Hands of Flame (36 page)

MARGRIT CRASHED TO
the floor, clutching her head in her hands as Alban's presence became larger than he was. Gullies opened up around her, deep stony rents in the earth that she feared plummeting through, and from them mountains shot up, heaving and writhing, as though the gargoyle memories were under attack. Static washed through her mind, blaring white noise louder than her own thoughts, louder than anything she'd ever experienced, even the endless ruin of the House of Cards, even the shattering destruction of Daisani's apartment.

She forced her eyes open, trying to see in the world she knew still existed around her. It wavered through the concepts of the gargoyle overmind, but Janx had stopped fighting. The dragonlord looked as stricken as she felt, taloned feet clawing at his own head, as though he might scrape away the double-world that surrounded him. The twins, too, writhed in pain, all of them experiencing the same blasted reality she saw.

Of all of them, Daisani remained on his feet, countenance angry as he faced Alban.
Challenged
Alban: the slight
vampire leaned into the chaotic world as though he might edge his way forward, put himself in the gargoyle's space and fight for whatever last vestiges of control might be his.

Wrong; it was wrong. That undercurrent came through clearly, Alban's agony and worry over how the world had changed. There was certainty in him, certainty that forcing his way into Daisani's mind had opened a channel that wasn't meant to be. Certainty that Margrit's presence exacerbated the wrongness, her bewildering talent for connecting nongargoyle minds to the gestalt hissing to deadly life. None of the Old Races in the apartment could escape it. Margrit felt Alban's fear that none of the Old Races in the city, perhaps the world, could escape it; that he had gone much too far in a pursuit of dubious justice, or in a misguided attempt to save Old Races lives.

With that conclusion, she felt him begin to draw back, trying to break the forcible link he'd created. Dismay tore at her throat and she shoved to her feet, finding strength to stand against the relentless noise in her head. She pushed by Alban, determined to meet Eliseo Daisani in the battleground of memory herself, if the gargoyle could not.

The ground under her feet steadied as she approached Daisani, though whether that was through his willpower or her own, she had no idea. She felt Alban's protest at the back of her mind and ignored it; felt Janx's curiosity driving her on, and took strength from it. Daisani only smirked at her, faint expression of superiority, as though he considered himself untouchable.

It was oddly satisfying to reach out and slap the expression from his face.

Fury followed shock, and the vampire blurred, disappearing from visible sight. Margrit whipped to follow
him, and when he struck against her, slammed a hand up to catch his blow.

Astonishment wiped every other emotion from Daisani's eyes. Margrit's answering smile felt ugly with smug delight and she leaned toward Daisani, still holding his wrist. “You're only faster than me in the real world.”

He yanked away and fled again, impossible speed across rough terrain. Margrit, gleefully, gave chase. In the human world, constrained by her human body, she could never hope to catch the vampire, but in her mind, oh, in her mind, she was
fast
.

The thought tasted of Alban, as though he'd given up trying to pull back and was now urging her on. Urging her to finish the race, urging her to end the game and release them all from the harsh, static connection she created within the overmind, amongst the Old Races. Remembering her own deadly headache, Margrit overcame regret at being unable to play cat and mouse with Daisani, and put on a surge of speed that turned the world to Doppler effects, stretched light and sound whisking by her.

She caught Daisani in a floodplain that seemed a thousand years away from the gargoyle mountains. His territory, she thought, though it was as easily hers, tall wild grass and open land looking like a birthplace of humanity.

They came together with a monumental crash, Margrit flinging herself off the ground to tackle the slender vampire. She had no particular strength, but then, neither did he: any preternatural power came from speed, and she thought she had the slight weight advantage. Dust and earth kicked up around them as they crashed to the savannah floor, and Margrit gathered Daisani's lapels in her hands to haul him up, nose to nose.

“Where are the bodies buried, Eliseo?”

Daisani hissed, a sound of pure fury and insult that lost any vestige of humanity. His face, his body, his whole form melted away, becoming oil-slick and hellacious. His jaw unhinged into a maw of black teeth, and his eyes disappeared into nearly invisible slits. Segmented, insectoid wings sprang from his back and slammed toward her, razor claws along their edges slashing at her face and hands. Margrit screamed, kicking away, and he pounced after her, a lashing, barbed tail whipping toward her feet. He was altogether more alien than any of the others, every trace of earthly presence turned into a slick, violent predator too fast to stop.

