by C. E. Mutphy
Grace walked ahead of them, a swaying black-clad form with no evident need for a light against the darkness. Margrit’s gaze stayed on her for long moments, watching the way shadows accepted and released her as she led them through the gloom. Impossible answers itched at the corners of Margrit’s mind, not quite ready for revelation, and darting away when she tried to follow them. She pressed her eyes shut, then opened them again to follow Tony with her gaze.
He was a step or two behind Grace, his flashlight splashing bright white circles on the walls and tunnel floors. Margrit could see tension in his shoulders and resignation in his walk, and wanted to reach out and reassure him somehow. She didn’t try: first, she was too far away, and second, she was no longer a source from which he would draw comfort. Weary regret wrapped around her at that idea, and she let her eyes close, trusting Alban to carry her without her watching the way.
That, too, struck her as a new thing, born in the last minutes since her awakening. She’d once claimed she liked the lack of control over her life that running in Central Park offered her. Grace had dismissed that with a snort, and now Margrit wondered if the blond vigilante had been right. She was out of control now, but she felt safe, and it was distinctly different from late-night jogging. Then, she realized, she had felt in control, even if that was nothing more than an illusion.
Light footsteps echoed around them, the sound making her flinch awake, though she hadn’t realized she’d slept. The gargoyles and injured selkies who walked with them all moved with eerie silence, but the tunnels themselves picked up sounds her ears couldn’t and reverberated them back at her, making her inhuman escort audible.
Not really her escort; that was a self-centered, human thought. They had their own reasons to retreat under the city. Wounds to lick, if selkies did that. Probably, she thought with another tickle of humor. After all, even humans used kisses to banish minor hurts. It wasn’t far at all from licking injuries, and humans had no animal form to revert to. Seal-shaped selkies very likely did use the oldest possible method of cleaning cuts.
Margrit pressed her temple against Alban’s chest, trying to stop her mind from such random wanderings. Blood oozed under the pressure and she grimaced. There were too many things to deal with to succumb to weakness. Janx was furious with her, and that had to be remedied somehow. More than just by fulfilling his demand to bring Daisani down; she wanted the dragonlord to like her again.
Of course, if she did succeed in toppling the corporate bloodsucker, it was unlikely she would have a future in which to worry about whether Janx still liked her or not. Irrationally reassured by the thought, Margrit opened her eyes and found that while she’d dozed, they’d traveled most of the distance to Grace’s downtown hub.
“Why here?” After a little while of unuse, her voice croaked like she’d—Margrit winced, trying to stop the thought before it finished, but the analogy worked its inexorable way through to completion: like she’d had her throat cut. Still cringing, she said, “Won’t there be a lot of kids around?”
“It’s Friday night,” Grace said with humor. “Tonight they’re topside having fun, and this center’s got more lockable doors than any of the others. It’s safest for all of you and yours, and that means it’s safest for me and mine. There’ll be plenty of hot water for bathing in,” she added to Alban. “I’ll need the cisterns refilled, though, after you’re done scrubbing. And I’d just burn those clothes, if I were you.”
“They’re too wet,” Margrit said tiredly. “Too bad. I liked this shirt. I can walk.” She patted Alban’s arm. He shifted his hold, but didn’t put her down, and after a few seconds she decided that was agreeable.
Agreeable. A little blood loss, and she became the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. Margrit tried to laugh, but exhaustion swamped her again.
The next time she awakened it was because cool stone was beneath her body, chilling her all the way through. Alban, stripped to the waist and carrying two steaming buckets of water, edged into his room as she sat up. The front of his slacks were entirely soaked in blood from the knees down, and the thighs were badly spotted with it, all the pale material discolored and stiffening as it dried. Margrit shuddered, suddenly aware of how cold she was. Cold from her center to her skin, as if her furnace had shut down.
