiling, nodding hellos, promising dances. For a few seconds the order on the floor became elegant chaos, dancers no longer making patterns dictated by the music. Once more, the core remained still: Margrit and Daisani, the latter clasping hands with Kaimana as they exchanged pleasantries. Daisani ought to have been overwhelmed by Kaimana’s bulk, but the slight vampire exuded confidence that belied his size and let him stand easily with giants.
Margrit watched Tony, vitality drained from her expression and quiet regret left in its place. The detective barely acknowledged her, his gaze skimming the room, so intent on not seeing the woman before him that she, out of all the partygoers, could most easily present danger to the selkie lord.
Kaimana clapped a hand on Daisani’s shoulder, chuckling at something, then turned to Margrit, who pulled her attention from Tony to offer a tense smile that blossomed as Kaimana bowed over her hand. Alban, attuned to her voice, heard amusement in it as it broke through the general buzz of revelry: "You’re all very good at making a girl feel like she’s on a pedestal. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Kaaiai."
Kaimana replied, his deeper tone more difficult to pick out, and Margrit laughed.
Then Daisani, his voice lighter and, like Margrit’s, more easily distinguishable, murmured, "I believe we’ve all arrived now."
Even Tony turned to see where Daisani’s gaze had gone to. Alban stepped forward again, even knowing that doing so was foolish. More than foolish: he stood first among the three races on the balcony, taking the position Kaaiai had held among his people. Taking the position that Janx would most naturally fall into, but instead the dragonlord came up on Alban’s right, and Malik on his left. Gargoyles did not put themselves into positions of dominance, and yet. And yet.