Hands of Flame (13 page)

The bright memory of her presence in his life seared through him, hotter than even the ice. Something cracked within him, vast shattering like stone too long under duress. A terrible shout broke free, the clap of stone breaking apart, and ice released him.

Alban collapsed forward, trembling with exhaustion and the weight of too many memories. Every part of his body ached, as though he'd been splintered and put back together again by some rough stonemason with Pygmalion dreams. Stone did not weep easily; not often; not at all; and he could reach no further than a wish for that release. Not sobs; that was beyond him, but the weary slow slide of tears down granite features would be a relief, if only he could find his way there.

Instead he pushed up to hands and knees, then shoved back into a crouch, one hand planted against the floor to balance the empty shell his body felt like it had become. That was all: he could do nothing more. To have done that much seemed a triumph. His chin rested against his chest, eyes too heavy to open. Rest would come with dawn, no sooner. Iron bound him to his waking form, forbidding him the release of silent stone. He held on to that thought, concentrating on it beyond fatigue that came from his very bones.

Grace moved from behind him, soft brush of leather and silent breath of air. “Korund.”

“Leave me.” It took effort to form the words. Too much effort to open his eyes and meet her gaze. “I only wish for solitude, Grace. I have nothing left to spend.”

“Alban.” She moved again, her scent coming closer, leather creaking with action. “Open your eyes, gargoyle. Let's have a look at you now.”

Weary beyond words, Alban forced heavy lids to part, and stared without comprehension at the long links of iron chain in Grace's hands.

“DON'T ASK,” GRACE
murmured, long before Alban had the presence of mind to do so. Only when she spoke did he lift a hand to his neck, mind still empty of understanding.

No thickness of chain distorted the flesh there. Aches faded from his body, no more distant song of iron knotted in stone. Alban shifted to his human form, muscles clenched in anticipation of pain forbidding the transformation, and instead Grace squinted at the soft implosion of air as his mass changed. She looked drawn and haggard, fine lines he'd never noticed before standing out around her eyes and mouth. “You freed me.”

“That was the plan, wasn't it?” Grace stood, all languid poise, and Alban came to his feet to catch her elbow as she swayed. She said, “Thanks” without a hint of grudgery, while Alban gazed down at her, trying to remember if he'd ever heard that word pass her lips before. She smiled faintly and made as if to shake him off, though she didn't protest when he maintained his careful grip on her arm. “I wouldn't want to do that every day.”

“Grace, what did you—”

“I said don't ask, didn't I?” The vigilante woman pulled away, more awkward than he'd ever seen her. “We all have our secrets, Korund. Let me keep mine.”

Alban let his hand fall. Grace stopped on the far side of the room, arms folded beneath her breasts as she turned back with challenge in her gaze. “Margrit asked what you were,” he said softly. “The first time we met, under my Trinity chambers. I said you were human. I wasn't wrong.” The last words formed a question, though the inflection supported Alban's confidence in Grace's answer.

She shook her head, one sharp motion, and after a moment, Alban nodded. It took longer to quell curiosity and bow to her wishes rather than ask more questions. Margrit would be proud of him for at least wondering. The thought brought a brief smile to the fore as he spoke. “Very well. I'll only thank you, then, not press you.” He folded a hand at the back of his neck, massaging muscle that still held strain from captivity. “But perhaps I'm coming to learn that some burdens are easier borne when shared.”

“Ah, and don't I know it. But you're not the one for Grace to make her confessions to, gargoyle. Someday, maybe, you'll hear it all.”

“Until then I am in your debt.”

Grace tweaked a smile that did away with some of the fatigue written on her face. “Now that's a thing I like the sound of, Alban Korund. Pity there'll be no collecting that debt in the ways that would be most fun.”

“You are incorrigible, Grace.”

“A girl's got to have her fun somehow.” Grace flashed a brighter smile, clearly recovering from whatever she'd done to free him, and just as clearly relieved Alban had
agreed not to pursue it. He thought she would have to find some kind of answer to offer the tribunal, as a woman with the ability to break a captive gargoyle free would be of interest to all of them, but he, at least, could respect her wishes.

“Are you ready?”

“No.” Alban exhaled, then shook off his human form for the gargoyle. “No, not at all, but it seems I have very little choice. So be it. Take me to my leaders.”

 

Grace was still chortling over that as she led him into the trial chamber, the same room he and Margrit had been brought to a few months earlier when Grace had first apprehended them in her tunnels. Now, though, there were no human children littered about, but, rather, more denizens of the Old Races than Alban had seen in one place in centuries, save the selkie show of strength a few weeks earlier.

