Heart of Stone n-1

by C. E. Murphy

  He breathed a laugh that wasn’t, closing his eyes against the cityscape. For a fraction of a second he’d debated doing that. But it was no more in his nature than…Alban lifted his gaze again to the eastern horizon, graying with the coming sun. No more in his nature than facing the dawn.

  A day. He could remain hidden for another day. After two centuries, another few hours could hardly matter. Just so long as Margrit trusted him, so long as she came to Chelsea’s after sunset. She would, Alban promised himself. There’d been trust in her eyes. He was almost sure of it. She would come.

  She would come, so long as no one else died.

  Alban curled his hand into a fist again, then launched himself into the air, racing the sunrise home.

  Irrational fought with don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, not just back to the street, with Malik’s malicious escort, but back to the West Side and her apartment building. Margrit made it up two flights of stairs before her knees gave out and she sat heavily, fingers pushed into her hair. Tiredness made her hands shaky, and the muscles of her legs feel weak. “Get up, Grit.” She spoke the words wearily, wrapping her hand around the banister and pulling herself to her feet. “You’re in it now, sister.” It took a long time to climb the final three flights of stairs, and she had to concentrate to slide the key into the apartment’s lock.

  Dim morning light spilled down the apartment hallway, shadows picking out more shadows. Margrit leaned back against the door, staring blankly through the darkness toward the balcony. She could hear Cole or Cam rolling over in bed, disturbed but not alarmed by her arrival. That was the only movement in the apartment; there were no shifting shadows on the balcony to say that Alban had returned. Or if he had, the rising sun had driven him away again, unable to withstand its light. She shuffled into the kitchen, hesitating at the balcony door, searching the coloring skyline without success. Regret lanced through her, and she watched a few minutes longer, until the sunrise became bright enough that she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. Alban was gone, wisely. It would be night before she saw him again.

  There were things to do. The case to study, an injunction to prepare for Monday morning. Margrit pulled a cup of yogurt from the fridge, squinting against the brightness of the refrigerator light, and sat down at the dining room table with a yawn.

  The clatter of her yogurt cup against the floor woke her up hours later, nestled against Cole’s chest. “She’s fine,” he murmured over her head. “Fell asleep working. She must’ve come in late.” Margrit heard Cam’s near-soundless laughter as Cole bumped a door open with his hip. A moment later he put her onto her bed between piles of laundry, and drew a blanket up over her, murmuring, “Go back to sleep, Grit.” He kissed her forehead as if she were a child, making her smile drowsily before sleep claimed her again.

  Headlights haunted her dreams, round white flashes of brilliance that cast impossible shadows on the street in the seconds before impact. Shadows of monsters: winged and enormous, with snarling teeth and curved claws, and Chinese dragons with whiskers like pale smoke streaming past their heads. Rasping sands whisked around her, scraping at her skin and roughening her throat, only to be washed off by a deluge of salty water that pulled her under in its deadly tow. Hard light swept by again, illuminating swirling fiends as tires squealed. Faceless devils surrounded her, tightening their circle with every pass, until fine silver threads began to appear, tying her to each of them in a sticky web. Margrit twisted and thrashed and finally jolted upright, tangled in the covers, her heart hammering.

  City noises filtered through the drumming of her heart: horns beeping and engines running, airplanes roaring overhead and voices calling back and forth, an endless cacophony of white noise. It blotted out the memory of the dream long enough for Margrit to stare at the bedside clock, then stagger out to the kitchen. She pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge and downed same without getting a glass, wiping the mouth of the carton perfunctorily with her sleeve. “Don’t tell,” she whispered to it, and went to stand at the balcony, staring down at the street. The juice carton felt unreasonably heavy in her fingers. She sloshed the liquid around, watching the flow of traffic with unfocused eyes.

  Vampires and dragons and gargoyles. “Oh my.” Margrit sat on the doorframe’s edge, swirling the juice and taking absent sips.

