by C. E. Murphy
Margrit marshaled failing strength and put a hand out toward Tony. He caught it and held on a moment, then released her. “Go, before I have to explain who and what the hell you are. And don’t worry,” he added, resigned, “I never saw any of you.”
Margrit whispered, “Thank you, Tony.” And then she was in Alban’s arms and they were running, leaping, soaring into the space between buildings, leaving the life she’d known behind them, and a future of indefinite years and infinite possibilities ahead.
EPILOGUE
Trenton
THE BRIDE WORE a fitted bodice that showed off her strong shoulders and arms, and a meringue of a skirt, all frothy and light, that was at odds with her athleticism, but which made the most of her height and slim form. Margrit, standing for her at the altar, a bunch of daisies clutched in her hands, felt tears of idiotic joy well up as Cameron came down the aisle on her father’s arm. She snuffled into the flowers, then swallowed a sneeze that sent tears spilling after all, and caught Cole’s quick laugh as he tore his eyes from Cameron to check on her. Margrit jerked her head back toward Cam, and Cole’s gaze returned to her more than willingly, his smile turning dazzled.
Cameron’s smile was as wide and foolish as Margrit’s own; as wide and foolish as anyone’s at the wedding. People were packed into the Dugans’ backyard, the ultimate in intimate affairs, but Margrit could think of nothing better suited to her friends.
Tony stood opposite her as Cole’s best man, more gorgeous than usual in a tuxedo that had to be far too hot under the late-afternoon sun, though neither he nor Cole looked inclined to complain. Margrit sought out Tony’s date in the crowd, still astonished to see her in public, much less clad in something other than black leather. Grace O’Malley cleaned up well, wearing a crisp pantsuit that was both formal enough for the ceremony and somehow flawlessly herself, as well. She arched an eyebrow when Margrit caught her eye, then did much as Margrit herself had just done: gestured with her chin, telling Margrit to pay attention to what was important.
Beaming, Margrit did so, taking Cam’s bouquet when it was handed to her; watching Tony fumble for the rings and Cole’s expression of alarm; laughing, after the vows were exchanged, when Cameron’s bouquet, flung into the air, landed squarely at Grace’s feet, the vigilante woman staring at it as though it was a pit viper.
And when the afternoon turned to evening, then slipped toward night, Margrit found her way to the newlyweds and exchanged fierce hugs, then slipped away from the party, skirts gathered like Cinderella so she might find her lover when daylight’s spell was broken.
Manhattan
The police-locked door opened easily enough, though she didn’t technically have a key. Most of the mess had been cleared up, shelves put to rights and books replaced on them. The stock hadn’t been sold off; instead, someone had bought the establishment wholesale, intending to keep it as a bookstore. The back room was no longer curtained off by a fall of beads, and furniture had been removed so more shelves could be brought in. It made the front of the store roomier, in fact, much less precarious to navigate. Still, it lacked a certain hominess with all that extra room.
But it was no longer her concern. The one item she wanted was still there, tucked into a corner where it had somehow gone unnoticed as the new owner made changes. Well, not somehow: no doubt it had been obvious that a touch of greenery made the place cozier, and no one liked to throw out a perfectly healthy plant. Especially one with a rich, comforting scent. It was no surprise that it remained.
Chelsea Huo collected her tea tree and slipped out of the bookstore again, not bothering to lock the door behind her.
Krakatoa
Jewels sweated, gleaming in waves of heat. This was the deepest room, closest to the heart of the earth, where only the sturdiest of treasures could be kept. More fragile winnings—Fabergé eggs, worked metals, mummies, scrolls liberated from Alexandria—stayed in safer climes, caves with natural temperature control, or even in modern secured vaults, though nothing of real importance, of course, was kept in such places. Janx wound his way through treasures to dip his talons in a pool of molten gold, sighing with satisfaction as the gleam worn down by too many battles returned to its former beauty.
Kate’s heartbeat was that of a hummingbird’s, so rapid even his ears couldn’t tell one beat from another with any clarity. Amused, he finished dipping his claws and waved them dry before turning to see her wide-eyed expression. One dragon shouldn’t look so impressed at another’s hoard, but then, in her brief life she’d never seen one at all. He moved to the side, inclining his head in invitation, and Kate’s eyes widened further before she roiled forward to dip her claws, too.
Metal cooling, she curled up around the base of the molten pool to admire her nails. Janx, with a hiss of smoke and amusement, left her to preen. It would be days, by his reckoning, before she lost interest in the glimmer of her own adorned talons, and there were vast rooms of beloved prizes he had not visited in far too long.
Rome
It was too easy, really. Done in the middle of the night at speeds only her kind could achieve, it was easy. Damp earth was slung aside, iron chains stricken, wooden stakes thrown into the ground. She wasn’t strong, but they were desiccated, barely more than bones in skin sacks. The task took barely three hours, even with moving them to safety.
Finding enough blood to revive them, that was harder.
Tokyo
A slim man, short by Western standards, not particularly handsome, but animated enough to hide it, lifted his eyes in the midst of a business meeting. He looked on a city half a world away, gaze blank with it; blank with the awakening of his brethren and all it portended. Then someone spoke his name and he brought himself back to his duty, a small job in a small company. His apology was made in fluid, flawless Japanese, and his transgression was forgiven, which, all things told, was just as well.
Brooklyn
An older woman—no, an elderly one—came out of her house to tidy snapdragons and tiger lilies in the evening sunlight as she talked on the phone. She crouched in the dirt more easily than a woman of her age might be expected to, pulling and digging at roots and plants with thoughtless practice as she nodded at the voice on the other end of the line. Then she snorted and straightened, and the years fell away until she was no more than older, silver-haired, suddenly still beautiful, and with a raw note of London’s slaughter fields in her voice when she didn’t bother to train it away. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll move on when you two have found somewhere new to settle. Be careful, darling, and give your sister my love.”
Manhattan
It is the highest point in the city easily accessible to a human, especially at night. He’s wiser than to have remained there during the day, but in the first minutes after the sunset releases him, he wings his way there and waits well above the observation deck, observing from his own unique vantage.
And as promised, not too terribly long after the sun has fallen over the horizon, she appears on the observation deck below, a broad smile shaping her face as she turns to search the building’s upper reaches for him.
She’s dressed in a copper gown that fits her curves and makes the warm tones of her skin rich even in the artificial light of a city night. She waves when she sees him, and her smile lights even more, until it reflects the joy within his own heart.
With an incautious glance around, he plummets from his waiting place, landing in a solid crouch at her side. She slides her fingers into his hair, then laughs as he stands and takes her with him. Like any two ordinary lovers, he spins her around in a circle, reveling in the sound of her delight. Reveling in holding her in his arms, and most of all, most incredibly of all, reveling in wonder as Margrit Knight touches her lips to his ear and whispers, “I love you.”
HANDS OF FLAME
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2144-8
Copyright © 2008 by C.E. Murphy
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