Alban looked pained at her tremble. “Forgive the accommodations. There seemed little point in putting you on the bed while you were still…”
“Covered in gore?” Margrit picked at the buttons of her blouse as Alban poured the water into a tub she’d never seen in his room before. Fingers too thick to operate properly, she let her hands fall and watched the muscles in his back play easily, as if he picked up a piece of paper instead of gallons of water. A moment later he put the buckets aside and turned back to her, spoiling one lovely view but offering another. Margrit hunched her shoulders against the chill and managed a smile. “I could watch you do that all night.”
Gentle humor crossed his expression. “Except you seem to keep falling asleep. Shall I leave you to bathe?”
“No!” Sudden panic spurted in her at the idea, its wake leaving her more exhausted than before. “I don’t even think I can undress myself, much less be trusted in a bath. I’d probably drown, and I’ve had enough of being dead for one night.” To her horror, tears scalded her eyes as she spoke.
Alban crossed and knelt by her, a solid, comforting presence as he began to undo the buttons she’d been too clumsy to manage. “I believe I’ve had enough of you being dead for a lifetime. When you’re stronger, I think I’ll take the opportunity to go to pieces on you.” Teasing glinted in his eyes as she gave him a sharp look.
“Go to pieces, huh? I didn’t know you knew words like that.”
“I’ve been keeping bad company of late,” Alban said solemnly. He undressed her with quiet efficiency, no eroticism in the act, for which Margrit was wearily grateful. Passion stereotypically arose in the aftermath of danger, but she had no energy left for anything beyond relief that someone was there to care for her. Alban lifted her into the bath with all the gentleness of a practiced nurse, and she sank to its bottom with a whimper.
That quickly, the hot water demolished all her defenses. She began to shiver uncontrollably, teeth chattering at a decibel that would be funny if she wasn’t suddenly so frightened. She reached for Alban’s hand, her own shaking so badly it looked like a caricature of cold. “Is there enough room in this thing for two?” She couldn’t control the stutter and bit her tongue harder than she meant to in trying.
Concern lined Alban’s face. “Not with as much water as is in it now.”
Margrit’s gaze skittered around the room, and all the books safely on their shelves. “The f-floor will d-dry. I n-need you t-to w-warm me up. P-p-please, Alban.”
A moment later he climbed in, his own blood-sodden slacks left on the floor behind him. Water cascaded over the tub’s sides as Margrit twisted herself against his chest, hands fisted as she rattled with cold. His arms encompassed her, gentle fingers stroking her temple, and she finally let go of control and fear in terrible, body-wracking sobs.
CHAPTER 30
She had no idea when sleep had taken her, but wakefulness came easily. Margrit rolled over to search for her alarm clock and the time, and found neither in the gray concrete walls surrounding her. Confusion rattled her before memory caught up and rendered Alban’s room into something that made sense. He was crouched in a corner, solid stone protector, and Tony Pulcella, reading a leather-bound book, sat in a chair across from him. “Tony?”
He clapped the book shut as he glanced up. “Hey. Welcome to the world of the li—” Regret for his choice of words spasmed across his face and Margrit found it in herself to laugh.
“Thanks.” She sat up, scrubbing her face with her hands and then scratching them through her hair to send curls bouncing around her shoulders. “What time is it?”
“About two-thirty. Drink this.” He got up and brought her an enormous bottle of water. Margrit wra
pped both hands around it and drained it greedily, not stopping for air until more than half the water was gone. Tony’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher as she drank again, and when she finally lowered the nearly empty bottle, said, “Wow. I didn’t mean all at once. You’re going to get water poisoning.”
“You said drink it! Besides, I feel like a mummy.” Her skin was dry, pinched against her bones, and her lips felt cracked and thin. “Do I look like one?”
“You look anemic. On the other hand, that’s a hell of a lot better than you should look, so don’t knock it.”
“I won’t.” She finished the last few sips of water, then shook her head. “Did you say two-thirty? In the morning?” Even as she asked she knew it couldn’t be: Alban was sleeping, and wouldn’t be if it were still night. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I called in sick. Alban asked me to keep an eye on you.” Tony gestured toward the statue, and for a moment they both looked at the gargoyle, words inadequate to the topic.
