Hands of Flame (10 page)

“Yes, but Eliseo likes me.” Margrit couldn't tell which of the last two words he put more emphasis on: they were both spoken with precise, delightful clarity that rolled over into unmistakable warning. The sword carrier's jaw
tightened, but his sword wavered, and Margrit found herself suddenly able to open her fingers again.

“I hear sirens.” Her tongue loosened with her hands and Janx turned a cat-eyed look of slow amusement on her.

“Implying that we all must run and hide all evidence connecting us to the scene of the crime. My dear Margrit Knight, how the mighty have fallen.” He offered his hand. “Will you join me? I think we have things to discuss.”

Margrit turned her neck stiffly, looking at the ring of angry djinn and the selkies standing beyond them. Tariq was a shadow at the head of the staircase on the other end of the building, watching with an expression unreadable from that distance.

“Yeah.” Margrit shivered and put her hand in Janx's, relieved to have an escape from the warehouse's tense, smoky atmosphere. “Yeah, I will. What about Chelsea?”

Surprise filtered through Janx's gaze for a second time. “If Chelsea Huo was here, rest assured she has the resources to care for herself and stay out of trouble. We, however, are growing short on time. If you will come?” Pressure on her fingers increased slightly, as if the dragonlord would lift her. Margrit came to her feet clumsily, stepping out of the forklift with Janx's hand to support her. She still felt thick with fear and the aftermath of disaster, but Janx's strength was steady and calm.

He led her through flame and smoke, and she couldn't tell if the flame bent away from him or if heat made it appear to do so. Illusion or not, gratitude rose in her. She wasn't sure she could have made herself walk through the fire without it. “This way, my dear.” Janx gestured at the ruined, burnt-out wall through which he'd made his
entrance. Margrit stumbled once, looking back as she made her way over rubble.

The desert-costumed djinn were gone, leaving only ordinarily dressed men in their place, all of them Old Races, smeared and marked with soot. Police burst into the warehouse, their voices adding to the general clamor of destruction. Even through smoke and fire, one of the cops had a familiar shape. Margrit let go a soft-voice curse and scrambled over debris.

But not before Tony Pulcella saw her go.

JANX'S NEW QUARTERS
were posher by far than the ones destroyed when the House of Cards had fallen. Margrit stopped in the doorway of his chambers, fingers resting on a stack of aged stone that had gone unused in the tunnels' construction.

Soft carpets, thick and rich red with gold trim, sprawled over the stonework floors. A chaise lounge covered in leather and velvet languished empty beside a teak-and-redwood table; oversized chairs of the same make were drawn up opposite the table. The table itself sported a chess set, pieces carved of obsidian and ivory. Margrit walked forward to pick up the white knight, fingers curling around it as she examined the room.

Warm air blew in from somewhere, stirring tapestries that had been hung over the walls. There were three of them, one dominating the back curve of the room and the others to either side. Abstract patterns of jewel-toned reds and greens seemed to leap from them, muted by unexpectedly subtle dune colors and grays. Electric lights covered with gold glass gave the room a comforting air,
utterly at odds with the modern steel and hard edges of Janx's former lair. There was no hint of attendants, no suggestion that anyone other than himself used the room. Margrit ignored prickles rising on her skin and worked to keep her tone conversational. “Did you go steal all this furniture from the speakeasy? This room looks—”

“Just like it. The windows were copied from these tapestries.” Janx crossed the room stiffly and took up a cane that leaned against the chess table. Stylistically, the cane suited the narrow black lines of the priest-collared shirt and flowing pants he wore, but he made use of it, moving awkwardly where she was accustomed to seeing grace.

Her gaze lingered on the cane's fist-sized head, daring to study it more than Janx. To her eyes it was glass, but Alban had told her it was clear, unblemished corundum, the same stone as sapphires were made of. Jewel-cut, it would catch light and glitter almost as brilliantly as a diamond, but it was only a smooth ball, twisting light no more dramatically than any sphere. It had belonged to Malik, and its presence in Janx's hand spoke volumes about his injury and the fate of the djinn who had been his second.

“Alban said transformation heals.” She rushed the words. Janx paused and turned to her, fluidity lacking in the motion.

“Stone heals,” he corrected after a moment. “The gargoyles have an advantage in their sleeping hours that we others don't share. They're encased in stillness, and that accelerates their healing. Transformation helps to put things as they were, but you may have noticed I require significant space and no little assurance of discretion to change. So I must go about the day as anyone would,
rarely resting as much as I should, and even if I did, a knife to the kidney isn't quickly recovered from.”

“You're on your feet. That's pretty remarkable in itself.”