Six gargoyles presided, none of them friends. Amongst them, dividing them, sat Chelsea Huo, her apple-wizened face calm and her nut-brown eyes dark with sorrow.

Janx and Daisani sat together, an unusual show of camaraderie for two ancient rivals. The gesture filled Alban with pleased bemusement; he had hardly expected to see either of them, much less presenting a front. Both inclined their heads in acknowledgment as Alban entered; it was more than the tribunal itself had done.

Opposite them, on the other end of the gargoyle arc, stood a scattered handful of djinn and selkies. Alban knew none of them, save one: the amber-eyed male who had recently held Rebecca Knight's heart in his hand, and
who had only been stopped from doing murder by a vampire's blood. That he was there; that anyone beyond the gargoyle tribunal was there, sent a warning through Alban. There was more at stake than just his exile.

Grace was the only human in the room. Regret seized Alban's heart and held it a long beat, then slipped away in a moment of clarity. It was better, perhaps, for Margrit to not attend. She would only be frustrated with his course of action, and he had no real wish for her to see him condemned. That he stood so bore less shame than watching her as his people made it moot.

A shift signaled the last arrival's entrance. Alban followed a dozen people's attention as it turned to the other door in the room, knowing who he would see. He stood, in part to lord his height over Biali, and in part to make certain the other gargoyle saw Alban was free of chains.

The scarred gargoyle faltered in his stride as he entered, curled lip losing some of its sneer as he took in Alban's unbound form. Alban permitted himself a faint smile that darkened Biali's countenance again, and he stalked across the room to take up a position opposite Alban. For a few seconds the room was still, each being present sizing up the others and assessing the power balance. Then one of the gargoyles shifted, drawing attention to himself, and spoke in a voice like flowing lava, hot and deep.

“Who calls this tribunal?”

“I do.” Grace stood, all human cockiness and casual challenge. “I'm called Grace O'Malley, and it's me who's brought you here to decide Alban Korund's fate, and Biali Kameh's, too. These are my tunnels, gargoyle. I'd ask you to name yourself, so me and mine might welcome you.”

“I am Eldred of the clan Casmir, and as eldest of the gargoyles present, accept your call and your welcome.” Eldred bowed his head in polite admission while Alban studied him, interest piqued well outside the matter of his own trial. He had harvested the gargoyle memories for the histories of the selkies' disappearance, and it had been this resplendently voiced gargoyle who was the last to speak with those people before they went into the sea. The memory Alban had investigated had been from Eldred's point of view, and Eldred himself unseen in it. Still, Alban had gathered a sense of the gargoyle, and he seemed aged with sorrow, tempered with more compassion than he had been centuries earlier when he'd bid a friend goodbye.

“Who brings complaint against Alban of the clan Korund, called the Breach?” Eldred went on without heed to Alban's consideration, and Biali stepped forward, radiating smug anger.

“I do. Biali of the clan Kameh, and my complaint is the death of one of our own.”

Though they had to know the charges being brought against him, the gargoyles hardened, interest draining from their gazes and leaving stony outrage behind. “You wouldn't have known her,” Biali growled. “She was Hajnal's daughter, called Ausra, and grew up outside of our enclaves. She died at Korund's hands, for attacking a human. I have it from his memories, and offer them to the histories as proof.”

Eldred turned to Alban. “What say you to the charges?”

“They're true.”

Astonishment rippled through the watchers, gargoyle or not, so palpably that unexpected humor burst within
Alban's breast. He had never considered speaking anything but the truth; it seemed others had never imagined he might, or that such a crime could be committed. Janx's mouth tightened, less with surprise than caution, and sympathy burned Alban's humor to a cinder. Alban's condemnation for Ausra's death could too easily lead to an inquiry of Malik's, and the guilt there was spread wide. Eldred lifted a hand, silencing the gathered Old Races, and considered Alban. “Have you nothing more to say?”

Alban turned his palms up. “I believe madness held Ausra in its grip, and that all our people were endangered by her, but that wasn't what drove me to act. She'd murdered four human women in a matter of days and a score of others over fifteen decades. She had another human life in her hands, and I chose the human woman over her. I would do so again,” he added more softly, then raised his voice again to say, “but we've never, as a people, considered motive, only results. I am guilty of the crime as accused, and moreover, will not stand the trials.”

Fresh shock rocked the meeting room, disbelief erupting from the gargoyles and quiet disapproval marking Chelsea Huo's expression. Daisani danced fingertips against his lips as if hiding a smile, and Janx, beside him, did smile and gave Alban a slow nod of appreciation when he glanced that way.