Panic rose in her, then unexpectedly broke, leaving a calm tide behind. Daisani's pounce landed, sending them tumbling again, and rather than try to escape this time, Margrit surged forward and embraced the vampire, shuddering at the way his oil slid over her skin.

Surprise froze him in place for just an instant, and into that stillness she whispered, “If I'm going to die, I'm sure as hell going to find out what I'm dying for. Alban,
please!
”

For the second time in as many minutes, the world fell apart.

 

It re-formed much more solidly, a structure imposed that had not been there before. Daisani screamed as though the sound was being ripped from his soul, then writhed back into the dapper human form Margrit was so accustomed to. Panting rage in his eyes said it was not his choice to be so shaped, and his skittering glance at the echoing building in which they stood told Margrit he knew where they were.

Alban's presence surrounded them, his will a thing of stone, indomitable. More and more walls built up around Margrit and Daisani, each of them borne from a snarl or a whimper from the vampire. Tangled in Alban's mind and Daisani's memories, Margrit recognized that the gargoyle was literally stripping hidden knowledge from the vampire and re-creating it openly. His own reluctance to do so was buried beneath a determination to save her; he had failed her more than once, and the price of doing so again was far too dear.

For the first time Margrit's own will faltered, but it was too late: the church was built, and a familiar voice was speaking. “They must be bound by iron, staked with wood, buried in earth and water.”

“Yes,” said another voice irritably, “very dramatic, but how do I
catch
them?”

The angle reeled, Daisani turning to face the man with whom he spoke. A big man, his regular features lined with intense determination, he was dressed in clothes of a wholly different era, clothes that marked him, to Margrit's eye, as out of place and time, though she knew it was she who was out of time. But recognition worked its way through the minds linked to Daisani's memories:
vampire hunter
, Janx whispered.
The most successful of them all
. Margrit was afraid to even think the name, afraid she would be wrong, afraid looking into history-made-fiction might somehow unravel time. She knotted her hands against her mouth, stopping all sound, and held her breath to listen to Daisani's murmur.

“Ah. You caught me. Can you not manage it again?”

Fresh shock coursed through the link, Margrit's added
to it all. Daisani's rage, beneath the power of memory, was muted, so muted she couldn't tell if it was fury from decades ago, or newly born at being made to relive and share remembrances.

The big man made a disdainful sound. “You are no more captured than the wind might be. You've walked into this trap, and I want to know why.”

“My kind and I are half sick of shadows,” Daisani said lightly. “Half sick of jumping at them, at fearing some idiot human will embody the very persona of fortune and slaughter us in our sleep. I have therefore come to make you a bargain.”

Tension sizzled through the link, Margrit's breath catching as profoundly as the hunter's did. “What sort of bargain?”

“One you'll agree to or die here,” Daisani admitted, then shrugged. “But I think it'll be to your tastes. I will deliver you my brethren, and in exchange, you will forget I exist, and let me make my way in the world.”

Ursula's cry of outrage broke through memory and brought with it the scent of fire, reminding Margrit of the world outside history. The apartment was enveloping in flame, and while the Old Races might survive, she had very little time.

“Why would
you
do that?”

“Because in a very few years humanity will overrun this planet, and my people are too poor in impulse control to survive unnoticed. Because you are on the brink of revolution that will change the face of your existence, and it will inevitably change ours, if we do not find a way to wait it out.” Another thought whispered beneath Daisani's spoken words:
And because I am the master of my kind,
and I will survive at any cost, but you, mortal, need not know such things.

“They'll come?” The hunter's voice was rough. “They'll come to your call?”

“Those in Europe will. The rest of the world, well. Perhaps you and I shall do some traveling together.”

Memory drew back, showing the shape of the world. Subtle flashes highlighted pinpoints across the globe: southern Europe, Australia's outback, a riverside in China, Central America. Others faded too quickly to be seen, and when the image faded back to the scene, even that had changed. Daisani stood outside the Vatican, the broad-shouldered vampire hunter at his side. “Buried in earth and water,” the hunter said. “Holy water?”