“There have to be some advantages to being a fairy tale.” Janx's customary lightness was gone from his voice. Margrit's heart ached with the lack of it; when it had gone missing in the past, it had done so because he'd been angry with her, rather than the near despondence she heard now. Trying to push sentiment away, she crossed to the tapestries, the ivory knight still clutched in her hand.

“How old are they?” Margrit stopped short of brushing her fingers against the weavings. They looked soft and delicate, and she was afraid touch would prove them as rough as broken glass.

“Old enough that their makers are no longer among us.” Janx joined her, tapestries lending vibrancy to his unusually sallow skin. “Young enough that we could see which of us would linger past our time, but that has been evident for many centuries.” As if challenging Margrit's reservations, he brushed his knuckles over the closest tapestry, then said, with surprising care, “I didn't think to see you again, Margrit Knight.”

“Didn't you?” Genuine sorrow deepened the ache in Margrit's chest. “I still owe you a favor. I guess I figured there was no escaping it.”

“You ran from our battle at the House of Cards. It was, I think, the one wise thing you've done since meeting Alban Korund. I might have even let you go.”

“That's the knife wound talking,” Margrit said with as much dry humor as she dared. “You'd get over it if some way to use me came along. What happened? You looked fine when you walked into the warehouse.”

Janx's mouth thinned. “I overestimated my strength.”

“You must really feel like crap to admit that.” Margrit caught her breath to speak again and bit down on it, curiosity drawing her eyebrows together as she studied the dragonlord. He turned to her, expectation written in his gaze. Humor and warmth tangled inside her, pulling a crooked smile to her lips. “Nothing. Nothing important.”

Or, if it was, she had no way at the moment of making use of its importance. Janx's admission spoke of more than simple weariness. For him to confess to overestimating himself—for him to allow her to see him at such a low ebb, rather than putting on the carefree performance she so often saw from him—he had to
trust
her, and that was nearly beyond Margrit's scope of comprehension.

“You're a very bad liar, my dear.” Janx deliberately lightened his voice, using the endearment to return their relationship to grounds she knew. He reached out to pluck the chess piece from her hand and held it aloft. “Now, don't tell me I've rescued you from a difficult explanation only to have you steal my ivory knight.”

“You haven't. At least, I don't think so. You said we had things to discuss.” Margrit left the tapestries to drop into one of the lush chairs. Her examination of the chess table lasted barely a handful of seconds before the soft cushions reminded her she'd had no sleep recently. She let her head fall back with a groan and sank deeper into the chair.

“Margrit,” Janx said with some dismay. “You're all sooty.”

“Oh, crap!” Margrit jolted halfway to her feet, then relaxed again, muttering, “It's dirty now anyway. Sorry.”

“I expect it can be cleaned.” Janx folded himself down onto the chaise lounge on the other side of the chess table,
looking for all the world as though he had been made to do such things. Unlike Margrit, his own clothes weren't stained with black, though their color would help to hide it if they were. “Unexpected company you keep.”

“I've been keeping strange company for months. Believe me, if I'd known you were planning on raiding the place, I'd have…tried to talk you out of it.” Her honesty, if not her skill with words, got a chuckle out of Janx as she continued, “I was trying to talk them out of similar idiocy.”

“Did it work?”

Margrit passed a hand over her forehead and came away wondering if she'd just left herself streakier with soot. “I think it might have if you hadn't made your dramatic entrance. Now?” She shrugged, palms up. “They're angry over Malik, and they know we were there.”

“And you, Margrit?” A thump of silence passed before Janx clarified, “How are you over Malik al-MassrÄ«'s death?”

“Not sleeping,” Margrit replied, more candid than she expected herself to be with the dragonlord. “You?”

“It was my life he was trying to end. Despite our long years of association, I find it difficult to regret that he, and not I, failed to survive the encounter.” Janx tilted his head in a semblance of a shrug. “On the other hand, it's a new and particular sin for me, being involved in the death of one of our people. In all our centuries of rivalry, Eliseo and I have never had such dark encounters. I find I do not care for it.”

“If you were outside of it, a judge instead of a participant, would it matter to you that it was an accident? That it happened because he
was
trying to kill you?”

Janx leaned forward, replacing the knight on the board and idly pushing a pawn forward, letting the action make him look thoughtful. The corner of Margrit's mouth curled, Janx's theatrics never failing to amuse her. “No,” he finally said. “That it was an accident? No, it wouldn't matter. That he was trying to kill me, and paid for that error with his life?” He looked up from the board. “If I were a judge, Margrit, I simply don't think I'd believe it. Not even if three people said it was so. Not even if one of them was a gargoyle, who are not well known for telling lies. You remember Kaimana's response at the quorum.”

