by C. E. Murphy
"Then do what you can to keep the ripples from affecting my kids. My world must look like madness to you." Grace turned her attention toward the park, refusing to meet Margrit’s eyes. "All of us skulking around underground, on the run from coppers half the time, not for anything we’ve done, but for the idea of what we are. Living where we do, how we do, on the edges of society, it makes folk nervous. But my kids take care of each other. There’s no drugs, there’s no fights. You remember Miriah." Grace looked at Margrit, who smiled with happy recollection.
"She made the best chili I’ve ever had, the night Alban and I were down there. How is she?"
"She’s going to college in the fall." Grace sounded justifiably pleased. "She’d lost a brother to a gang fight and was on the road to leading a pack of her own when she came to me. She’s still a leader, but now it’s in setting an example for other kids to follow, teaching them to cook, to take care of themselves. Maybe it’s the wrong place to change the world from, starting at the bottom, but Grace’s got nowhere else to go."
"You’re not part of their world, though," Margrit said softly. "The Old Races. There’s the building, and Alban’s staying with you during the day, but he could find a new place to live. There’s nothing else, is there?"
"Janx knows I’m down there, and he tolerates me and mine because we don’t steal his business. We’re not so far removed from their world as it seems. Will you do what you can?"
"I don’t know what I can do, but yeah. I’ll try. I don’t want you to lose what you’ve got down there."
Grace nodded and rose to her feet. Margrit followed suit, hesitating before saying, "Grace?"
"Yeah, love?"
"Why do you do it?"
"Looking for a new answer, love?" She went silent a moment, then shrugged easily. "Past sins, that’s all. Making up for past sins." She took herself away with long, lithe strides. Margrit watched her disappear into dappled sunlight wondering what those sins might be. She didn’t know enough about Grace to even imagine them but she was curious. Maybe someday Grace would tell her.
And maybe if pigs had wings they’d be pigeons. No one conversant with the Old Races on any level seemed especially prone to sharing their life details. Margrit struck off in the opposite direction, as if she was telling herself not to pry by doing so.
She arrived at Trinity Church even earlier than she’d promised Joyce Lomax. The afternoon whisked by in a blur of activity and high emotion, Margrit fielding phone calls when Russell’s exhausted family looked as though they could take no more. It felt good to be useful to ordinary people, doing mundane things like giving directions to the memorial service or handling last-minute catering questions. Margrit only stepped back from being an all-purpose gofer as bells sounded the half hour and mourners began to arrive.
She knew many of them by name, more still by sight. People she didn’t expect, though should have, were in attendance. Governor Stanton nodded gravely to her when he caught her eye after expressing his condolences to Mrs. Lomax. It seemed impossible that it had barely been a week since he’d escorted Margrit around the reception for Kaimana Kaaiai. The mayor and his wife were there, as well as judges and lawyers Margrit had worked with or under. A sizable portion of the city’s legal and political elite were present, and Margrit wondered cynically how many of them were there simply to be seen, or if it mattered.
Light faded as the service began, the gold of sunset bringing life to stained-glass windows. Margrit watched the colors change as family, friends and colleagues stepped up to speak briefly about Russell Lomax. Then it was her turn, and she climbed the steps to face the podium and a hall full of faces.
Later she would be confident that her voice was steady and her words well-chosen, but blood rushed through her ears as she spoke, deafening her to her own speech. She focused instead on the people present, trusting a career’s worth of training to not allow a wobble of surprise in her voice when she picked her mother’s face out of the crowd. Like Cole and Cameron, Rebecca Knight was there for Margrit’s sake; even at his death, she was unlikely to forgive Russell for his transgressions thirty years earlier. A shock of gratitude ran through Margrit, stirring up too much other emotion, and despite herself, her voice shook. It took a moment to gain control again, and in that instant she saw a scattering of others whose presence she’d never have predicted at the service.
