by C. E. Murphy
"Yeah. It’s just, you know. I’d kinda like to be the one you go to pieces on."
"I know." Margrit stepped into his arms to hold on to him again for a long moment. "I know. But you’ve got to go to work and find out what son of a bitch did this. Be careful, Tony, okay? For me?"
"I’m always careful." Tony stole a kiss, then brushed his fingers over her cheek. "You be careful, too, okay? I’ll let you know everything I can, as soon as I can. Walk you out?"
"Yeah." Margrit held still, though, making Tony turn back to her. "How did he-how…?" She took a breath as reluctance darkened Tony’s eyes. "It’s going to be in the papers anyway. I’d rather you told me."
"Yeah." Tony thinned his lips, then sighed. "He was suffocated. They don’t even know with what yet."
Margrit lifted a hand to her throat, coloring with the recollection of struggling for air, and shuddered. "Okay. Thank you."
Tony frowned again, taking her hand and pulling her into another hug. "We’ll get him, Grit. Whoever it is, we’ll get him. C’mon. Let’s get you in a cab to go home. I’ll come by tonight if I can, all right?"
"That’d be good." Weary emotion knocked at Margrit’s heart, a brief wish that it might be Alban who’d see her that evening, but the gargoyle had made it more than clear that she was no longer his concern. Living in both worlds was impossible.
That, unexpectedly, broke her. A sob caught in her throat as Tony led her down the courthouse steps and hailed a taxi. "You’ll be okay," he promised as he helped her into the vehicle. "Just hang in there, Grit. I’ll see you tonight."
Margrit nodded, not trusting her voice. Tony gave the cabbie her address, then closed the door and stepped onto the curb to watch her go. She waved goodbye and slid down in the seat, keeping her eyes closed throughout the drive. A litany of disbelief ran through her now that the court case was no longer a distraction: "No, oh no," whispered over and over again. She tilted her head back, trying to stretch tightness out of her throat, and swallowed against the sting there, to no avail. The cabbie’s voice telling her they’d arrived startled her, and she handed over a twenty and climbed out without waiting for the change. Reaching her apartment seemed like the only important thing to do; in its refuge she could let go of control for a few minutes and give in to grief and shock. For once she took the elevator, exhausted by the idea of five flights of stairs.
She let herself in quietly, as if the sound of the lock turning might send her flying apart. Closing the door just as silently took concentration, and when she had, she put both hands on the knob and rested her forehead against the door.
A high-pitched giggle broke the silence. Margrit’s mouth turned up at the corner and she tipped her head toward her housemates’ bedroom, glad she’d come in quietly. They’d get drawn into her misery soon enough. It would’ve been a shame to interrupt their time together by storming in. Margrit took a step back from the door, inhaling deeply.
Their bedroom door flew open. Cameron leapt out with a shriek that rang octaves above Cole’s bellow from the kitchen end of the hall. Water sprayed everywhere to the whir of machine guns, with Margrit caught in the cross fire. She gasped, too startled to scream as Cameron’s and Cole’s shouts turned from glee to surprise. The machine-gun sounds ceased, as did the rain of water, and Margrit, dripping, looked back and forth from one to the other.
Cole wore boxers and nothing else, his black hair slicked with water and dropping into curls around his ears. He stood in a puddle on the kitchen floor and clutched a brilliant green water gun awkwardly, as if it might disappear if he held it still enough. Cameron, at the other end of the hall, wore a sports bra and boy shorts, her long blond hair plastered to her skin. Her machine gun was orange and she held it aloft, water running down her elbow toward the floor. Her eyes bulged with surprise, and her cheeks were flushed with laughter and embarrassment.
Margrit drew herself up and faced Cam, who stood only a few feet away. She put her hand out imperiously and Cameron, turning ever-pinker with guilt, handed the gun over. Margrit turned on her heel and stalked to Cole, her other hand extended. Cameron followed behind her, footsteps squishing in the damp carpet. Cole, looking mortified, gave Margrit his gun. She stepped past him into the kitchen, gun muzzles lowered, then looked back at her sheepish housemates.
"It’s two in the afternoon," Cole mumbled. "What’re you doing home, Grit?"
"That’s, um, not a dry-clean-only outfit, is it, Grit? I’m sorry," Cameron said just as diffidently. "We didn’t expect you to come home."