Biali's fury roared above the others, cry of a man denied his vengeance. Eldred, too dignified to shout, stood and waited on his presence to calm the chattering group. “Unusual, but not unprecedented,” he murmured. “I must then ask if there is another who will stand in your place as your second.”

Alban drew breath to deny it, and then finally, finally, finally, came Margrit, her voice clear and steady over the tribunal's murmur and Biali's open scorn. Aghast, Alban turned from the tribunal to look toward the doorway she was framed by.

Grace had to have helped her with the clothes. He'd never seen Margrit dressed in leather before, but her easy, confident stance made her a creature of desire and caution all at once. All that was feminine had been left behind, leaving only the female, deadly in appearance indeed.

Her thick hair was tamed and knotted into a twist at the back of her head, showing off the strong lines of her face. The jacket she wore was fitted but not constricting, leather old enough to move easily, heavy enough to protect. It was zipped now, and a pattern of silver studs splashed over the arms and chest, marking it as belonging to Mariah, Alban's favorite among Grace's teens. Alban was torn between gratitude that the girl's clothes fit Margrit, and dismay that she had cause to don what were all too clearly fighting leathers. She wore pants of the same well-fitted, heavy material, and boots sturdy enough to add an inch or more to her height without in any way being heels. She was dangerous and beautiful, and broke away from the framing doorway to stalk before the tribunal, and repeat the words that had shot dread through Alban's heart.

“I will.”

ONE GARGOYLE AMONGST
the jury was on his feet, an elegant creature whose stony gray hair and craggy features made him seem older, to Margrit's eyes, than his brethren. He watched Margrit with quiet patience, waiting for the room to fall silent again. She nodded to him and his eyes creased just slightly, as if he was amused or pleased by her acknowledgment.

None of the other gargoyles paid her particular heed, though she was obviously the center of their discussion. There were five of them, ranging in size from two women with Valkyrie-broad shoulders to a lanky blond whose form was so different from the gargoyles Margrit knew he might have been of another race. The one on his feet was heavyset, not Biali's aging prizefighter in form, but bulky in a way that suggested muscle and strength rather than fat running out of hand.

None of them were as pure a pale as Alban, though none of them had Hajnal's loamy tint, either. Margrit fought the urge to look toward Alban, bringing up his alabaster skin tone in her mind instead, and comparing it to
the varied shades of light stone the tribunal shared. Of the gargoyles she'd seen and met, only Biali's stark, unmarred white came close to Alban's alabaster, and now that Margrit had others to liken them to, she could tell that Alban's color was delicate, almost translucent, where Biali's was hard and relentless.

One of the gargoyles leaned toward Chelsea Huo to speak to her, and even in outrage, moved with the fluidity that marked members of the Old Races. The tiny bookseller looked at ease amongst the gargoyles, easily as comfortable as she'd been standing with selkies and djinn that morning. Only that morning, Margrit realized with astonishment. The day, even with a nap, had gone on forever.

Daisani was scowling at Janx, who had kicked back and folded his hands behind his head, eminently pleased with himself. Even the handful of selkies and djinn talked animatedly, accusing gestures thrown Margrit's way. She felt unexpectedly at home: she'd spent years as an advocate of lost causes. Law school hadn't prepared her to stand a medieval trial as the defendant, but this was a courtroom like any other.

“Margrit, you cannot do this.” Alban's voice, low with strain, came from a few feet behind her. Margrit glanced at the gathering, and, confident they'd continue their arguments for a few minutes longer, turned to face Alban with a rueful smile.

“Actually, I can. Your traditions allow for a second. Very human of you.” Her smile grew, cockiness transcending concern. “Or maybe very gargoyle of us. I wonder. Either way, Janx told me about the loophole, so here I am.” Margrit bit her lip, wanting to step closer but afraid moving farther would attract the tribunal's atten
tion. Uncomfortably aware there might not be a chance afterward, she was reluctant to break up their brief chance to speak before the trial.

“Had I known you would take this sort of rash action—”

“You would've tried talking me out of it, but you wouldn't have changed your stance, because you believe you're right just as much as I believe I am. I've got to give you credit for consistency, anyway.” Margrit moved closer after all, offering Alban her hand. He took it as though she were fragile, rubbing his thumb against her palm. She shivered at the spill of warmth and relaxation, a core of heat lighting at the touch. Folding her hand around his, she lifted it and kissed his knuckles, leaving her mouth against his skin as she spoke again. “You drive me crazy, you know that? Sticking with your traditions, upholding your laws, believing in them regardless of personal cost, or, yeah, maybe because of personal cost. I'm going to have to learn to live with that, aren't I?”