Eliseo Daisani sat far enough toward the back as to go relatively unnoticed. His expression was solemn, the lack of animation somehow serving to cloak him. A sense of certainty arose in her that she wasn’t meant to see him, but the slightest tilt of his head told her he knew he’d been spotted. Then, with unerring confidence, she looked toward a corner of the church and found Janx’s fiery hair a bright point in the darkness. Humor tightened her lungs, but not her own; it felt as though Daisani had been caught out, and transferred the reaction to her. Her skin itched, as if her blood were trying to work its way free.
Margrit tore her eyes from Janx and drew a deep breath, steadying herself to continue speaking.
For a moment she could hear herself talking quietly about what she’d learned from Russell Lomax, wryly admitting to the tricks that infuriated her even as she made use of them herself. Then her thoughts darted to places her voice and words didn’t go: if Janx was there, then Malik would be.
The djinn was harder to see, a thing of shadows himself, but light finally caught his cane and drew Margrit’s eyes to him. He stood farther from Janx than she might have expected, staking his own territory, making his own place. Whatever he’d done to earn the right to vote for his people had infused him with confidence. Cold bubbled up inside her. Malik had lacked neither confidence nor arrogance to begin with. She had no desire to learn what new heights he might reach for now that he reckoned himself a force, but was certain she’d find out.
Of all the Old Races attending, Kaimana Kaaiai sat front and forward, at the end of a pew near the governor. His presence was a political choice, a clear decision to be seen. Tony sat beside him, one of three bodyguards. As Margrit watched, Kaimana tilted his head toward the detective and murmured something.
Disapproval contorted Tony’s face, but he nodded, and Kaaiai stood up quietly, padding toward the back of the church. His shoes made no sound on the stone floor, his exit distracting from her speech as little as possible. Very few people glanced at him as he left, though Margrit thought her own gaze on his shoulders would make everyone turn to see what she was looking at.
Instead they watched her, intent on words she once more couldn’t hear herself saying. Gladness at having worked with Russell, sorrow at losing his wisdom and guidance. Sick humor shot through her with an impulse to add, carelessly, that she would be leaving Legal Aid in a few weeks, to go to work for Daisani. She squashed it, swallowing as she finished speaking. A brief, unhappy smile flitted over her face and she dropped her gaze, gathering herself to leave the podium.
When she looked up an instant later, Kaimana was gone, the door closing silently behind him. She took stock of the Old Races once more, knowing the attendance of each was dictated for each by another’s presence: Daisani for Russell, but Janx for Daisani, and Malik for Janx. Only Kaimana stood outside that cascade of dependency, the only one able to leave without setting the others askew. As Margrit expected, Daisani remained where he was, half-cloaked by his own quietude. Janx watched the vampire rather than Margrit, as if aware of the steps to the dance they shared.
Margrit’s shoulders dropped as she found a kind of relief in that. For all the changes that were coming, the structure she’d come to recognize among New York’s Old Races seemed unscathed. That would be something to reassure Grace with. She worked her way back to her seat, glancing Malik’s way only as an afterthought.
The corner where he’d waited was empty.
CHAPTER 31
Stone shuddered and fell away, sunset’s gift even when the sky lay many levels of tunnels and streets above him. Waking rarely brought such a sense of anticipation, a
nd Alban pushed out of his crouch with a smile. There was enough time-just-to change from the silver-shot slacks from the night before and wing his way to Margrit’s apartment. The chance to do that, to see her, to speak with her friends again, held the potential of a new life. It was something that a few months ago-a mere scattering of days, to a life as long as his-had been so inconceivable as to have never crossed his mind. His heart-his heart, usually so steady-betrayed him with rapid beats, anathema to a gargoyle’s stolid nature. Laughing at himself was surprisingly easy, another trait unfamiliar to his people. The rueful idea that Margrit was right about too much isolation curled his mouth again, and it was with near jauntiness that he left the tunnels. Grace, unusually, was nowhere to be seen. She often greeted him at sunset, giving him the sense that she’d sat watch over him as much as he watched over her and her ragtag band of children.
He was barely to street level when his phone rang. Expecting Grace’s lilting accent, he answered with a smile, but it was Janx’s sibilance on the phone, more soft-spoken than usual. "It seems I’ve misplaced Malik again. Find him."
