by C. E. Murphy
She forced her eyes open again, meeting Rebecca’s gaze with no little challenge in her own. “I’m saying it because I’ve watched you with Eliseo. Because I’ve watched you shut away what you’re seeing, not because you don’t believe it, but because you don’t want to know. And you know what? That’s fine. I don’t get it, but I don’t have to. But I can promise you that I’ve got to find a way to do this, that you’re my best chance, and that you do not want to know the details.”
“Margrit.” Rebecca found nothing to say after the name, mother and daughter looking at one another across a distance that seemed impossibly vast to Margrit. Finally, full minutes later, Rebecca spoke again. “GBI handles a dozen of Eliseo’s largest accounts. You’re right that I could help you, but how could you have ever imagined that I would?” She lifted a hand sharply, cutting off anything Margrit might say. “I understand that you believe Tony’s life is at stake, but I very much doubt Eliseo is the sort to—”
“First, he is, but more important, he’s not the one gunning for Tony. It’s Janx, the guy who used to run the House of Cards up in Harlem. Tony took the House down and Janx is looking for retaliation. If he didn’t owe me a favor, Tony would be dead already. Unfortunately, I owe him one, too, and this is what he’s asking for.”
“What on earth could someone like Janx have against Eliseo?”
Margrit ground her teeth together, then repeated, carefully, “You do not want to know.”
A difficult expression—regret, distress, perhaps mixed with chagrin—crossed Rebecca’s face and faded, leaving it neutral with acceptance. “If you say so, Margrit. But if Tony is being threatened by a criminal, that’s something for the police to deal with, not—”
“Mom!” Exasperated almost to the point of amusement, Margrit tied her hair back up with quick ferocious movements before she trusted herself to speak again. “Mom, if there was any other way to deal with this, I would. There isn’t. So it’s pretty simple, really. Are you going to help me?”
Regret and its closer cousin sorrow left marks in Rebecca’s face this time. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you know the answer to that. You know I can’t.”
Margrit turned away, finding one of the soft leather sofas to sit down on hard. Conflicting emotions rattled her: relief and dismay in equal parts, neither of them certain what to do with themselves. She had known on every reasonable level that Rebecca couldn’t possibly agree. It was too black an area, too obviously illegal, and the fact that she herself had been willing to follow it said more than she wanted to consider about the path she’d taken since meeting the Old Races. At the same time, her mother had been the only real inside chance she’d had. “Yeah.” She heard her own voice distantly. “Yeah, I knew that. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No,” Rebecca said, surprisingly cheerful. “You shouldn’t have. And you could have saved us time and trouble by asking on the phone, Margrit, really.”
“There was always the chance you’d say yes. I wanted you here where you could act before you came to your senses.”
“Margrit.” Rebecca’s voice gentled. “There was never any chance I’d say yes.”
Thick pain settled around Margrit’s heart, squeezing. Without that help, legal or not, she was out of options as to how to take Daisani down. Out of options she wanted to consider: Chelsea’s cryptic advice lingered at the back of her mind, nerve-wracking and tantalizing. “I know. But I hoped I was wrong. It wasn’t a bad plan, except for it being illegal. I even had a buyer for the stock.”
“Call your stockholders,” murmured a voice behind Margrit. Familiar voice, touched with the hint of desert sands, and as Rebecca’s face whitened, Margrit realized the pressure around her heart wasn’t just exhausted emotion. Not with the soft, faint threat in Tariq’s words: “Prepare Daisani’s fall, Rebecca Knight, or watch your daughter die.”
An offended part of Margrit’s mind protested, silently, that she’d been dead once lately and facing the sentence twice in a day seemed unfair. As though he heard her thoughts, Tariq leaned in close, body warmth no more than a mist by Margrit’s cheek. “Your life was forfeit, Margrit Knight. Imagine my surprise to see you at Eliseo Daisani’s apartment today.”
Margrit caught her breath, or tried: it hitched, as did her heartbeat. “What were you doing there?” Her voice sounded like Rebecca’s had when she’d stood in this same position, Tariq’s fist around her heart: weak, fluttery, pained.