“That Old Races would simply never turn on each other. Yeah. I can't decide if it'd be nice or alarming to be that naive.” Since the game was met, Margrit moved a pawn forward, too, glad of something to do with her hands.

“There are stories that the djinn have different laws amongst themselves. That their rivalries are significant enough to cost lives, once in a while and their numbers high enough to tolerate the losses. Malik limped.” Janx nodded at the corundum cane and advanced another pawn.

“I know. I always wondered how you hurt somebody who could dematerialize. I mean.” Margrit set her teeth together in a wince. “Assuming they don't carry around toy pistols full of salt water.”

“That was ingenious, by the by. It came to a rather horrific end, but I have to applaud your means.” Janx actually did, sitting back to bring his hands together in staccato claps as she, cringing again, kept her eyes on the chess game. “They're saved, as I understand it, from materializing inside things by two objects inherently not desiring to share the same space. A safety buffer of sorts. But there's an infinitesimal window in which it's too late,
and if you can slip into that window—” He lifted the cane and brandished it like the sword it held. “I wasn't Malik's first rite-of-passage challenge. He lost the other one, too, and his rival destroyed his knee and his place in the tribes.”

“So he came to work for you,” Margrit said, fairly certain of her guess. Janx nodded and she sighed. “How long ago was that?”

“Longer ago than Vanessa joined Eliseo,” he said after a few seconds. “Unlike Vanessa, he wasn't always at my side. He didn't like cold climates. But, yes, it was…some decades longer than Eliseo's association with poor Vanessa Gray. There are moments when I miss his sour face. And then I remember he tried to kill me.”

Margrit moved her knight forward and let her focus drift, watching ivory pieces swim with a life of their own. “If they don't accept the offer I made them, they're planning on retaliating for his death. I think that's part of what was happening at the warehouse today. Although you were a bit excessive, Janx.”

“Excessive?” His eyebrows rose and he folded his hand above a chess piece, more interested in conversation than playing. “My dear young lady, they took everything from me. I intend to have it back or leave them with nothing. Is that excessive?”

“Listen to yourself. It's Wagnerian. There's a certain panache to it, but it's completely over the top. Do you really want to have a hand in starting a race war?”

“If such a war is to be had, I fear I've already done my part. As have you.”

“Maybe, but I'm trying to mitigate it, not compound it. Look, how long can you and Daisani keep this up,
anyway? He's been in New York thirty years. People gossip about who his plastic surgeon is. This is the modern world. You can't stay in one place much longer than this. Why not take this one on the chin and move on?”

“And what of you, Margrit, if we do? What of your lust for us—” Janx broke off with a laugh as a horrified noise burst from her throat, then finally moved a chess piece as he went on. “Perhaps not for me personally, to my everlasting chagrin, I assure you, but for what we are? A piece of magic brought into your world. Would you send Alban away, as well? Would you come away with us yourself, Thomas the Rhymer caught in our schemes?”

“Alban hasn't lived the kind of public life you have.” The sly glance Janx gave her warned that he knew she hadn't answered the question, but Margrit continued regardless. “You'd still be out there. Even if you weren't charging in and blowing up my life, I'd know you were still out there. Alive, undiscovered, more or less safe.”

“Caged by our comparative safety. You, of all people, should understand what it is to resent that.”

Margrit moved another chess piece, looking for an opening to let her rook move freely, as if sending it on a run through the park. “Is that why you go to the dark side? Because playing with the underworld feels less constrained? I understand, but me getting caught on one of my adventures wouldn't end up with me on a dissecting table. I'd rather see all of you, even Alban, gone from New York if it meant you'd all stepped back from the edge of a genocidal war. I don't think it matters if you don't manage to wipe each other out. I'm afraid that kind of activity will get you noticed, and you know how dangerous that is.”

“Would you come with us?” The air turned heavier with warmth as Janx transferred all his attention to Margrit, making her remember his true form.

She looked away. “I don't know. My whole life is here.”

“As are all of ours, and yet you have no compunction against advising us to move on.”

“No.” Margrit's gaze sharpened as she returned it to the dragonlord. “This epoch in your life is here, not your whole life. I don't have any idea how old you are, but no matter what you do, there's only a limited window you can stay in any one human population if you're in any kind of visible position. You have to change your skin every once in a while. Your whole life isn't here. Just this go-around.”

“So you would have us retreat.”

“I would have you
live
, dragonlord. Grow stronger. Fight another day.” Margrit closed her eyes, muttering, “I really am starting to sound like you,” before refocusing on Janx. “Whatever it takes. You must've done it before. Why object now?”

“You're assuming I went gently into that good night in previous years, my dear. Does anything about me suggest that I might have done so?”