"It’s not dry-clean," Margrit assured her, then lifted the guns and smiled at Cole. "I’m slaughtering you both, that’s what I’m doing."
The guns whirred and shot bolts of water as Cameron and Cole split, both shrieking like children. Cole slid across the kitchen floor, crashing into the balcony windows with a shout, and Cameron disappeared down the hallway, returning seconds later with a much smaller water pistol, the trigger of which she pulled repeatedly as she waded forward against Margrit’s onslaught. Cole sat down, howling with laughter and kicking his feet against the slick linoleum and Cameron wrested one of the machine guns from Margrit. The two women stood three feet apart, shooting water and laughing until the tubs were empty. Margrit threw hers away, cheeks and stomach aching, then passed a wet hand over her face. Hot tears warmed her fingers, high emotion shattering the defenses she’d gotten through the morning with.
"Margrit?" Cameron’s hilarity fell away as Margrit’s face crumpled, and Cole scrambled to his feet. "Grit, what’s wrong?"
Margrit took a shaking breath, trying to control herself. "I’m home early because Russell was murdered this morning."
Cameron’s arms closed around her, and Margrit began to cry.
"What I really want to know," Margrit said a while later, still sniffling, "is where you got the water guns."
Cole, who’d pulled a T-shirt on and brought Cameron a robe, ducked his head and smiled. "Chef brought them in this morning. His oldest turned twelve yesterday and they had a blow-out water fight birthday party. Everybody was supposed to go home with one, but some of the parents wouldn’t let them, so he brought the spares in to work."
"Bet getting rid of them was his wife’s idea, not his." Margrit rubbed her wrist under her nose. The couch sucked her in, even with Cameron’s arm around her shoulders.
"Yeah," Cole said. "Women. They’re no fun." Cameron flicked a finger in Cole’s direction and he smiled again. "Valkyries don’t count."
"It’s good to be on a pedestal." Cam hugged Margrit. "You okay, hon?"
"No. I’m exhausted. I want to go to bed and sleep for about three days. I completely blew the case this morning." Margrit shook her head. "And I’ve got to…I don’t know. I should find out what’s going on with work. See how people are doing."
"They’re probably doing about like you are, Grit. Russell was a good guy. Even when he pissed you off." Cole looked rueful. "Which he did a lot."
"Yeah, I keep thinking about that. The stunt he pulled with the Daisani building up in Harlem, you know? The whole public perception thing. Pretty black girl makes good, gives back to her community by defending a squatters’ building. Never mind that I grew up in Flushing with a zillion dollars. What mattered was selling the image. I was so angry. ’Course, I learned to play that card, too. Cara Delaney would’ve made such a great witness. She looked so fragile. Everybody would’ve loved her and hated Daisani."
Cameron hugged Margrit’s shoulders. "Well, that’s what a good lawyer does."
"What, plays the hypocrite?" Margrit laughed, perilously close to tears again. "I know. He was a good teacher. Yesterday he was getting all over my case about my career path. I can’t believe he’s dead." She put her hands over her mouth, her fingers icy. "I thought he’d be around forever." A miserable smile moved her fingers. "Or at least until I took his job."
"Ah, c’mon, Grit. You have bigger plans than Legal Aid, don’t you?"
Kaimana Kaaiai’s broad face flashed in
Margrit’s mind, bringing a cascade of images, all the men and women of the Old Races she’d met. She curled a lip, their thoughts unwelcome in the face of loss. Unwelcome, but pointed; Kaaiai’s request lent her an opportunity for bigger things on a scale Margrit could barely find an equivalent to in the human world. "I guess so."
"Thought so." Cole got off the couch, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and creating a poof of loose curls. "Why don’t you take a nap and I’ll make something fantastic for dinner and we can all go out afterward and get shit-faced?"
"You know," Margrit said after a moment, "I can’t think of a single reason why that wouldn’t be a good idea. Cam?"
"Aside from being a teetotaler, nope. I’ll bloat myself with ginger ale." Cameron nudged Margrit off the couch. "Go rest. I’ll wake you up if Tony or anyone calls."
"Thank you." Margrit got up and headed for her bedroom, peeling half-dried clothes off as she went.
"Margrit?" Cam scratched on the door and pushed it open, voice quiet and apologetic. Margrit rose up in bed with a sharp breath, sleepily confused as to where she was. "Hey," Cameron said softly. "Sorry. You’ve got a phone call."