“Ensuring the glassmaker’s empire was ours. Your offer was generous, but merely cemented a deal already in the making. We had never, since we left our deserts, intended on sharing it.”
Sudden clarity blazed through Margrit, making the pain in her chest seem worse. Clear as gargoyle memory, the moment of exchange between Daisani and Tariq after the trial played vividly for her mind’s eye. “You double-dealing bastard.” A note of admiration wheezed through the words. “You’re playing both sides against the middle. That’s why Daisani wouldn’t agree to let Malik’s death go, even though Janx asked him to. He promised you.”
“So he did, and we cannot allow a lack of retribution. Your life would have sufficed, had Daisani’s gift not made it so hard to take.”
“So now what?” Speaking made Margrit dizzy, but stopping seemed like giving up. “Now you’re going to take him down, too, for backstabbing you whether he meant to or not?”
“In essence.” Tariq sounded smug. “Why settle for one empire when we might command two?”
“You’ll command nothing if you don’t release my daughter.” Rebecca finally broke in, voice strong and confident after Tariq’s murmurs and Margrit’s breathless attempts to keep talking. A surge of pride and panic rose in Margrit: she had hoped to distract the djinn from Rebecca’s presence, though to what end she didn’t know. In case of sunset and a psychic link warning Alban she was in need of rescue, perhaps. Even with a hand fisted around her heart, the idea amused her.
Tariq lifted his gaze to Rebecca, misty presence shimmering in the edge of Margrit’s vision. “You’re in no position to issue commands.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows rose. “Do you have access to the accounts that could bankrupt Eliseo Daisani? No,” she said after a judiciously brief pause. “I didn’t think so. I see a few choices here, Mr.—?”
“Tariq,” Margrit whispered when Tariq didn’t speak. “His name is Tariq.”
“Tariq,” Rebecca repeated. “You can kill Margrit, or me, or both of us, none of which will achieve your goals, or you can release her, earn my goodwill and accomplish what you’re attempting. It seems like a simple decision to me.”
Tariq made a soft, derisive sound. “And what prevents me from killing you when I have what I want?”
“Your word on it,” Rebecca said calmly. She sounded as though she was brokering a business deal, not bargaining for her daughter’s life. Margrit, mixed with admiration and terror, wondered if she sounded like that when bartering with the Old Races. “Your word that you won’t harm Margrit or myself, or any of our family, not now and not ever,” Rebecca concluded.
No, Margrit decided, she didn’t sound that confident, and she didn’t think she was ever that thorough. Tariq laughed, murderous sharp sound. “And you’d trust my word?”
“Yes.” Rebecca spoke with no caveats, no doubts, nothing but serene confidence, and then offered a soft, pointed smile that had put the fear of God, or at least Rebecca Knight, into Margrit for her entire childhood. Something like a laugh tried to break free of her constricted chest as Rebecca explained, almost gently, “I would trust your word because, if for no other reason, you owe Margrit your freedom.”
Tariq’s hand spasmed around her heart, as much show of shock as Margrit had ever seen a djinn indulge in. She was certain his astonishment was echoed in her own face, a suspicion that was confirmed by Rebecca’s brief acknowledging nod.
“Not wanting to know doesn’t mean I don’t watch, Margrit. I understand that sometimes you need a weapon at hand even if you don’t want to use it.
Am I right?” She turned her gaze on Tariq, an eyebrow lifted.
For a moment the events of the past hung over them all as though they replayed on a screen, clear and precise. Margrit had faced down Daisani over Tariq’s freedom when the djinn had been captured in a binding circle of vampire’s blood. Daisani had been more than willing—eager, even—to enslave Tariq as punishment for damages done to Rebecca, and Margrit had threatened the vampire with everything she could in order to gain Tariq’s release. It had been a gesture of passion, borne in the moment, and Tariq and Daisani had both thought her a fool. Margrit had had no idea her mother had paused to watch the exchange, and now wondered if the honor that seemed to hold so much sway within the Old Races—even amongst those who denied its power—would be visited upon mortals.