"Something else requires my attendance, Janx. Malik’s safe enough under Daisani’s peace." Alban lingered in an alley, watching traffic in the street. "If you’re worried, use Biali."
"How bold you’ve become, Stoneheart. Other plans, indeed. They must include our delightful Margrit, or you’d never shirk a duty you’d agreed to. She’s with me. The sooner you bring Malik to attend me the sooner you’ll see her."
"With you. Why?" Alban folded his hand around the cell phone as if to crush it, though it was Janx, not the phone, that sparked his ire.
"Ah, that would be telling, and it’s much more fun to let you wonder what we all do during the long daylight hours."
Alban kept his voice deliberately low, refusing to rise to the dragonlord’s bait. "Where are you?"
Janx made a delighted sound, as if he could tell by the steadiness of Alban’s reply that he’d hit a mark. "Your old home, Stoneheart. We’re at Trinity Church. Join us, when you’ve found Malik. Someone’s hunting him, and I won’t lose another man. I’ll give your regards to Margrit," he added. "I’m sure she’ll be very understanding."
Alban growled, "Do me no favors, Janx," and clipped the phone shut, again resisting the urge to crush it. Heedless of passersby, he crouched and sprang upward, shifting form midleap as he strove for the sky.
The djinn was in motion, his fogged form impossible to follow, even with the sapphire he carried. Alban cut broad sweeps through the sky above Trinity, waiting for Malik to settle so he could trace him. Until then, city lights winked below him, buildings blocking his view. Blocking the city’s view of him, so he was never visible long enough for any witness to believe what they might have seen.
Margrit was down there, probably one of the dozens spilling out of the sandstone building. From this distance, Alban couldn’t pick her out, but he’d find her soon enough. Malik first, so that duty could be put aside in favor of the dark-haired beauty whose life had changed his. And if duty couldn’t be denied, perhaps Margrit would join him through the small hours of the night, watching over a djinn who wanted no such protection.
As he thought it, Malik’s presence-the stone’s presence-solidified. He turned on a wingtip to follow it, darting above rooftops near the church.
A blur of whiteness on the roofs caught his eye, bright enough to make him expect Biali. A moment later he realized it was Grace, her bleached hair making her a beacon, though the black leather she wore hid her well, otherwise. He dropped down beside her, already wearing his human form. "Grace?"
"Korund." She glanced sideways at him, knowing her name had been a question and obviously enjoying drawing out the answer.
A corner of Alban’s mouth curled, despite himself. "What are you doing here, Grace?"
"Watching over your lawyer, as you asked. But then that bearded devil slipped out, and I thought that was more worth watching. And hello to you, too." She crept toward the building’s edge, beckoning Alban forward.
He followed, suddenly amused. If any two people he knew were less suited for trying to go unnoticed in the darkness than he and Grace, it had to be himself and Biali. Only another gargoyle’s hair rivaled his in glowing whiteness, but Grace’s came close. He murmured, "We should have nightcaps," and Grace shot him a look laced with more flirtatiousness than censure.
"Sure and I’d be glad to share one with you, but I think Margrit might have a thing to say about that. A thing or even two. Now look." She snaked a hand toward the alley below.
Malik paced across its mouth, throttling his cane in one hand. Alban shook his head. "I’m astonished you could follow him. Tracking a djinn is nearly impossible."
"Grace has her tricks," she said absently.
As she spoke, another man, this one carrying a briefcase, stepped into view. Alban inched back with surprise, recognizing the broad-shouldered form. "Kaimana?"
"Malik came in with the briefcase Kaaiai’s got now. I thought selkies and djinn didn’t play nice. Makes me nervous, it does."
"I didn’t think anything made you nervous." Alban offered a brief smile that earned a snort of laughter from the white-haired woman.
"That’s what you’re supposed to think, love. There he goes, then." She nodded toward Malik, who dissipated in the alley below.
"He’s done his job." Alban leaned thoughtfully on the rooftop’s half-wall. "He’ll return to Janx to report."
"Go on, then." Grace straightened, a slim, curvaceous form in black leather. "Go find out how the world’s changing, and tell me before dawn, if you can."