"Tony?" Margrit scrubbed her hands over her face and swung her legs off the bed, trying to wake up.
"No, he says his name’s Kaimana Kaaiai. Isn’t he-"
"Yeah. The guy I met at the reception the other night. What time is it?" Margrit squinted toward her clock. "God, I’ve been asleep two hours? Feels like about three minutes." She got to her feet, and thrust her hand out for the phone imperiously.
Cam handed it over. "Yeah. I’m sorry, but I thought you might want to talk to him."
"No, it’s okay. I was expecting a call."
Cameron nodded and waved goodbye as Margrit brought the phone to her ear, wishing she sounded more awake as she said, "This is Margrit."
"Margrit, hello, Kaimana Kaaiai here. I’m sorry to call at such a bad time."
"No." Margrit shook her head and reached for a pair of jeans, trying to wake herself up through action. "It’s okay. Nothing you can do about it." She’d traded sounding tired for brusqueness, and couldn’t decide if it was an improvement.
"Still, please accept my condolences."
"Thank you. Mr. Kaaiai, if you have a little time this afternoon-"
"Please call me Kaimana."
Margrit took a deep breath and held it a moment, trying to work civilization back into her tone. "Kaimana. Thank you. If you’ve got time this afternoon, or if I can meet up with Cara, that’d be great. I forgot to set up a time to do that yesterday." For a moment the impulse to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head assailed her. It seemed impossible that it had only been yesterday that she’d re-met Cara.
"Just what I was going to suggest. Marese has cleared my schedule. You could come over, or I could drop by."
"Here?" Margrit coughed in horror. "I live in a shoebox apartment with two friends, Kaimana. It’s great for us, but it’s a little underwhelming for you."
Kaimana chuckled. "I wasn’t always rich, Margrit. But if you’d be uncomfortable with me visiting, come to the hotel. We’ll have an early dinner."
Margrit looked at the jeans she’d pulled on and swallowed a sigh. As if he’d heard, Kaimana added, "In the room, if you like. No need to dress up."
"That would be great. Something light," Margrit said, mindful of Cole’s offer to cook for her. "I’ll be over as soon as I let my housemates know, and catch a cab."
"I look forward to it." Kaimana hung up and Margrit put the phone down, staring mindlessly across the room for a few seconds. Then she shook herself and got a box out of the closet, unfolding tissue paper to check the state of the sealskin she’d been keeping safe. The fur was never as soft as she expected it to be, though it looked rich and comforting. Satisfied with its condition, she closed the box and pulled a fitted T-shirt on before leaving her room for the kitchen, where the scent of a red sauce was starting to fill the air.
"Hey, look who’s awake. You get any rest?" Cole turned away from the stove to smile at her. Margrit wobbled a hand.
"A little. I’ve got to run an errand. I might be late for dinner, but if there are leftovers I’ll be grateful, okay?"
"We can wait, if you want."
"Nah." Margrit managed a small smile of her own. "You know how Cam gets if she doesn’t eat regularly. Moody," she intoned.
"In the same way grizzlies are moody."
"I heard that!"
They both laughed, Cole calling, "I looove you," toward the living room. Cameron snorted and Margrit went to find shoes, her heart lighter than it had been all day.
Had she chosen another pair, she reflected as the city crawled by, she might have walked to the Sherry faster than she’d arrive in a cab. There was no rush hour in New York, only brief spates when the crush lessened. Six in the evening was not one of those times. Margrit frowned at the low backless heels she’d put on as if it was their fault she’d chosen them. Concentrating on them gave her something less debilitating to think about than the day’s events, but she was grateful when the cab pulled up to the hotel and she could put off emotional warfare with social niceties. Marese let her into Kaimana’s suites with the same deadpan expression as before, and Kaimana himself turned from a small table by the balcony.
"I went ahead and ordered some appetizers. If there’s nothing you like I can always call for more."
"It’ll be fine. Thanks." Margrit smiled and shook the selkie’s hand. "Is Cara here?"
"I’m afraid not. She’s attending to some other business for me." Kaimana nodded toward the box Margrit carried. "If you’d like to put that aside, I’ll be delighted to deliver it to her."