The djinn made a bitter sound and the pressure around Margrit’s heart lessened, then disappeared entirely, leaving an ache of pain in its place. She coughed and doubled over, arms folded against her chest and tears flooding her eyes as she heard him say, “I am no glassmaker to play at this game on levels and levels. This is your one moment of grace, human. I will not be denied a second time or offer another chance.”
Rebecca waited until Margrit looked up with a tight nod that said she was all right, then dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I think we understand each other, then.” She stepped around her desk, switching her computer on with a brisk motion, then glanced around her office.
A pang that had nothing to do with her heart being crushed spasmed through Margrit’s chest. She’d come to ask for what Rebecca was about to do, but she’d known the price was too high and that her mother would refuse. Watching her now take in the office for what was very likely the last time hurt worse than she’d anticipated. “Mom…”
“Eliseo’s major holdings will go on the open market when the bells ring Monday morning,” Rebecca said steadily. “I can’t guarantee it’ll destroy him, but it will certainly be extremely costly.” She sat down at her computer. “You said you had a buyer, Margrit. I suggest you contact him immediately and have him liquidate any holdings he can in order to have cash on hand to purchase with.”
“But what about you?” Recriminations pounded at the inside of Margrit’s skin, trying to break free. If she hadn’t been foolish enough to ask Rebecca to help in the first place, her mother wouldn’t be about to ruin her career. If she’d refused Janx—
Then Tony would be dead. Margrit’s hands knotted into fists. Ruining Daisani’s career was a price she was willing to pay for the detective’s life. Rebecca herself had decided Margrit’s life, and by extension, Tony’s, were worth her own career. There had to be a limit, though, a point at which the needs of the many overrode the good of the one. Two lives was a high price to pay for one. More would become untenable. “It ends here,” Margrit whispered.
Rebecca looked up with a smile. “That will be good enough for me, Margrit. Now go, and take your unpleasant companion with you. I have work to do.”
THIRTY-THREE
SUNSET’S RELEASE BROUGHT wakefulness with a burgeoning sense of responsibility, wholly different from the small tasks Alban had set himself over the decades. The gargoyles had held themselves apart for millennia. To put themselves forward as they’d done so precipitously the previous evening heralded an involvement with the world they’d never before had. For all that it had seemed right and necessary in the moment, it was only now that the enormity of his decision—and the fact that the others had indeed followed him—began to sink in.
And yet nothing would convince him that he had chosen badly. Margrit’s horrifying experience aside, had the gargoyles not arrived when they did, many more of the Old Races might have died. For a people who regarded themselves as observers and recorders, they also had clear strengths as enforcers.
The idea sent a shock of bemusement through Alban. To move so quickly from passive to active participants—especially in a world as changed as theirs was now—well, that was what Margrit Knight had made of him, perhaps. It was what she would make of all the Old Races, given the chance. He wondered if that thought might cause her sleepless nights, and then humor caught him: the Old Races themselves gave her enough sleepless nights. Any changes she wrought, and their consequences, would have to haunt her daytime hours.
She was gone, her scent faded enough to say it had been some hours since she’d slept in his rarely used cot. Regret slipped through him and fell away again: it was enough to let dawn and stone take him with Margrit at his side. She could and did live in a daylight world; to hope she would be there when he woke was too much. He, after all, would never be there when she woke.
A rap sounded at the door. Alban unfolded from his crouch, wings stretching, then disappearing as he changed to human form before saying, “Come in.”
For some reason it surprised him when Grace entered. Aside from Margrit, she was the most likely, but Alban had half-consciously expected Tony Pulcella.
“Janx isn’t understanding Margrit’s orders to leave this place to me now,” Grace said without preamble. “And I’m talented, love, but I can’t shoo a dragon from my doorstep. Maybe a word in his ear?”
Doubt made Alban lift an eyebrow. “Didn’t I watch you face that dragon down only last night?”
“You’ve mistaken me for Margrit,” Grace said blithely. “Maybe a bit of her spark carried over, that’s all. And for all my boldness I’m no good pushing him around, much less two of them and that vampire lass. Gives me the creeps, she does.”