  There were critical moments in cases when she knew she’d come across the piece of information that would win the day or damn the defendant. Moments when the law hit critical mass, and nothing would stop justice-or injustice-from being done. Those rare seconds took her breath away, filling her with bright enthusiasm that seemed to stream from her fingertips and her eyes when she moved. Even if the news was bad, the realization of hitting a point of no return was stimulating. It was one of dozens of reasons Margrit practiced law; those moments stood out of time in ways that defined her.

  Luka Johnson’s case had been one from the beginning. From the moment the case was handed to her, Margrit had been filled with conviction-irrational conviction, she’d often teased herself with a smile-that they would win, no matter how long it took. The bone-deep belief had kept her going, kept Luka going, through the girls’ birthdays and through the Christmases spent apart. It would just be a matter of time, Margrit had promised Luka repeatedly. They’d been in it together, neither of them straying from the path to clemency, until they could both walk out free women. Margrit had taken on the case knowing she’d be in it for the long haul.

  A part of her had already accepted that she was in it with Alban for the long haul. Had been, maybe, since he’d appeared in the park, tall and absurdly polite, striking up a conversation in the middle of the night as if it was normal. Had been, certainly, since he’d revealed his true nature, the massive stony shoulders and delicate-looking wings a draw she wouldn’t be able to resist in the long run. How could anyone? Margrit wondered. Introduced to an element of the world that she’d never known existed, how could she go back to the way things had been? She’d tried-not long, and not hard, she admitted, but for a few hours she’d insisted to herself that she couldn’t champion the gargoyle, and that his world couldn’t mesh with hers.

  And her subconscious had told her otherwise. Even now, if she closed her eyes, his image played in her darkened vision. His was a hard picture to hold on to, sliding between the man and the monster, though both had the same gentle hope in their expressions. He’d expected rejection, and who could blame him? She was human, and he was…

  “Beautiful.” Margrit dropped her head against her knees, the juice carton dangling from her fingers as she remembered immeasurable grace and the strong lines of his face and body in either form. He was breathtaking.

  Which didn’t make him innocent. She lifted her head again, staring at the buildings across the street. It was a fair bet that simply knowing the Old Races existed was detrimental to her health. There would be no protection offered humans by Old Race covenants, which meant for her own safety the only way to go was forward, gathering as much information as she could.

  Margrit gave another breathy laugh. Information, the one really priceless commodity. She finished the juice and crushed the carton. Even if she hadn’t gone to see Janx-which, by the light of day, seemed ever more stupid-she’d become irrevocably involved. Anything she learned, the more she learned, would be her weapons against Janx and any other Old Race individuals who wanted to work with her or use her.

  But Alban had come to her first, with a case. It was the easiest place to begin. Prove his innocence or guilt in her own mind. Find a way to help him if he was innocent, or turn him over to the Old Races if he was guilty.

  A chill ran over her skin, brought on by more than the thin winter sunlight and still air. A lawyer was not supposed to play the role of judge, jury and executioner, but with a man who couldn’t be brought before human authorities, Margrit could see no choice.

  She threw the juice carton away en route to the shower, her lips pressed together. God, she hoped he was innocent.r />
  Garish headlines stood out from the faded microfilm, the print old-fashioned to Margrit’s eye. She sat back in her chair, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids. Reverse-color images danced against them: Monster Haunts Debutante.

  Six headlines over a time period of a hundred and fifty years. A scattering of others, with less dramatic fonts and less prominent displays, said things like Stalker in Central Park? and Woman Feels Protective Presence. Two of those described a tall blond man with pale eyes and broad shoulders. Alban.

  Margrit dropped her hand from her eyes and shuffled papers she’d printed out, pushing the top few aside to expose the first of four whose headlines were damning.

  Murder In The Park!

  Four murders in almost two centuries. All of them were women featured in other articles, complaining of monsters and stalkers in the dark. Margrit sighed and sat forward again, spinning through the reel in search of marriage records.

  Four deaths, stretched over decades. The thread was there only if you knew to see it. “Or if you know to make it up,” Margrit muttered. The man in the nearest booth to her leaned back and gave her a sharp look. She scowled and went back to her microfilm.

