Hands of Flame (12 page)

Tony shook his head. “You think fast, Grit, and I know you're a good liar. But you've never made things up.”

Margrit eyed him. “Isn't that what lying is?”

Sour humor quirked his mouth. “Technically, yeah, but I'm talking about the kinds of things you said that night. Dragons and vampires. That's not the kind of lying you do.”

Alarm rooted Margrit to the floor, making her feel heavy. Tony was right: it wasn't the kind of story she told, but she'd never dreamed he might invest himself in considering that. Pursuing what she'd said in a moment's heat could far too easily cost the detective his life. “So I was telling the truth? Tony, that puts at least one of us up for some new and exciting kind of lunacy charges.”

“Does it?” He studied her for long moments, eyebrows drawn down before he sighed, shrugged and looked away. “I guess it does. But there's something wrong when you spouting fairy tales is the only way to make sense of anything, Grit. I want to know what's going on, and you're the only piece I've got access to.”

“So why aren't you arresting me for obstruction of justice?”

Tony's mouth soured further. “Because you're about to go work for Eliseo Daisani and there's no point. He'd get you walked out of there and the stupid son of a bitch who walked you in would be busted to traffic duty for the rest of his career.”

“I wouldn't let him do that.”

“You volunteering to be arrested?”

Margrit ducked her head. “Not when you put it that way.”

“So help me out here. Anything. There's got to be something.”

“Nothing that's going to help you understand.” Margrit pressed her lips together. “But if things haven't settled down at the docks in forty-eight hours, I'll give you everything you need to settle it yourself.”

Tension lanced through the detective, bringing him to attention. “Like you handed me Janx's bust?”

Margrit wrinkled her face, unwilling to argue her place in the House of Cards's downfall. “A little like that.”

“If you can do that, Grit, why not do it now? Why wait another two days? People are getting killed out there.”

“Because I made a promise.” Margrit winced again, far too aware of how little weight her promises carried with Tony now. “It's the best I can do.”

Tony, jaw knotted, turned toward the door. “Fine. Two days. Just remember, any deaths between now and then are on your head.”

A CAREFUL STUDY
of the calendar told Margrit it was Thursday afternoon. She'd gotten up at four in the morning on Wednesday and hadn't gotten any meaningful sleep since. She thought regretfully of the calendar her coworkers had made, with only nine or ten hours left on it. Responsibility told her to go in to work, to do what little she could, but instead, burdened more by Tony's curse than fatigue, she showered and crawled into bed.

She woke up what felt like only minutes later when her phone blared. Feeling unexpectedly invigorated, she glanced toward the clock, discovering it was after seven, and answered the phone to hear Daisani, with a hint of Bela Lugosi in his voice, say, “Good evening.”

Margrit laughed. “Are you drinking, Mr. Daisani? Never mind. What's up?”

Daisani was silent a moment before saying, “You recall how you accused me of showing off, Margrit?”

“I do.” Margrit threw the covers back and climbed out of bed to look for running gear. “You said it wasn't that hard to resist, most of the time.”

“It's far more difficult to resist replying to that line with the appropriate response,” Daisani informed her dryly. “Yet somehow I can never quite let myself do so. It seems like such a cheap shot.”

“It is, but sometimes they're worth it. Did you call to discuss vampire movies with me?”

“I did not. I called to ask if you were aware that Alban's trial is tonight.”

Margrit's throat constricted around her previous good nature. She dropped her running tights and sat on the bed, staring across the room. “Tonight? They got here that fast? It's only been one night.”

“The nearest and largest enclave that I'm aware of is in Boston, which is hardly an insurmountable flight.”

“But somebody would've had to go tell—” Margrit stopped her own protest, seeing its flaws. “Alban carries a cell phone. I suppose they all might.”

“And if not, they have more esoteric ways of communicating.”

“Not Alban. Iron stops the link to the memories. Someone else would have had to have called, or gone to get them. The sun hasn't set yet. How do you know they're here?”

Daisani's pause was interested. “It breaks the link? Are you certain?”

“Forget I said that. Are you sure they're here?” Margrit switched the phone to speaker and got up to pull regular clothes out of the closet, wiggling into jeans and a light sweater.

“Chelsea Huo just called to inform me, so yes, I am.”

Margrit stopped with one sock on.
“Chelsea?”

“She suggests that we make haste.”

“We?” Margrit pulled her other sock on and found a pair of boots as she eyed the phone.

“Alban Korund is an old friend of mine, Margrit. You don't expect me to stand by and let his trial go unattended, do you?”

“Somehow I doubt you're volunteering out of the goodness of your heart. What interests are you protecting?”