"You don’t need to worry so much, Grace. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you or the children."
"It’s not a matter of ‘let,’ love. Try as you might, you can’t stop the world from spinning. I know you’ll try, and so will your little lawyer, but it’s better for us if we have a hint of what’s coming."
"When I came to stay in your tunnels, I didn’t realize I’d become a spy for you." Alban pushed away from the wall, deliberately coming to his full height.
Uncowed, Grace shrugged. "You protect us in exchange for safety during daylight hours. Call it spying if you like. I call it doing your part. Protection doesn’t just come in the form of stone and wings. And like every one of my kids, you know where the door is, if you want to use it."
A low chuckle rumbled through Alban’s chest. "It’s difficult to tell the difference between persuasion and bludgeoning with you, Grace."
She answered with a quick and wicked smile, stepping forward to walk fingers up his chest. "I can be very persuasive," she promised in a purr, then smirked when he closed his hand around hers and moved back. "There you are, then. If I bludgeon, it’s only your own fault. Will you go?" she asked more quietly. "Will you watch and learn, and tell me what you know?"
"As long as I’m able." Alban made a half bow, suddenly aware that he’d borrowed the action from Janx. It seemed unlikely he’d influenced the dragonlord similarly. Perhaps someday he would ask. "I’ll see you before sunrise."
At Grace’s nod, Alban took to the skies as if he’d been released from a cage, returning to the pursuit of his duty.
Returning to Margrit.
She’d spoken almost at the last, only the erratically bearded Episcopalian clergyman she’d met once before following her. People began filtering out, escaping the church and its oppressive sorrow in favor of the clear April night. The mood remained restrained, everyone cautious of their behavior, but it was easier to breathe outdoors. As Margrit searched for Janx, she saw Cole and Cam departing, and smiled her thanks. She found Rebecca Knight, relief sweeping away all thoughts of the Old Races as she hugged her mother. "Thanks for coming. Is Daddy here?"
"He was called into surgery," Rebecca said reluctantly. "He’s sorry, sweetheart. We both wanted to be here for you. We didn’t get a chance to say goodbye last night."
"It’s okay. I hope it goes well." Margrit held on a moment longer, then b
roke the hug to take Rebecca’s hand. "I’m glad you came. It’s a long trip for…"
A brief, wry smile curled Rebecca’s mouth as she, too, opted not to finish the sentence the way it was meant to end: for someone you didn’t like. "But you did," Rebecca said instead. "Despite his flaws."
"Not all of us are lucky enough to be as perfect as you," Margrit said ruefully.
Her mother laughed. "I suppose someone has to be." She squeezed Margrit’s hand, growing more serious. "Will you be all right, sweetheart? I can stay in the city overnight, if you’d like."
"I’ll be okay. You don’t have to-"
"Margrit." Janx, voice full of outrageous charm, cut through the dispersing crowd to stop at her elbow and smile at Rebecca. "Don’t tell me you were going to allow this extraordinary woman to leave without making my acquaintance." He offered a hand, and when Rebecca elevated an eyebrow and took it, he bowed extravagantly. Margrit, caught between dismay and amusement, wished he had a hat to flourish.
"You must be Margrit’s mother, which I say only because I suspect the flattery of suggesting you’re her sister would only set you against me. Instead I’ll say I offered to kidnap you a few days ago in order to provide an excuse for Margrit to talk to me. Now that I’ve met you, I’ll admit that if I were to stoop to such nasty activities, I’d be doing it for my own benefit. My name is Janx. I’m sure Margrit’s gone on about me to no end." He straightened again, no longer holding Rebecca’s fingers, but resting them over the edge of his own. To Margrit’s fresh bemusement, her mother didn’t retreat.
"To no end at all." Rebecca’s eyes sparkled and Margrit’s heart sank with helpless laughter. Bad enough that Janx could charm her against all good sense. If even Rebecca was susceptible to his shameless blarney, it seemed unlikely there was anyone who could withstand him. "Rebecca Knight. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Janx, and you’re quite right. False flattery only annoys me."