  The debutante married shortly after her “monster” headline appeared. A photograph in the society section showed a petite, dark-haired woman on the arm of her new husband, her curls worn unfashionably long for the twenties. Tricia Sanger, née Perry, soon to move to Philadelphia, where her husband would pursue his career in the oil industry. She was one of the two who’d survived an encounter with Alban.

  Margrit growled under her breath and slapped the microfilm light off, pulling her lip in frustration. She was thinking like Alban was guilty.

  But the equation added up. What were the odds someone else was stalking the same women Alban had encountered, over more than fifteen decades? Margrit shook her head almost before she thought the question, dismissing the possibility. Humans didn’t live that long.

  Did gargoyles? She blinked and straightened her spine, staring at the dark microfilm reader screen. She was taking Janx’s word for it, and found herself grunting with irritation.

  The man down the aisle cleared his throat disapprovingly. Margrit gritted her teeth and muttered, “Asshole.” The disapproving man didn’t hear that, and she found herself flashing a smug grin at the screen before becoming lost in thought once more. “You’re taking Janx’s word,” she repeated aloud, trying to keep it under her breath.

  Do you trust me? She could hear Alban’s deep voice shivering through her bones, the quiet hope and desperation in the question.

  Did she? Margrit slumped in the chair, fingers finding their way to her forehead to press there. Did she trust him, or was it just the romance and excitement of learning there were people, not-human people, living secret lives in the world she’d thought she’d known? Did she trust Janx’s word over Alban’s? Margrit snorted quietly. “Only if you’re suicidal, girlfriend. Dammit.” The guy in the booth down the row from her frowned again. She frowned back and printed out Tricia Sanger’s wedding announcement, adding it to the pile of papers on her table.

  If it was Alban killing these women-Margrit shook her head abruptly and turned the reader back on. It wasn’t. Not now, at least. Maybe over the past two centuries, but not now. She would be his target now, not random women in the city. He-or someone-killed one at a time, over two hundred years. Not two in five days.

  “Not guilty, your honor. Not this time, anyway,” she breathed. “Or I hope not.” She’d deal with the past later. For now…Margrit turned her wrist, glancing at her watch. Sunset wasn’t for hours, and she had three names. Biali meant absolutely nothing to her; she would have to ask Alban if it had meaning for him. The others…

  Eliseo Daisani was the easy one, and she was sure she wouldn’t find a history of his grievances with Alban in the microfilm archives. But the third…

  Margrit abandoned the microfilm archives and jogged upstairs to the public computers, logging into the New York Times Web site to punch “Grace O’Malley” into the search function.

  The most recent headline dated from a few months earlier, bold letters declaring Pirate Queen Reveals Treasure! Margrit clicked through, flicking her finger against the mouse button impatiently while the page loaded.

  Local legend Grace O’Malley came forward yesterday to reveal an archaeological find off an abandoned subway line beneath the streets of New York. Evidently used as a speakeasy in the 1920s, the room she discovered has been closed up since at least 1925, when a wall collapsed, cutting off a section of the subway line. The route was never reopened, and the speakeasy has remained untouched for eighty years. Bottles of gin still line the counters, and cigarettes lie in ashtrays, undisturbed for nearly a century. At least three decorative Tiffany windows are intact.

  O’Malley herself has a notorious reputation as a vigilante and thief, allegations she has denied in the past. Despite repeated efforts, no prosecution has ever been brought against her, suggesting that there are those within City Hall who are on O’Malley’s side. Named for the legendary Irish pirate Grace O’Malley, who ruled the high seas during the 1500’s, the modern-day O’Malley’s mission statement is to help young people who don’t otherwise have a chance. As usual, she was not available for comment.

  City officials are pleased that she brought her discovery to their attention, and say her revelation of the site was prompted by the hopes of improving her perceived status in New York, a move away from the piratical nature she’s been dubbed with. The city hopes to open the site to the public within three months as part of a New York history tour.