Caution clamped her lips together as memories of Sarah Hopkins surfaced again. She and her child were the secret Alban bore for Janx and Daisani, and she would be the reason Daisani was concerned with Alban's trial. Hidden stories could too easily be revealed in the midst of such proceedings.

But Daisani dismissed her suppositions with a soft answer of, “Nothing that has any importance any longer. The best and only reason I have for attending Alban Korund's trial is friendship. Once upon a time, and not so long ago, that might have been different, but you've changed our world so much. Give me some credit, Margrit. Time makes relationships complicated, but we rarely forget where we began. Now,” he said after a moment's silence, “shall I come around to pick you up?”

“Please.” Margrit's voice scratched, throat too tight for words. It was too easy to forget the Old Races weren't human, at least for brief spaces of time. They moved too fluidly, but the eye became accustomed to that, and in their human forms, that was the only thing to truly mark them apart. The only thing, at least, until age and regret and pain showed in a vampire's gaze, undoing all his humanity with a glance. Daisani had cut her open with honesty more than once, and Margrit doubted she would ever learn to stand against the inhuman depth he could
show. “Please,” she whispered again. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“Not at all. We should be there in good time for the awakening.”

 

Sunset, once a moment of freedom, was now only an awakening to a new, more dreadful prison than the one that kept him safe in daylight hours. Alban clamped down on a roar, wrapped up the impulse to reach out for comfort and clawed his hands against chains as he panted for breath. Iron did more than bind him: it seemed to weight him, making air harder to draw in, as if his lungs were full of cold metal. It denied him the simple ability to touch another gargoyle mind with his own, and for all that he'd given up that intimacy centuries earlier, being
unable
was a far worse fate than being unwilling.

Not that there was anyone beyond Biali for him to contact, and Alban had been barely more than a child when he and Biali had last been friends. Head lowered, hair falling in white waves around his cheeks, Alban dug taloned toes into stone and willed himself to stop trying to transform; to stop trying to escape thrums of pain. It was unnatural for a gargoyle to resist so much. Stone endured. Elements could leave their mark, but throughout time stone sat and waited, embodiment of patience.

A laugh he barely recognized as his own grated Alban's throat. In the brief span of time since Margrit Knight had come into his life, she'd infected him with human impatience, a desire to see things done, and done now. His sympathy for that plight spiked. Once freed of restraints and set on his own lonely path, he would have to try a little harder to live his life at her speed.

At least he knew she would still have him. The frustration that had built in her at his adamant stance against speaking for himself pinched him as thoroughly as the chains did. She'd forgiven him even through the midst of her irritation, proving yet again that humans adapted quickly, even to the impossible. The weight of regret bowed his shoulders, and for a few seconds he ceased struggling against his chains, consumed by worry for mistakes made.

The door opened, bringing Grace in on a breath of cooler air. “Better today, love? You're not fighting so hard.”

“Perhaps I've nothing to fight for.” Alban lifted his gaze but remained in his crouch, his eyes at the level of her ribs as she paced the room. “You're agitated.”

“I am.” She came to a stop in front of him, then crouched, as well, making herself diminutive in comparison. “Grace might be able to get you free of those chains, Korund. But it'll hurt like hell if it works.” Her eyebrows shot up. “It'll hurt like hell if it doesn't.”

“You think Biali won't free me when the tribunal meets?”

“I think he wants to see you enter in chains, already condemned. He's brutal, not stupid. First impressions count. He'll want them to see you as a prisoner.”

“I am a prisoner, and rightfully condemned.”

Grace sighed in exasperation. “You're easy on the eyes, but I don't envy Margrit in dealing with you. Not all of your people are martyrs. Why are you?”

“Believing in our traditions doesn't make me a martyr.” Alban tried without success to keep offense from his voice.

Grace, pacing again, spat a sound of disbelief. “You tell me, then. Are you so eager to walk in chains that I won't try, or will we see what I can do?”

“My damaged pride would like to see Biali's face when he discovers his trap didn't work,” Alban muttered. “But if you can do this, why did you wait until now to offer?”

“Because Grace has secrets to keep, too.” The blond woman's answer was hardly louder than his own. “You'll close your eyes, gargoyle, and keep them closed. It'll hurt.”

“Closing my eyes will hurt?” Alban asked lightly, then glanced over his shoulder at Grace, whose lovely features were drawn tight with anticipation. He murmured, “Forgive me,” then settled back into place. “They are closed.”

“Try to not lash out, then, love, and we'll see what Grace can do.” Grace put her hands on his shoulders as if in warning. Alban grunted, tension rising even as he tried to stop it, but he nodded agreement.