Alban lowered his head toward hers, making a private space between them. His scent wasn't as clean as she was accustomed to, with a hint of aged dust and stone, but its familiarity, like the courtroom setting, was comforting. “I'm afraid so.”

Margrit nodded, then tipped her chin up to smile at her serious-gazed gargoyle. “I can do that. But I can't stop fighting for what I think is right just because we disagree.” She kissed his knuckles again and stepped back, eyebrows arched in mild challenge. “So I'm going to do my damnedest to clear your name, whether you like it or not. You can figure out your retribution later.”

“Margrit, my retribution isn't what you should be concerned about. You cannot fight Biali. He'll kill you.”

“I don't think so.” Margrit spoke with more assurance than she felt, hoping Alban couldn't read the tremor that ran through her. “He said once he preferred fair fights, not ambushing women in the dark.”

“You put too much faith in our honor. First Janx, now Biali. It's—” Alban broke off, exasperated rue flattening his mouth before he sighed. “It's a very bad idea.”

“You keep telling me that.” Margrit lit a smile, bright for the moment before it turned to uncertainty. “It's a bad idea, but it's the best one I've got, and if I put too much faith in the Old Races' honor, it's because I met the most honorable of you first. You're a hard act to follow, Alban Korund.”

The noise around them settled, leaving Margrit's last words hanging in the air much too loudly. She pressed her eyes closed as blood rushed to her cheeks, then turned to face the assembly with a grimace. Janx, still kicked back, grinned openly, and her embarrassment faded beneath the desire to give in to a giggle. Reminding herself she stood in a court of law, she dragged her expression back under control and lifted her chin to meet the tribunal's gazes.

“The gargoyle trials have been explained to me,” she said before anyone else spoke. “A three-part test of what I understand to be essentially strength, sense and sentiment, to be undertaken to prove innocence in the face of evidence. I'm aware of the risks and willing to undergo the trial on Alban of the clan Korund's behalf. I also gather,” she added a bit more dryly as Alban caught his breath to protest, “that having forfeited his willingness to participate himself, the defendant isn't permitted to object to someone else partaking for him.”

“
I
can.” Biali's voice dropped to a dangerous rumble, like the distant precursor to a rock slide. “My fight's not with the lawyer. I want Korund.”

“You'll have me. Margrit, this—”

“You have refused the trial.” Eldred overrode Alban's protest implacably. “The decision is no longer yours.”

“It is the wrong decision!” Echoes thundered around the concrete and stone room. Margrit flinched, hands knotting at her sides. She was unaccustomed to hearing Alban lift his voice in anger, and it was easy to forget that breadth of chest could lend his words so much power.

“That,” Eldred said, “is something you might have considered earlier. You have forfeited your place, and you will remain silent or be removed from the grounds until the trial is over.”

Alban growled low in his throat, lifting hairs on Margrit's arms, but he said nothing else. Biali smirked, clearly pleased enough to see Alban put in his place that he clearly forgot for a moment that he, too, had been thwarted. That realization wiped pleasure from his face a few seconds later, and his gaze went hard and calculating as he turned it to Margrit.

Trying to regulate her heartbeat was useless. It leapt out of her control, making a ball of sickness in her throat and flushing her body with heat. Challenging Biali was a gamble. Not a bluff, but a tactic counting on honor that, despite her arguments to Alban, Margrit wasn't certain Biali possessed. He had lost two women he loved to Alban. Margrit's life might seem a fair exchange, a way for him to make Alban suffer the way he had.

His nostrils flared and his mouth thinned with dislike. “You're afraid, lawyer. I can smell it.”

“Of course I'm afraid. I'm reckless, not stupid.” Admitting it aloud lent Margrit some strength. She pulled her shoulders back, heart rate calming as she drew a deep breath. Then humor and honesty swept her, and she added, “Maybe a little stupid.”

A rush of quiet laughter ran around the room, bypassing the gargoyles but touching the others. Frustration contorted Biali's scarred face and he made a throwaway gesture. “Fighting her proves nothing. A human stands no chance against me.”

Margrit, hands still knotted at her sides, said, “Not that I'm especially looking forward to being pulverized, but isn't the point of this to see who dominates in the trial? The one who wins two out of three is forgiven in the eyes of God, right? Wouldn't clobbering me put you one step ahead of the game?”

Disgust so profound it bordered on pity wrinkled Biali's face. “It would prove nothing.” He turned to the tribunal, a note of slyness coming into his voice. “If a second can stand in Korund's place, then I can request a second for mine.”