  Margrit fumbled her phone out of her bag, tapping it against her mouth for a moment before beeping out a number. No one glared this time; the computer room was considerably louder than the microfilm archives. “Cam? This is Grit. Want to go play tourist with me?”

  “Places like this always make me want to chop all my hair off and start wearing fringy dresses.”

  “Cole would burst into tears if you cut all your hair off.” Margrit grinned up at her tall blond friend as they shuffled forward in line. “So much for New Yorkers being blasé and bored, huh?”

  The historic subway site teemed with visitors, many of them with city-bred accents. Cam laughed and shook her head, claiming, “They’re all from out of state. New Yorkers are too cool to come poking around like this on opening day.”

  “So what’s our excuse?”

  “You’re up to something.” Cam lifted her eyebrows challengingly, making Margrit grin again.

  “You’d look great in flapper dresses. C’mon, I want to get inside.”

  “See! I knew it!” Cam followed on Margrit’s heels like an oversized, smug puppy. “You are up to something. You’re changing the subject.”

  “What?” Margrit looked over her shoulder, eyes wide with innocence. “You would look great in flapper dresses. You’re tall and slender. I’ve got the wrong shape.”

  Cam made an hourglass in the air, saying, “Va-va-vavoom is not the wrong shape.”

  “It is for a flapper.” Margrit slid past a pair of men, each carrying a three-year-old on his shoulders. “It’s-wow.”

  The speakeasy reminded her of Daisani’s offices, filled with lush fabrics undamaged by time, thanks to the sealed-off air of the abandoned subway. The newspaper article had been misleading: the club was built into the tunnel itself, with rich woods curved along the walls, polished until they gleamed. Electric light fixtures were set in so neatly they seemed to be part of the wood’s golden glow.

  The back wall of the room was one of the Tiffany windows, abstract patterns of brilliant reds and greens edged by dune gold and gray. Somehow light filtered through it, no one point of brightness suggesting a single source of illumination.

  Cam let out a low whistle. “This was rich people territory.”

  “No kidding. God, look at that window!” Margrit dug her cell phone out of her purse, snapping pictures and peering at the photos to jud
ge their quality. “Can I have this in my bedroom?”

  “Which part?”

  Margrit waved an expansive hand. “All of it!”

  Two aisles ran the length of the room, their red carpet barely worn with time. Margrit felt guilty stepping on it, and one of the attendants gave her a rueful, acknowledging smile. “It’s all right. We’re going to keep it open like this for about a week, and then the whole viewing area is going to be changed so the carpets aren’t damaged. Take advantage while you can.”

  Margrit nodded, still feeling guilty as she moved forward. The pile was thick beneath her boots, shifting with her weight, as if the rug were brand-new. The sitting areas were cordoned off with velvet ropes, but a glance at the carpeting there told Margrit the furniture hadn’t been moved to accommodate tourists. The club was laid out the same way it had been for eighty years or more. Couches and chairs covered in leather and velvet were set around teak and redwood tables, close enough for easy talking, without drinks being out of reach.

  “A chaise longue,” Margrit said with a giggle. “A real chaise longue. Cool.”

  “You just reverted to being about twelve,” Cam said, grinning.

  “Well, it is cool!” she protested. “Isn’t it?”

  Her friend held up a hand in agreement, still grinning. “It is. You’re just not supposed to let it show.”

  “Bah. Wow!” Margrit stopped in front of the left-hand window, which curved the entire height of the subway tube wall. “That’s, wow.” The astounding golds and reds that were part of the back wall’s glass mural were more muted in this window, the gray more pronounced, and mixed with rich sea-blues.

  “This is more of that expensive lawyer-school talk, right?” Cam stepped past Margrit to nod at a chess set laid out on one of the tables. “I want that. I think that’s real ivory.”

  “And obsidian,” another of the attendants volunteered. “The chess pieces are extremely fanciful, clearly hand-carved. It’s more than six hundred years old, and is believed to come from Saudi Arabia. The white pieces appear to be mermaids and the black are traditional Middle Eastern warriors. Please be careful, ma’am,” he added as Cameron leaned as far over the velvet cordon as she could.