House of Cards n-2

by C. E. Murphy

  A pulse of desire ran through her, spiking in her groin and breasts, even making her hands ache with need. "I’m sure."

  An instant later the gown slid down, tangling briefly in Margrit’s shoes. She laughed, kicking at the fabric but unable to loosen the straps that held her shoes in place. For a moment the garment fluttered beside them, a living thing of twisting, pale gold in the blue light, before it began its descent to the city below. Margrit reached toward it, half envying its freedom to fall, but then brought herself back to Alban’s warmth without regret. Only with him could she come close to having that very freedom, and the desire to do so grew within her, aching and demanding. She hitched her thigh over his hip again, pressing liquid heat against the waistband of his jeans and drawing a rumble from him. "You’re considerably less than half-dressed now."

  His fingers bumped over her hip, where the narrow line of a thong bikini was all that marred the skin. He tangled his hand in the elastic, turning his head to meet Margrit’s gaze. She nodded, tiny breathless motion, and he snapped the band, easily, possessively. Margrit, half expecting it, still gasped with a thrill of pleasure as her heartbeat surged, a primal response to Alban’s show of strength.

  He murmured, "Hold on to me," and Margrit, as if she hadn’t been, knotted her arms around his neck and sought his throat with her lips. His warmth against her was the comfort of heated stone, profound enough that even with wind rushing by, its chill seemed to pass over her unnoticed. Alban shifted her up his body again, moving her small mass rather than duck his head and endanger the pattern of their flight as he covered her nipples with his mouth. Margrit swallowed a cry, then let it go, amused at the idea that someone might be close enough to hear. Trusting Alban’s grip on her, she loosened her hands from around his neck, but he made a sound of discouragement. "Hold on."

  "But-"

  "Later." Soft humor tinged the word. "There will be time for me later." He shifted his grip on her bottom, drawing her leg farther over his hip before he took advantage of the changed position and slipped a knuckled finger between her thighs from behind. Margrit went rigid, hands knotted in his hair as she keened, opening herself farther to his touch. His exploration was gentle, parting folds and seeking heat until she buried her face in his shoulder, trying to catch her breath. Alban murmured in delight, encouraging her response by finding her center of pleasure and covering it with a delicacy that belied the danger of taloned hands. The whimpered pleas that erupted from Margrit’s throat were incoherent with need, earning a sound of pleasure from her lover. He folded a second knuckle inward, offering sweet teasing to a body aching to be touched, and then a whispered apology. "No more. These hands aren’t made for a body as fragile as yours."

  Frustrated heat swept Margrit’s cheeks. "Other parts of you must be." She let her grip loosen, sliding down Alban’s body a few inches, trusting him to hold her, and all but losing her grasp entirely when it was the hand between her thighs that caught her weight. Pleasure shot through her, whiting out the moonlight and briefly overriding any vestiges of cold she might have felt. Alban’s breath hitched at the hard pulse against his fingers, then again as raging desire brought Margrit’s hungry mouth to his chest, her tongue and teeth seeking out a nipple. She breathed, "Don’t let me fall," against his skin, then flattened her hand against his belly and slid it beneath the waistband of his jeans.

  Her own skin hadn’t felt cold to her until she wrapped her fingers around the silken heat of Alban’s length. He rumbled, a deep aching sound of desire, then suddenly surged upward, no longer content to glide in ever-sinking circles. Margrit gasped in shy delight as the very beat of his wings helped her find a rhythm to stroke him with, until impatience brought her hand free so she could tug open his jeans and explore him more fully. Alabaster skin, unmarred by curls, glowed in contrast to the denim, in contrast to the darkness of Margrit’s skin in the moonlight. She blurted, "Look," in a high voice, garnering a rough laugh from the gargoyle.

  "We may fall from the sky if I do. Your hands are…"

  "Cold," Margrit offered. "Dark. Small."

  "Extraordinary," Alban groaned. "Margrit, it has been…a very long time since anyone has touched me so." A shudder ran over him, extending to his wing tips, and he leveled out again, beginning the circling a new.