Reluctance clutched Margrit’s heart and she hugged the box, then wrinkled her nose and balanced it on the couch corner. It didn’t matter who gave it to Cara, as long as the selkie girl got it back. "I hope I’ll get a chance to see her again. Is she part of your entourage now?"
Kaimana gestured to the table, then held Margrit’s chair for her. "My entourage. What an idea. But I suppose so, in a way." He took the seat across from her, eyebrows arched as he lifted a bottle of white wine. Margrit made a moue and nodded, and Kaimana poured two glasses as he spoke. "I’m sure you’ll see her again. In fact, that’s something I wanted to discuss with you, in a roundabout way."
"Cara?" Margrit lifted the glass and took a small sip of wine, then did a double take. "That’s very nice."
"It should be. I think it’s older than you are." Kaimana smiled at the startled expression Margrit felt cross her face, then brought the conversation back on topic. "Less Cara than the others, but you’ll certainly see her again. I’d like you to arrange a meeting with Janx and Daisani. Somewhere public."
Margrit set her wine glass aside with a sound of disbelief. "Janx and Daisani don’t meet in public, Kaimana."
"I have confidence in your resourcefulness."
"Why?" Margrit cut his answer off before he spoke. "Not why do you have confidence, although I’d like to know that, too, but why in public? You’re not as rich as Daisani, but it can’t be good for your image to be hanging around with people like Janx."
"If I were concerned with my human image, you’d be right, but this isn’t about my mundane existence. It does have to be public, somewhere easily accessible, and ideally somewhere that crowds gather. I’d prefer not to tell you the details, for your own sake."
"There’s no way not knowing is going to make me safer."
Kaimana narrowed his eyes in thought. "In this case, I think it might. It allows you to plead ignorance, which might be the wiser course."
"You want me to lie to Eliseo Daisani and Janx-" Margrit broke off in turn, realizing she’d never heard the dragonlord referred to by a second name. "And Janx? Are you nuts? They’d kill me. Both of them. They’d take turns."
"Not lie. Misdirect. And I think I can guarantee they won’t be interested in you once we’ve met. They’ll have other things on their minds."
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"It’s the ‘I think’ part that makes me nervous." Margrit picked up an appetizer and bit into it without looking to see what it was. Heat flooded her mouth, bringing tears to her eyes, and Kaimana nudged a wine glass toward her. She took a swallow that did no justice to the vintage and wiped her eyes as alcohol cut through the hot oils. "Why would I agree to this, without knowing what your plan is?"
"Because I believe the end result will rattle the sea floor and change will ride on the tide, and you think we must change or die." Kaimana waited a moment, watching her, then nodded as Margrit felt reluctant agreement settle over her. "Tomorrow, if it’s possible, Margrit. Set the meeting for tomorrow night."
Margrit climbed the steps to her apartment and let herself in, rubbing the back of her neck as she did so. The lingering scent of sauce and grilled meat made her stomach rumble, reminding her she’d eaten only a bite or two at the hotel. "Anybody home?" Voices fell silent in the living room, then picked up again with, "There she is," and, "In here, Grit." She kicked her shoes off and walked barefoot through the kitchen.
"I could use another eight hours of sle -Mom?" Margrit blinked in surprise as her mother stood up from the easy chair Cole normally claimed. Cole scrambled to his feet as well, old-fashioned manners coming through as they always did when Rebecca Knight visited. Margrit had never been able to decide if she was relieved or distressed that other people found her mother as intimidating as she did.
Rebecca looked out of place in the mismatched apartment, her elegant fragility more suited to museum halls as a sculptor’s masterpiece. Her fine-boned, narrow figure lent her an illusion of height, and while Margrit had learned her dress sense from her mother, Rebecca’s tailored suits always hung better and enhanced her cafe-latte skin’s warmth better than anything Margrit ever wore. A few dark freckles across her nose were her most humanizing factor. When she blended those away with makeup and took her hair down for an evening out, Rebecca Knight became the equivalent of a screen goddess to her daughter’s eyes. Margrit had always had the half-formed idea that Rebecca’s refinement came from her outward form, and that her own lusher curves made her hopelessly earthy in comparison to her polished mother. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, even a dressy one, while Rebecca wore a fitted suit, made the idea stand out in relief in Margrit’s mind as she hurried to give her a hug. "Mom, what’re you doing here?"
