Hands of Flame (21 page)

“I'm not afraid of you,” Cole spat, scorn so thick it almost hid the note of falsehood in his denial.

Alban shrugged, wings rippling with the movement. “But I think it unfair to impugn Margrit's honor. You've known her for many years. Surely you think more highly of her than that.”

“I don't know her at all.” Cole turned away, a slash of
hurt and anger against the night. Cameron's shoulders dropped, much of her joy gone, but she turned to Alban with a hopeful smile.

“Thank you for trusting me. Us. I have about five million questions, and I really, really hope I get a chance to ask them sometime. I'm glad to have really met you, Alban.” She hesitated, then put out her hand, and Alban clasped it gently with taloned fingers.

“I am glad, as well, and I think we'll have more opportunities to talk.” His smile was toothsome and alarming, if she was predisposed to being alarmed, but Cam's answering smile dimpled with a hint of the delight she'd shown earlier. Then she followed Cole, concern in the bent of her body.

Margrit steepled her fingers in front of her mouth as she watched them go. “That went better and worse than I hoped. I thought Cam would be more alarmed, but I hoped Cole would have mellowed out a little by now.”

“He may never, Margrit.” Alban stepped up behind her, folding his arms around her waist and closing his wings around them both, making a pocket of warmth against the wind. “We don't keep ourselves hidden because we want to hide from reactions like Cameron's. She did take it better than you.”

“Well, you
were
wanted for murder. And I'd been hit by a car. Almost. And…” Margrit elbowed Alban lightly as he began to chuckle. “I came around.”

“And she had the safety of friends at hand. Yes, you did, a gift which I will never stop marveling at.”

Margrit sighed. “Maybe it's a girl thing. We all watched too much
Dark Shadows
and
Beauty and the
Beast
when we were kids and now magnificent creatures hiding in the dark are tantalizing, not terrifying.”

“I hate to disagree with such a persuasive argument, but not only were you terrified of me initially, but I believe Janx and Daisani still…”

“Scare the shit out of me?” Margrit offered when Alban hesitated, lost for a phrase. He chuckled and nodded, earning Margrit's rueful smile. “All right, so it wasn't the best argument ever. I should…probably go in and try to talk to them. And if that doesn't work, at least take a shower and try to find the twins before I have to go…”

“To work?”

“That's how that sentence should end. Instead I have to try to keep the djinn from declaring all-out war on you, me and Janx, probably especially me, and if that doesn't work, I have to borrow a pint of Daisani's blood and get the police department to trust me when I say dip the handcuffs in it.” Margrit thinned her lips, looking up at the gargoyle. “You've made my life very complicated. Interesting, but complicated.”

“I hope you can forgive me for that.”

“Probably.” Margrit drew a deep breath. “All right. Tell me where to find the twins, and leave me to face my housemates.”

THE SOUNDS OF
argument cut off as Margrit closed the front door. Cameron, pink-cheeked with distress, looked out of the bedroom she shared with Cole and whispered, “We didn't think you'd be coming home.”

“I thought maybe it would help to talk.”

“Talk?” Cole's angry voice sailed past Cameron. “What is there to talk about? When you said it was too much to deal with a couple weeks ago, I thought you meant it was over, Grit.” He appeared behind Cam, who turned out of the way so her taller form wouldn't block his view or his conversation.

Conversation.
That was an unusually polite word for the exchange. Margrit sighed and went to lean on her bedroom door. Cam, falling into an old pattern, stepped away from Cole to lean against the front doorframe, making an unequidistant triangle between the three of them. They'd spent uncountable time in those doors, standing around talking for hours after they should've slept. A spark of hope lit in Margrit's breast, even though Cole's tight expression told her there was no reason for
it. “I think I said I was too tired to fight about it right then and we'd talk about it later. I guess it's later now.”

“Yeah? And what do you want me to say? That it's okay you're screwing a freak?”

“No.” Margrit's reply was very soft, even to her own ears. “Mostly what I want you to say—to promise—is that you won't tell anybody, under any circumstances, what you know. Because if the rest of them find out you've learned about them, if they think you're any kind of risk, they'll kill you, Cole. Both of you. Their existence depends on secrecy.”

“Of course we wouldn't tell.” Cameron sounded confident and strong, her expression laced with challenge as she looked toward her fiancé. “Aside from who would believe us, it'd be a death sentence. Not for us,” she said as Cole's gaze darkened. “For them. You wouldn't want to be responsible for killing somebody, would you, Cole?”