“And you said yes,” Margrit finally ventured. “Thanks.”
“What else was I gonna say?” Tony sat down on the end of the bed, a few feet away from Margrit. “Margrit, this world—”
“I know. I know I’ve got a lot to tell you, Tony. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Grace covered most of it.” The detective shrugged at Margrit’s look of surprise. “We spent most of the night talking, until Alban came to ask me to watch out for you. She’s not what I expected. A lot more fragile than I imagined.”
“Grace?” Margrit, remembering Grace’s fist connecting with her face, eyed Tony. “Tall blonde in black leather? That Grace? Fragile?”
Tony studied her a moment or two. “Doesn’t matter. She filled me in on everything. Her world. Their world. And then I watched the gargoyles when the sun came up. It’s magic.” He shook his head. “It’s goddamned magic. I wish you’d told me, Grit.”
Margrit put her head in her hands. “I couldn’t. I’d promised Alban, and then when Cole discovered them, he was so angry. Like he was personally threatened by Alban, by the whole idea of the Old Races. I thought that was how most people would react. I thought it was how you’d react.”
“I might have,” Tony admitted. “I might’ve, if you hadn’t come back from the dead in front of me. But, I mean, dragons, Grit. There are dragons out there. Like all those old maps say.”
“Yeah,” Margrit said absently. “I think those were actually sea serpents they were seeing….”
Tony shouted laughter and Margrit jumped, blinking at him. “Sorry,” he said, still grinning. “You just said that like it was matter-of-fact. Sea serpents, not dragons. Of course. I’m still wrapping my mind around dragons.”
A rueful smile crawled across Margrit’s mouth. “I’ve had a few months to get used to it.”
“Wish I had.” Tony’s laughter faded. “Part of me’s completely freaked out. The other part…it’s like it’s okay if the world doesn’t make sense and stupid shit goes wrong, if there are dragons. Like how the hell can we be in control of anything, if we don’t even know about the dragons.”
Regret rose in Margrit, a physical thing clogging her breath. She put her hand out and Tony caught it, holding on hard as they met eyes. Margrit found herself looking at the life she might have led, if she’d chosen to trust Tony with the impossible. It was more comfortable, no doubt, than her relationship with Alban would prove to be; there would have been no awkward hours, no carefully kept secrets from the world; not, at least, about each other. It would have been a human life, as ordinary and extraordinary as that, and for a moment it shone brilliantly. “I underestimated you. I’m sorry.”
Tony nodded. “So’m I.”
Something physical popped inside her as he spoke, the release of one dream for the pursuit of another. Margrit caught her breath, feeling its loss, and released Tony’s hand. He crooked a smile that said he, too, knew their moment had passed in a more final way than emotional breakups framed. “Guess this is the part where we promise to stay friends, huh?”
“You told me not to say that,” Margrit reminded him.
“You’re not. I am. You’re gonna need friends, Margrit. You’re going to need people who get why you go off fighting dragons.”
“In four years of us dating you never understood that, Tony. I mean, it’s what running through the park was, pretty much. That’s always been my way of fighting dragons.”
“Yeah, but that was before I knew they really existed.” He held up a hand, smiling wryly. “I know it doesn’t make sense. Don’t ask.”
“It makes a kind of sense.”
“Grace told me about these favors you’ve exchanged with Janx,” Tony said abruptly. “Is that my fault?”
Margrit blinked, but shook her head. “It really isn’t. You put his name in my ear, but someone else pointed me at him to talk to about the Old Races. I made my own noose there. Don’t worry about it.”
“I can’t help worrying. I know what kind of guy he is.” Exasperation flitted across Tony’s face. “Except I don’t.”
“No, you do. Just because he’s a dragon doesn’t mean he’s not also a criminal. It just gets complicated when you start looking at it in terms of human justice.”
