Hands of Flame (32 page)

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.”

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.

“When first we practice to deceive. Where do you think you're going, Margrit?” Grace came out of the shadows, ethereal as always. More than usual, even, as slightly detached from the world as she'd been when Margrit had first awakened in the docking garage.

Margrit stopped, not quite looking at her and half expecting that she'd fade away, nothing more than an illusion. “To Janx's place. Or I hoped I was. It's funny.” Her voice sounded hollow and light to her own ears.

“Getting lost finding the dragonlord's chambers is funny?”

“Do you think I was dead?” The question felt like a non sequitur even to Margrit, thoughts and speech not quite in tandem with one another.

Grace, at the corner of Margrit's vision, looked startled. “Near enough to it, love. Why?”

“Because you've looked different since I came back.” Margrit risked a full-on glance at the blonde, then shuttered her gaze away again, watching Grace all but shimmer in her peripheral vision. “Because I keep thinking, only not really thinking, because when I think, it gets cloudy. I just have this idea down in the back of my brain. About how you always turn up places faster than you should be able to. About how sometimes in that fight I was sure I'd hit you but it kind of shivered off. About how you got Alban out of those chains, and how you got through my locked front door.”

Margrit blinked hard and turned her full attention to Grace. “And about why a modern-day folk hero would name herself after a centuries-old pirate and brigand. You're human, aren't you. But you're not…alive. And the only reason I can see it is because I died myself.”

“It's been a long time since anyone's seen Grace so clearly.” The tall vigilante disappeared from sight as she spoke, not in the coalescing manner that djinn did, but simply gone, blinking out and leaving her voice to linger. It came again from behind Margrit, light and amused and traced with approval. “Grace has her secrets. Grace has her ways.”

Margrit spun around, heartbeat high with excitement and confusion. “What are—Are you a ghost? How—?”

Grace spread long fingers in a move both dismissive and accepting. “Cursed, love. Making up for old sins, I told you that once and again. Grace O'Malley spilled a fair lot of blood in her day, and some of it should have stayed in the veins it fell from. What will you do, now that you have the truth of me?”

Feeling stupid with astonishment, Margrit blurted, “Can I help?”

Surprise filtered over Grace's expression, and her white-blond hair and pale skin lit with a glow, as though a veil had been taken down from Margrit's vision. A stronger feeling of foolishness rose in her, tightening her chest: it seemed impossible that the inhuman woman before her ever could have been mistaken for someone ordinary. “Not unless you can give me the kiss of angels, Margrit Knight. I've searched for it for four centuries and found nothing yet, and I think you'll take it right if I say I don't think it'll be from your lips. The thought is kind, though, and more than I might have expected. What will you do?”

“Grace has her secrets,” Margrit echoed. “None of them know?”

“There's a reason I won't cross the likes of Janx or Daisani. They know I've been around a long time, but I might've drunk of a vampire's blood, or I might be born of some illicit union like the one that fathered those two girls. It's better not to ask, sometimes. It's better not to know. And I stay in the shadows most often, doing my work and staying out of their way.”

“But you haven't. You've been helping and interfering all over the place the last few months.”

Grace flashed a smile. “It's not often that a gargoyle
and a lawyer walk into my tunnels, love.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, said, “That ought to start a joke,” then looked back at Margrit, smile fading to something gentle and wry. “And I suppose that for all the years, I'm still only human at heart. Curiosity gets the best of us every time.”

“Who cursed you? What happens if you find the kiss of angels? What
is
the kiss of angels?”

“A witch, Margrit, and don't say what I see in your eyes. There are gargoyles and ghosts and dragons, my girl, so don't say there are no witches. I don't know,” she said easily, for once offering a straight answer. “If I knew, maybe I'd have found it long ago. And perhaps if I do find it, I leave this world behind. I've haunted it long enough that I wouldn't mind. What,” she asked for the third time, “will you do?”

“The gargoyles are going to want to know how you freed Alban, but until they come asking, I'll…” Margrit turned her palms up, and with the gesture finally understood the reticence that had stayed Alban's tongue, had stayed all the Old Races when she'd asked them about their peoples or others. Alban had said more than once that some stories weren't his to tell, and for the first time, sympathy and comprehension settled in Margrit's bones. “I'll keep your secret, Grace, and send them to you for the answers.”

Grace bowed her head, the gesture of thanks taking some of the glow away, so that when she looked up again, her brown eyes were little more than ordinary. Margrit could still see a subtle aura of wrongness around Grace, but it was something her eyes could forgive as a trick of the light, if she let them.

A great deal of the world she'd been thrust into was a
matter of letting, and being, and accepting, all in ways that rubbed uncomfortably against her skin. But the art of compromise was one lawyers were supposed to be good at, and, watching Grace almost fading into the shadows again, the letting it be seemed one Margrit could live with. “Can you show me the way to Janx's room before you go?”

“Pah,” Grace said, suddenly cheerful. “I'll have to, won't I, or I'll be listening to you crash around in the dark all night. This way, lawyer. Let's go.” She tilted her head and struck off down a tunnel, leaving Margrit to catch up.

Familiar voices warned her that they'd found their way, but as she drew breath to thank Grace, the vigilante shrugged and disappeared. Margrit's jaw flapped before she pulled it up into a smile and shook her head at the theatrics she was becoming accustomed to.

Janx, somewhere in the near distance, was speaking with his usual insufferable self-satisfaction. Margrit's smile turned to a grin as she recognized his tale of the tapestries that softened the walls of his chamber. She wondered what stories had taken father and daughter and sister through the remaining night and all of the day, if he was only just now telling them of the tapestries and the windows that had been made in their likeness.

“The last of the arachne made the tapestries,” he was saying. “The youngest, as it happened. There were only ever three, and fate turned its hand against crone and mother.”

“There couldn't possibly be only three,” Kate said tartly. “They must've had parents.”