  Possessiveness surged through Margrit, bearing hunger with it. She tightened her fingers around him, making a demand of the touch. "Good," she said irrationally. "That makes you mine." Her heart ached at the pronouncement, and unexpected gladness took her breath away. There was a world below that she’d moved away from, leaving little in the way of regret: things she might have done differently, perhaps, but no results she would change, not now, not sharing the sky with a gargoyle. "Your world," she whispered. "Your world is the one I want to belong to, Alban. Your world, with you. Can I be a part of it?" She drew herself up his body again, seeking his wide mouth, hoping he could taste the desire and hope in her kiss.

  "You already are. Whether you choose to remain…" Loss sounded in his voice, sparking ferocious in Margrit’s resolve.

  "I do." With her dark gaze fixed on Alban’s, she shifted her weight, curling her legs around his waist.

  "Margrit." Her name was a hoarse whisper. "Margrit." The same emotions she’d felt, hope and desire, conflicted in his voice. "Margrit, this form, your size-" It was her own once-voiced laughing objection that he tried to remind her of, but she stopped his objections with a kiss.

  "I know." Her own voice was low, intense. "I know what I said. But tall men fit with small women all the time, and I want you. I want you. My Alban. My gargoyle." She nuzzled his throat, shivering, and whispered, "Don’t let me fall."

  "Never." Alban’s reply was torn away by the wind, but his hands were certain, encompassing her waist as they guided one another in joining. Rough denim scraped Margrit’s inner thighs, a delicious counterpart to the silken strength within her. Then there were only soft whispers of focused astonishment as Margrit clung to her lover in the night sky, circling, circling, always circling, toward the earth.

  "Leave me on my balcony." Margrit pushed at Alban, moving him not an inch.

  Gradual descent had taken them to rooftops, their bodies entwined in lovemaking until Alban lifted his head toward the east, his expression dismayed. Margrit had demanded his tuxedo jacket and shirt from his other form, and wore them now, hugging the oversize clothes to her body. The shirt fell halfway to her knees, almost a dress in itself, though she’d given her gold strapped shoes a rueful look for not matching Alban’s silver-threaded suit. "Alban, dawn is coming. You need to go home."

  "I don’t want to leave you."

  Margrit nudged him again. "You’ll turn to stone with daylight whether you want to or not. I’d rather be home safe-because I am not walking through New York in this outfit-and I’d rather you didn’t stay out so long you turned to stone in midflight. I’ll still want you tonight," she promised more softly, then stepped closer to him, curling her fingers against the stony smoothness of his chest. "You could come to dinner. I could cook."

  Teasing danced in Alban’s pale gaze. "Is that incentive or reason to stay away?"

  She laughed. "It’s not too bad. Not as good as Cole cooking, but not too bad. A late dinner, maybe, around nine? That would give you plenty of time to get there."

  "What about your housemates?"

  "They’ll be polite, at least. They were all right last night. Yesterday. Whenever that was."

  "All right." Alban stole a kiss before murmuring, "Though I don’t see what’s wrong with your outfit." He chortled over Margrit’s splutter of protest and scooped her up, springing skyward. Winging across the Manhattan skyline seemed to take no time at all, Margrit stepping out of Alban’s arms onto her balcony only minutes later.

  "Nine o’clock, okay?"

  "I’ll be here." Alban bowed his head to linger in a kiss. "Thank you, Margrit."

  She crooked a smile, wanting to brush off his thanks, and at the same time feelin
g she understood the impulse that prompted it. "Good night, Alban."

  He shared her smile, then turned and cast himself off the balcony into the lightening sky. Margrit watched him go, then tipped her head up, smiling at the few stars left in the night, before tugging on the balcony door.

  It stuck, making her grimace in dismay. A second pull verified that it was locked. She spun around, knowing it was too late to call Alban back, hoping it might not be. Not even his shadow was visible in the burgeoning light. She smacked her palms against the balcony railing in a nonverbal curse. The street below was comparatively quiet, but climbing down the fire escape ladders in her current clothing…Margrit gnashed her teeth, seeing nothing to be done for it.

  She’d stepped up to the railing, about to swing her leg over it, when the balcony door’s lock clicked, resounding in the morning stillness. Margrit froze as the door slid open, then forced herself to turn her head and look back.