“That thing isn't a somebody. It's a monster. How do you even know it's safe, Margrit? How do you know it's not going to turn around and tear you apart someday?”

“Because if he wanted me dead, I'd be dead half a dozen times over already.” A shiver turned Margrit's skin to goose bumps as she realized how true her statement was. She'd been in more danger in the weeks she'd known Alban than she'd ever known before. “He wouldn't have had to have done anything. He could've just let that cab run me down in January.”

“Was that on purpose?” Horror filled Cameron's question and her voice shot higher as Margrit nodded. “Grit, what happened back then? Did Alban kill all those people?”

“No.” Margrit glanced upward for strength, then plunged on. “It was another gargoyle, a woman who
thought Alban was her father and had abandoned her and her mother. She tried to kill me. Alban saved my life.” She rubbed her hand over her forearm, remembering the pain of its break. “He's been protecting me for a long time.”

Cole demanded, “How long?” as Cam's worry relaxed a little.

“Years,” Margrit replied reluctantly. Cole's expression said the same things she had thought when she'd first learned that Alban had been watching over her: that she'd been stalked by a lunatic. “He doesn't think of it that way,” she said to the unspoken accusation. “Gargoyles protect. That's what they do. It's what they
are.”

“At least somebody was keeping an eye on her.” Cam's smile wavered hopefully. “I mean, she wasn't out there running every night all alone after all.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?” Cole asked.

Cam's tottery smile fell away. “It does me.”

“Knowing there was a monster stalking your best friend makes you—” Cole broke off with a sound of fear and frustration, then turned on his heel and reentered their bedroom. The door closed behind him at a decibel and speed just shy of a slam.

Cameron flinched and Margrit dropped her chin to her chest. “I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” Cam sounded exhausted and bewildered. “Grit, I don't know…”

Margrit lifted her gaze again, tightness pricking at her eyes and throat. “I know. It's one thing to date somebody your friends don't approve of, but this is different. This isn't the guy you think might be violent or have a drug problem or who's just a jerk.” She chuckled and put a hand over her face for a moment. “In fact, Alban's about
as far from any of that as you can get. But it's a little hard to ignore what he is.”

“Would you have told us?” Cam folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself tightly as she watched Margrit.

“Yes. I wanted you to get to know him before I did, because…” Margrit gestured toward the closed bedroom door Cole had retreated behind. “I thought it'd be easier to explain if you already basically thought he was a decent guy. I can't think of a much worse way for Cole to have found out than the way he did.”

An image of Alban wrestling with Janx against a backdrop of fire flashed through her mind and Margrit curled a lip. That would have been infinitely worse. Even she'd been frightened and angry. “I would've told you,” she said with a sigh, pulling her thoughts back to what had actually happened instead of dwelling on more dreadful might-have-beens. “You guys are my best friends. I didn't want to keep secrets.”

“But you did.”

“Biding time isn't quite the same as keeping them.” Margrit brushed away the cautious suggestion. “No points for lawyering my way out, huh? Sorry.”

“It's not that I don't understand, Grit…”

“I know. It's just that with things as they are, there's no real way out. I don't think it's anybody's fault.” Optimism crept into her voice, but faded before she was finished speaking. “I hope Cole can forgive me. That you both can.”

“What if he can't?”

Margrit looked away, regret knifing through her gut and cutting into her lungs. Janx's insistence that she hadn't yet crossed an irrevocable line, that she could still return to the world and life she'd known, rang in her ears. “I know
I'm supposed to say I'd choose my friends, Cam. That I'd choose my life. But I don't know. I really don't know.”

Cameron pushed off the doorjamb, sorrow in her face and voice. “Yeah, you do. You just don't want to say it out loud because you don't want to hurt my feelings, and maybe because you're not quite ready to make it real. But you said it the other night, didn't you. Alban lets you fly.” She spread her hands, then let them drop as she shrugged. “If he turns out to have wings of wax, I'll try to be there to help catch you when you fall.”

 

At least her headache had faded. Margrit leaned against the train window as it left the station, grateful for the few minutes of dark before it climbed up to ground level, and for the cool, fresh air that blew in from somewhere. Her mind still felt awash with static, though that, too, was less distracting than it had been. Cam's promise, full of friendship and concern, had followed Margrit out of the apartment and still haunted her now. Cole's anger had heavily tempered Cameron's enthusiasm, and Margrit had few illusions as to whose side, ultimately, Cameron would stand on.