“No kidding.” Slow realization dawned on Tony’s face. “Shit, Margrit. Tell me you didn’t tip him off the night we raided the House of Cards.”
Margrit’s game face fell into place far too late, a too-honest wince creasing her features long before she could school them into courtroom calm. Tony stared at her, then in genuine dismay, said, “Margrit!”
She winced again. “That sounded way too much like my mother. I’m sorry, Tony. I really am, but I just can’t see him in one of our jails. It’s like caging a lion for hunting.”
“We shoot lions that hunt people!”
Margrit opened her mouth and shut it again on her argument. “All right, good point. Still, I just…I had to warn him. I just…”
Tony leaned back, arms folded across his chest as he glared at her. “Looks like the mighty have fallen.”
“I fell and then I started digging a pit. I don’t know, maybe this is one of the reasons I agreed to go work for Daisani. I always knew that most of the time I was defending bad guys, but I could live with that. It was how our legal system worked. But it’s our legal system, and I got myself neck-deep in a whole world that doesn’t quite follow our rules. It’s easy to stop toeing the line, Tony. I never knew how easy it was. If I’m not at Legal Aid anymore I’m not in the position of making these decisions, of splitting these hairs. I don’t have to decide if I put Janx away or let him walk.”
“That’s for a jury to decide, not you, Grit.”
“Where are you going to find a jury of Janx’s peers?”
Uncertainty crossed Tony’s face before he looked away with a new frown. “He lives in our world. He should be judged by it.”
“If you can really believe that,” Margrit said softly, “you’re doing one better than me.”
He looked back at her, lips thinned. “I gotta believe it.”
Margrit nodded, then sighed. “Would it do any good to ask you not to pursue him now? Because he’s already chafing at having to promise not to eviscerate you. If you push it…”
“You think he’ll go back on his word? I thought you trusted him.”
“I think he might decide you’re crunchy and good with ketchup now and be terribly, terribly sorry later.” Margrit widened her eyes in her best imitation of the dragonlord’s mockery of innocence. “I’d rather you didn’t risk it.”
“That’s quite a mouthful coming from you, at this point.”
“I know.” Margrit got to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her as a barrier against the cool room. “So maybe you’ll take that into consideration. Did Grace bring me any clothes, by any chance?”
“I went to your apartment and got you some.” Tony got up to pull a duffel bag around the end of the bed. “What’re you goin
g to do, Grit?”
“First I’m going to get dressed.” Margrit began rifling through the bag, pulling out a favorite T-shirt, a sports bra and well-loved jogging pants. She shot a smile of recognition and thanks at Tony, who shrugged a shoulder in acknowledgment.
“First I’m going to get dressed,” she repeated, mostly to herself, then glanced at Tony again. “And then I’m going to topple an empire.”
It had sounded good, she thought later, though the reality was that she slipped out of Grace’s tunnels with very little battle plan in place. Cutting the legs from under Daisani’s world-spanning corporation took more insider knowledge than she had access to.
Margrit crushed her hand into a fist. No: not more than she had access to, not if she utilized all the resources at her command. But far more than she wanted to use, if there was any potential way to avoid it.
She was running without knowing when she’d started, running for the first time in days, trying to outpace the only solid idea she had. She put on speed, not caring if she pushed herself too far: she needed the release, and the clarity that came with her feet striking the pavement in rhythmic slaps.
Janx and Daisani were symbiotic, always working as a pair. Both Chelsea and Tariq had said that when one failed in a location, the other soon moved on. Margrit told herself it wasn’t betrayal to push Daisani toward that end, but rather helping nature take its usual course.
Disbelieving laughter tore her lungs. Even if she could make herself believe that—and while she was a good liar, she didn’t think she was that good—even if she could, Daisani would never believe it. She already had a very black mark against her on his record. Pulling strings to cut his financial empire’s throat would be setting herself a noose and offering to adjust its fit.