Eldred and Chelsea exchanged glances, the latter's feather-fine eyebrows rising as she indicated the decision was Eldred's. He nodded, attention coming back to Biali, and the scarred gargoyle curled his lip in pleasure. “Then for the trial of strength I choose a second. I choose
her
.”

He pointed a taloned finger at Grace O'Malley.

 

Grace actually looked over her shoulder before her incredulous laughter broke over an outcry of surprise from the tribunal and audience. “Me, love? Is it your mind you've lost?”

“You're human,” Biali growled.

“Sure and I am, but that doesn't mean—”

“Nobody else represents a fair fight.” Margrit spoke so quietly she doubted she'd be heard. Her own laughter fluttered at the back of her throat, a thing of disbelief and relief. “You're the only one I'm anything like equal to in a battle of strength. If you don't accept—”

“What if I don't?” Grace spun on a booted heel, facing the tribunal. “What if I say no? Does Scarface there win by default, or do you go through the ranks until you find someone willing to fight?”

“It's unprecedented,” Eldred said after a moment. “We would have to debate.”

“There's no one else, Grace.” Margrit's own voice sounded far away to her. “Any of the rest of them would pulverize me. I'd kind of like to come out of this alive.”

Grace turned around, mouth drawn down. “And what makes you think I wouldn't clean the floor with you myself?”

Margrit's eyebrows rose and the fluting laughter at the back of her throat escaped, as if lifting her eyebrows released a valve. “Grace, I can probably outrun you. I seriously doubt I can outfight you. You're bigger than me, you've got better reach and you probably know more about self-defense than I do. But even your best shot's not going to take my head off, which
his
would.” She nodded toward Biali, who gave back an ugly smile. “Do me a favor here and say yes, okay?”

“And what does Grace get out of it, love?”

“Some bruises and a sense of righteousness?” Margrit asked hopefully, then winced at the flat look Grace gave her. “Not having to explain to my ex-boyfriend the police
detective why my dead body's in your tunnels? No,” she said before Grace could object, “I don't really think you're dumb enough to leave me here if I got killed. Look, I'm trying, okay? I'd owe you one,” she finished more quietly. “I'd owe you a lot.”

Grace's gaze slid toward Janx, then back to Margrit. “You're piling up the debts fast, Knight.”

Margrit held her breath a long moment, then let it go explosively. “Keeps life exciting. Was that a yes?”

Grace pressed her lips into a thin line, turning her attention to the tribunal. “Just what kind of fight is this? Can't be to the death, not with the way your laws work. You just put us in the ring and we go until the bell?”

“To defeat,” Eldred agreed. “It is…” He looked between the women, explanation lingering on the air as he seemed to search for words. “It is unusual,” he finally said. “Unusual to have two combatants whose hearts may not be in the matter.”

Margrit muttered, “Mine is,” and glanced toward Alban, who rolled his jaw but kept silent. Grace shot both of them a sharp look before eyeing the tribunal again.

“The lawyer's got something to fight for, which means I do, for I don't like to take a beating when I can avoid it. But
you,
” she said to Margrit, “you need to think about reforming
these
laws, if you're going to be taking on fights that aren't your own.”

“I'll pencil it in.” Margrit wet her lips and squared her shoulders again, then folded her hands behind her back to keep them from wandering through the air. “How do we, uh, start?” She'd envisioned battling a gargoyle, somehow; someone, at least, who had sufficient physical strength as to genuinely frighten her, and had counted on adrenaline
pushing her past thought into a struggle for survival. Instead she felt a blooming sense of the absurd, as if she was about to take part in an extravagant pantomime.

Eldred gestured toward Grace with such solemnity Margrit suspected he was trying not to laugh at them. “Meet in good faith, clasp hands, and then begin as you will. We will determine the victor and end the match when it is appropriate.”

Grace stalked over to her, tall and leggy and alarming as she offered a hand. Margrit hesitated, still feeling foolish. “What about that gun you used to carry?”

“Do you really think I'll be shooting you?” Grace reached for the small of her back, though, and tossed the weapon away. It clattered against the floor, spinning to a stop at the tribunal's feet. Margrit watched it go, then swallowed hard and reached for Grace's hand, surprised when the other woman caught her in a hard warrior's grip, forearm to forearm. “Well met,” she said, more formality in her tone than Margrit had ever heard before. She didn't reply, and Grace's eyebrows shot up in expectation, making Margrit jolt with realization.

“Oh. Right. Right. Um, well met. Uh—”

Grace hit her in the face.