Daisani smiled, humor warping his memories. He said, “Holy water,” aloud, but his thoughts made mockery of the idea. Holy or not, salt or fresh, it made no difference. Submersion held his people in stasis, just as earth comforted their bones as they rested. Wood thrust through the heart stopped their bodies and their thoughts, and iron held them against any chance of tearing free should stakes disintegrate without being replaced. The holy men of any faith would keep their secret charges, thinking all the while that the vampires were vanquished, dead to the world and all time. No one, no one at all, knew the vampires were the only true immortals.

The modern world crashed back into existence around Margrit, Ursula's furious shrieks splitting the air in time to the crackling of fire. Janx, with utter disgust, slapped Daisani aside and imploded back to his human form to stand over the damaged vampire. Scorn laced his beautiful voice. “I had thought better of you, old friend. I had
thought you were a survivor, not a traitor. Your own people, all but murdered, for the sake of walking alone yourself.”

“For walking
safe
myself.” Daisani spoke without a hint of repentance, but his voice was shockingly weak. “Tell me you would do no less, should your people waken from their slumbers.” He coughed and slumped, an arm wrapped around his middle.

Margrit strained to see through smoke and fire, remembering that the dragon had skewered the vampire more than once. Even Janx hadn't easily walked away from lesser injuries, and for all that Daisani's memories claimed immortality for his people, she thought she could hear his labored breathing over the sounds of the fire.

Alban answered her unspoken question: “Immortal, perhaps, but not undamageable. I wonder if he might yet die.” There was sorrow and censure in the words, as though he regretted the loss of a friend, but thought the loss might be greater in living than in death.

Janx turned away from Daisani with all the grace at his command, very much the picture of a sovereign leaving an unworthy subject to suffer whatever indignities might befall him. Daisani, clearly drawing on all the strength he had left, came to his feet and watched the dragonlord go, a mixture of anger and injury written across his features.

“You are free of your favor to me.” Janx paused by Margrit, his gaze fixed ahead. “You have more than brought my rival low, and none amongst the Old Races would dispute that he is unworthy to walk among us. Tony Pulcella's life is yours. Goodbye, Margrit Knight.” He stalked past her gracefully, then stopped at the doorway, looking back toward Kate Hopkins.

She cast a desperate glance at him, then at Ursula, who stared at Eliseo Daisani as though he had betrayed her personally. After a few seconds, as if sensing her sister's gaze, Ursula looked up and offered Kate a brief, sad smile.

Kate bolted across the room to hug her, then darted after Janx, stopping just long enough to shoot a quick smile of her own toward Margrit. Then the pair of them left together, leaving burning memories behind.

Daisani collapsed. For all her anger, Ursula let go a low cry and jolted forward, then stopped herself, expression going hard. Alban touched Margrit's shoulder, inviting her away, and she looked from the vampire to the gargoyle and back again.

“Do you really think it's so awful?” To her surprise, she could hear herself over the flames. “He betrayed them and left himself to walk free, but isn't that better than nobody being left to know where they were? Nobody being left to know how to free them? And he was right, the world was changing.” She was walking through the fire without a conscious decision to do so, kneeling at the vampire's side in the midst of an inferno. “What if they couldn't restrain themselves? What if he was right, and he was the only one who could make a choice that hard?”

“Margrit.” Alban's voice held warning and despair.

She looked up with a helpless smile. “Since when have I played favorites, Alban? You've all needed help in one way or another. I've given it, if I could. Daisani's saved my life, and I've repaid him with this.” She gestured to the burning apartment and realized for the first time that the smoke didn't seem to be clogging her lungs. Another gift from the vampire, or maybe the dragon if his blood
had, in fact, mingled with hers. Margrit pushed the thought away, only distantly curious about it, and spoke to Alban again. “Maybe he won't die, but he's sure as hell not healthy, and it's not like we can leave him here for the police or fire department to find. Go on. Get out of here before the cops
do
get here. I'll be right behind you.”