“Ursula? I always thought she was the calmer of the two.”
“Aye, and it’s always the quiet ones to watch out for, now, isn’t it? You saw what she did.” Grace shuddered. “Thought you’d have taught them better, Stoneheart. Thought you’d have taught them the laws that bind you all.”
“I would not have imagined them to be so careless with our lives,” Alban murmured. “But they’ve lived apart from the Old Races since they were born. How constrained by our laws would you feel if you were they?”
“Not at all, but then, laws and Grace, we’ve never been on speaking terms. What will they do to them?”
“I have no idea,” Alban admitted, “but change has run rough over our world. We’ll find room and a way to make it work. After all, it’s hard to exile a pair who’ve never belonged, and I doubt their fathers will allow them to feel unwelcome.”
Wicked interest glittered in Grace’s eyes. “Fathers, indeed, and how does that work? Which of them was being cuckolded, and which was the cock, do you suppose? Or did they share a woman gracefully, mmm? Don’t tell me their fair lady had them fooled. None of you have a weak nose for scent, and not even the nobility scrubbed clean often in that day and age.”
Alban rumbled, “I would never dream of asking,” and Grace laughed aloud, clapping her hands like a pleased child.
“No, and of course you wouldn’t, solid, stolid, stone thing that you are. Well, and maybe I’ll have a chance to ask myself, someday. But go on, Stoneheart.” Grace sobered. “Rid me of the dragon, will you? He’s only stalling anyway. Your Margrit laid it out for him clear enough, and I’ve never seen one such as he tuck tail and turn that readily. What was the task?” she asked, curiosity and caution turning her voice sharp. “What’d he set Margrit to do?”
“I don’t know. It seemed Margrit did, but I wasn’t privy to whatever favor he asked.”
“Ah.” Curiosity lit Grace’s eyes before she waved him down the hall. “Well, go on, then. Go find out, and then send him packing. The sooner these tunnels are my own again, the happier I’ll be.”
Amusement washed through him. “Where do you come by your command, Grace? Even I find myself inclined to leap before realizing I’ve been given an order.”
“Born to it, love, and you’re not meant to notice. Gargoyles,” she said with a sniff. “You pay too much attention. I’ll be glad to have the lot of you gone from my territory, so I will, and yes, that means you, too, Alban Korund. I’ve had enough trouble from the Old Races. My
kids and I need our peace.”
“So you haven’t set your cap for Eldred?” Alban asked, still amused, and Grace mimed adjusting one.
“Not at all. There’s a fine man out there for Gráinne Ui Mháille, and I’ll capture his heart when the time comes. Now go on, Alban,” she said again. “Protect me and mine. That’s what you’re here for.”
Tariq had shown an iota more subtlety than Margrit had expected, and had waited until he’d left Rebecca’s office on foot before dissipating. Margrit had stared at where he’d been, wondering why discretion mattered now, when he’d materialized in front of Rebecca, but had restrained from casting the question into the apparently empty hallway. He’d spared her life and given his word against further attempts, but where she would have trusted Janx or even Daisani on that promise, she was reluctant to test the djinn.
When she was certain he was gone, she’d turned back to her mother’s office, about to enter and offer…solace, or penance. In the end, both had seemed somehow arrogant, and she’d walked away, then begun to run once she’d left the building.
Within minutes she’d brought herself to one of the handful of entrances to Grace’s under-city haunts that she’d finally learned in the past few days. That, at least, was one good thing that had come of the exhausting week, though that it qualified as “one good thing” filled her with rue.
She was more confident of finding her way to the central hub where the trial had been held than Janx’s off-the-path lair, but she risked trying to pick her way through the tunnels to the latter. Wisdom dictated otherwise, but Grace had an uncanny knack for finding her when she was lost, and Margrit trusted that even more than she trusted Janx’s or Daisani’s word. She breathed, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” as she worked her way deeper into the underground system, and was oddly unsurprised when, minutes later, Grace’s voice echoed the second half of the couplet back at her.