  Cole stood framed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He looked Margrit up and down, then, blandly, said, "Nice shoes."

  CHAPTER 29

  Sickness churned in Margrit’s stomach, bringing a cold sweat to her skin. Cole’s expression was accusing as he moved out of the doorway. She hugged herself, trying not to touch her housemate as she brushed by. Cool air followed her in, then was shut away again with the sliding of the door. "Lock yourself out?"

  Margrit took a breath to answer, realized the futility of trying, and released it again unburdened by words. Cole’s voice followed her to the kitchen door, stopping her. "’Course, you don’t have your purse. And I was in the kitchen anyway, so you’d have had to come past me to get onto the balcony. Or, oh, did you come down the fire escape? In that?"

  Margrit turned her head toward him, trying a second time to find words. Cole leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. Tension radiated across the room, making the air hard to breathe. "What was that thing, Margrit?"

  Horror plummeted through Margrit like a dead weight, cutting strength from her legs. "Who-"

  "Don’t. Whatever you’re going to tell me, whatever bullshit story you’re about to make up, don’t even fucking bother with it, Grit. I saw that thing. Alban?" he asked incredulously, unfolding one arm to gesture sharply at her borrowed clothes. "Is that what that thing was? I saw it land on the balcony with you. I saw you kiss it and I saw it fly away again. What the fuck is it?"

  "It is a he." Forcing the reply made Margrit’s throat hurt, as much physical pain as the desperate, panicked beat of her heart. "That was Alban, yes. That was…Alban." The delight and wonder of the night she’d just shared with him seemed horribly fragile now, slipping away in the face of Cole’s furious bewilderment.

  "Then what the fuck is he?"

  "He’s a gargoyle." Margrit heard herself answer from a distance, no prevarication offering itself in lieu of the truth. "He belongs to another race. Where’s Cameron?"

  Cole made a strangled sound. "She’s sleeping. What do you mean, another race? Like an alien?" Disbelief struggled with the evidence his own eyes had provided, the ability to dismiss Margrit’s weary statement already corrupted.

  "Yeah." She dropped her chin to her chest. "Not from another planet. Just…a leftover evolutionary tract, maybe. That’s what they think. Like Neanderthals," she whispered. "But more incredible. That was why he couldn’t go to the cops in January." She lifted her gaze again, staring down the hall. "He couldn’t risk it." She dared a glance at her housemate and found his countenance bleak. "You can’t tell anybody, Cole."

  "Tell anybody?" His voice shot up a register. "Who the hell would I tell? The tabloids? Great front-page headlines. My roommate’s fucking an alien."

  Margrit flinched. "Don’t." Her delivery of the word held more beseechment than his had. "Last night was the first time Alban and I were together. Don’t make it ugly, Cole. He means more to me than that."

  "How can he mean anything to you? He’s-he’s-"

  "Not human." Margrit shifted her shoulders. "He’s still a person, and I care about him."

  "Are you out of your mind?" Cole shoved away from the counter and came to stand over her, a grasping hand suggesting he wanted to grab her and shake her. "What the hell do you think you’re doing with that thing? Does this have something to do with your new job?"

  Margrit stared up at him, some of her cold horror breaking away to reveal kindling anger. "My-why would it?"

  "Because it’s one more thing that’s not fitting. Daisani and that freak-"

  "Cole!"

  "What? He’s a freak, Margrit! You just said he wasn’t even human. Jesus Christ, like I’m supposed to know what to say, what to think? You think I should just be cool with this? I wouldn’t even know how to start being cool. I sure as hell don’t get how you can justify screwing something like that."

  Anger bloomed, burning her sickness away. "You screwed me."

  Cole’s jaw dropped. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

  "You ask ten people on the street and seven of them will tell you I’m a different race from you." Margrit thrust her hands toward Cole, cafe-latte skin pinked with anger. "Sure, we only went out a couple weeks, but hey, you still had sex with somebody from a different race. So Alban’s a different race from me. It doesn’t make him less of a person."