Where Grace touched him turned to ice, burning cold that sank through him like a stone in water. It drew a gasp: gargoyles were not especially susceptible to temperature. To feel such chill with no warning or transition was as shocking as the cold itself. Grace, sharply, said, “Hold that,” and Alban inhaled again, breath catching in his lungs and holding there.

Cold flowed through him, worse than ice water in his veins; that, at least, would follow the pulse and beat of blood. This frozen touch sank in through muscle, through blood and bone, moving against nature and spreading as it moved. It clawed at his throat, digging into the iron that had become a part of him, and the iron turned to links of frigid crystal.

Stone crumbled under Alban's feet, the floor tearing beneath his talons. His eyes had opened against Grace's orders, but he saw nothing but gray in front of him; gray
and tear-blurred dancing images of his own forearms, muscle cording and shuddering white with stone.

Pain
did not begin to describe it. Cold transcended agony and left the middling discomfort of being bound by iron far behind. It tore down stone walls, and with their tumbling came a lifetime of emotion that he had carefully left behind.

He did not, of course, remember the first time he saw Hajnal, for she was his elder, and had always been a part of their mountain-born tribe. Small, for a gargoyle, and very dark for one of their kind. Her family name was Dunstal, black stone, and they shared an affinity for glassy obsidian and other black rock spat from the heart of the world. Their physicality reflected that, amber skin tones and black hair, making them stand out against a people whose coloring tended toward the pale. She had always been there, petite and lovely amongst her alabaster kin.

And Biali had always been nearby, a broad hulk of a gargoyle who rarely smiled, but always danced at Hajnal's whim. Alban had become the younger brother to their duo, chasing after, laughing, learning: being a child, loved and safe in the tall, gray mountains. A score of years had gone by, until one day he was no longer a child, and his heart leapt to see Hajnal winging above their mountain retreat. Until he'd joined her in the sky and found more than friendship beneath diamond-cut stars.

The span of a human life passed in a blur, memories clouded with time. Alban grew older and broader and wiser, losing himself in his people's histories, discovering the world beyond their mountains through memories shared by others. He became a warrior, trained by
memory and by skirmishes too focused to be playful, but never intended to be made real. Even now, under a song of pain, his muscles flexed with the movements he'd learned, battle built into his body. But there was little enough to fight over, and he had more important things to think of, like the dark-haired beauty at his side.

He had not yet seen a century when it became clear that humanity, all unknowing, would hound his people into hiding and desperation. Even high in the mountains, mortals encroached on their every stronghold, and there were bitter arguments on how to survive them. Some counseled war, and Alban found himself on the opposite side, standing and speaking of tradition and the need to keep the histories safe. He did not doubt his prowess in battle, and, looking from face to face, he saw that no one else did, either.

No one, save one.

Alban, caught in a whirlwind of icy anguish, whispered, “No,” with what little breath he had left, and shuddered beneath the weight of unrelenting memory.

Biali should have won. Should have, with his age, his experience; with what he perceived as having to lose. But he had lost Hajnal long since, and Alban fought for her, and the future of his people, and when his blow shattered Biali's face, Alban fell back and refused to fight anymore. Not for fear of exile, though Biali's death would set Alban on that path, but because they were so few, and forgiveness, surely, could come with time.

It was not exile, then, that drove him from his mountain home, but a hope of understanding humanity; of finding a way for his people to live amongst them in safety. Hajnal joined him and they left the mountains, left
the valleys, left the landmass humans called Europe, and on the continent's western archipelago they found friends, both mortal and not, whose secrets would change Alban's life forever.

Arguments, fresh and sharp, rose up through memory: Hajnal's distress at Alban's choice to step outside the gargoyle collective in order to protect a child born out of species. She knew, of course; had known Sarah Hopkins, as she had known the fiery-haired dragonlord and the smooth, dark vampire. But it was Alban who had linked to their minds, Alban who had become so intimate with them, and Alban whose memories would condemn them if they were exposed to the depths of history. Hajnal's, riding closer to the surface, carried far less weight, and could be kept from the gargoyle memories with a modicum of effort. She didn't have to—didn't choose to—exile herself from their people in the way he had. But as long as she remained with him, he wasn't
alone
.

Hajnal's death ricocheted through that, tearing chunks of Alban's heart away and leaving emptiness in their place. Biali, as deeply wounded by it, had never, would never, forgive the lost battle that had paired Alban and Hajnal for life. That had, in his mind, set Hajnal on the road that led to her death.

Exquisite, the memory of that death. It was made of icy razors, cutting apart Alban's every heartbeat as he roared her name helplessly. As she told him to leave her, and, most terribly of all, as he did, and in doing so, condemned her.

Generation after generation of humans passed while he stood apart, the scant handful he dared watch over always dying violently, until Margrit.