  "Jesus, Margrit, we both belong to the human ra -"

  "But they call it racism. Believe me, I’ve had this conversation with myself about a thousand times since January, and the only answer I can come up with is to keep it all secret." Margrit shoved out of the doorway, removing herself from Cole’s space. "I keep thinking maybe I could tell somebody, but look at how humans treat each other. I have some idea of what would happen to him if we knew his people existed. We’d tear them apart. And you-you’re proving my point for me. You’re supposed to be well-educated and liberal, and you’re freaking the fuck out. Not exactly a great start to outing a whole different race of people to the world."

  "What the hell do you expect me to say?"

  "I really don’t know!" Margrit threw a frustrated punch at the air, the silver-shot sleeve of Alban’s jacket reminding her painfully of the warmth and happiness she’d found in his arms. "Maybe, ‘Gosh, it’s great you met somebody, Margrit.’ That’d be nice. Unfuckingrealistic, but nice."

  "I can’t believe you invited that thing into our house."

  "Jesus Christ, Cole! He’s not a monster! Ted Bundy was a monster. I just wanted you to meet this guy I really like, this guy who understands why-" An angry laugh broke her voice. "Who understands why I run in the park at night. No, I wasn’t going to tell you he wasn’t human, because first you’d never believe me if you didn’t see it for yourself, and if you saw it you’d do this!" She tore her hand through the air as if their fight had a physical presence. "What else could I do?"

  "Get married to Tony!" Cole kept the shout between his teeth, robbing it of volume but not passion. "Have babies, have a career, have an ordinary life!"

  "I’m not in love with Tony!"

  Cole stepped back as if the admission had been made to break his heart. Margrit’s anger drained away, strength of emotion wiped out by the weight of confession. It had been barely a day since she’d voiced her love for the detective, but only now did she consider the quality of that love, and found truth in what she said next. "Tony’s a great guy. But somewhere along the line I stopped being in love with him. Maybe we’re too much the same, I don’t know. Both of us too determined to fix the world our way to try to accept the other’s. Maybe we were too much in the habit of each other to let it go. I care about him. But he wants me to be something I don’t want to be."

  "What?" Like hers, Cole’s voice sounded drawn. Margrit turned her palms up, lacing her fingers together as if joining them would provide an answer.

  "Tethered." The word hung between them heavily, as Margrit stared at her hands. "Tony’s grounded. All the things I grew up working toward. Practical, sensible, earthbound. Working toward ma
king concrete, possible changes in the world." She looked up again, feeling helpless. "Alban has wings."

  "I thought that was what you wanted. You’re so damned focused, Grit. You always were. Five-star high school, top-notch college, ambitious public servant career. It’s what you’ve been after as long as I’ve known you. All you need to make the picture perfect is a husband and two point five kids. Instead you’ve decided you…I don’t even know what. You want a thing, and a career as Eliseo Daisani’s errand boy?"

  "I want to make a difference." Margrit slumped against the counter. "The school, the job, the whole point was getting to a position where I could leave the world a better place than I found it. Townsend…" She put a hand over her face. "You know this. Townsend High School makes a big deal about doing just that, with an oath about it and everything. I took it seriously, and I can make more difference to Alban and his world than I can possibly explain. This is what I want. It’s just that the trappings aren’t what I expected."

  "What about a family, Grit? What about a real life? You can’t have that with- him."

  "We haven’t gotten that far," she said quietly. "Come on, Cole. Tony and I broke up two days ago, for heaven’s sake. I hadn’t seen Alban for months, not until this week." She sighed, lifting her hands to her face. They were cold against her burning cheeks. "And it’s not impossible. If that’s what we decide we want."

  "What’s not? A family? A life? A family, Grit?" Cole’s voice rose in dismay. "How could you-"

  "Look at me, Cole." Margrit lowered her hands, spreading them and gesturing at her skin tones, then at the loose curls falling over her shoulders. "I come from two or three definable ethnic backgrounds. Bloodlines mingle. It’s not impossible."

  "But he’s not even-"

  "It’s possible, Cole," Margrit said more firmly. "You’re just going to have to trust me on that."

  Fresh horror bloomed across Cole’s face. "Trust y-you’re not pregnant, are you?"