Not that she blamed her friend; she, too, was finding herself choosing sides, and leaning toward the one that inevitably cut her off from most of the world she'd known. That her old friendships might not survive cut deeply, but Cam was right: it seemed to be a sacrifice Margrit was willing to make.

As was her job. Margrit turned her wrist up to glance at her watch. It was creeping past seven. If meeting with the twins went extraordinarily well, she might make it back into the city by nine. In hopes of doing so, she had
dressed professionally. Even a brief appearance at work was better than nothing. Her coworkers had planned a going-away party for her that night. Margrit wondered if it would still be held if she'd failed to come into work at all for her final two days at Legal Aid. The calendar would read eight hours left, if anyone had bothered to tear off pages while she wasn't there.

The train's automated voice announced her stop and she got off mechanically, glad to hail a taxi and let someone else worry about getting her to the specific address. It seemed as though it had been a noticeable portion of forever since she'd last gone for a run, though careful counting told her it had only been two days. Maybe at lunch, if she had a period of time as defined as
lunch
that afternoon.

The cabbie pulled over at a well-kept brownstone. Margrit studied it out the window for a few seconds, as if she could learn something about the women who lived inside by doing so, then paid the driver and climbed out, hesitating at the walkway for another moment.

Not much could be deduced from their front yard: it was neatly mowed, with a scattering of just-blooming snapdragons and tiger lilies against the house, their scent carried by a brief twist of breeze. There was no evidence of children, something Margrit wouldn't have thought of had there not been tricycles and play sets in other yards. The idea of locating not only a dragon or vampire heir, but an entire litter of grandchildren and great-grandchildren brought a smile to Margrit's lips, and, buoyed, she opened the gate and made her way to the front door. Another quick glance at her watch told her it was still far too early to arrive unannounced on a stranger's doorstep.

Her other choice was to stand there waiting for the hour to grow later. Margrit set her jaw and pressed the doorbell firmly, then took a step back to wait out its ring.

It opened much more quickly than she expected, revealing a snow-haired woman hobbled with age. Margrit blinked in astonishment, realizing she hadn't asked Alban how old the twins appeared to be. She'd assumed they'd be like their Old Races parent: unaging. “Well?” the woman demanded irascibly.

Margrit pulled herself to attention, feeling a blush mount her cheeks. “Hi, sorry. My name's Margrit Knight. I'm a friend of Alban Korund's, and I'm looking for Kate or Ursula Hopkins…?”

“Never heard of 'em.” The woman began closing the door.

In a fit of surprised panic, Margrit slapped her palm against it, crying, “Wait!”

The woman stopped, clearly more annoyed than alarmed, and glowered at Margrit, whose blush intensified. “I'm really sorry. I might've gotten the names wrong, but I'm looking for two sisters who used to live here. Maybe you bought the house from them…?”

“I've lived here since 1962,” the woman snapped. “Now go away.”

“Oh.” Margrit fell back another step, confusion and concern bubbling within her. “I'm really sorry. I must've been given the wrong address.” She looked at her watch a third time, as though the hour might deny the already-risen sun. There would be no calling Alban for an explanation until nightfall. “I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Thanks for the information.” Bewildered, she retraced her steps to the sidewalk and found herself looking both
ways, as though a clue might lie within sight. The old woman closed the door with a resounding click, making Margrit jump.

Bad enough that the twins weren't there. Worse, this was a residential neighborhood, one taxis didn't run through every few minutes as a matter of course. Margrit sighed, wishing she'd worn shoes more meant for walking, and pulled her cell phone out as she struck back the way she'd come. At least if she called a cab and was picked up, she could make it to work on time.

An auburn-haired young woman in a bathrobe came out of the house at the end of the row to retrieve a newspaper. Margrit nodded a hello and shook her phone, as if doing so would cause someone to pick up. “Come on, c'mon, why aren't you answering?”

The woman's voice followed her in response: “Sometimes we don't want everything answered.”

Margrit twisted around in surprise to see the woman's smile as she added, “Never could resist a rhetorical question.”

 

“You may as well come in,” she continued. “Crank your jaw up first. Wouldn't want you to trip on it.”

Margrit snapped her mouth shut and said, “Never mind” as the cab company finally answered. She hung up, still staring at the woman. “I saw you a couple days ago in the city.”

“Yesterday, actually. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Is that all?” Margrit thought back, realized the woman was right, and shook herself. She was losing time badly enough to wonder how the Old Races, effectively immortal, dealt with the slip of one day into another. It
seemed possible that the woman standing before her might be able to answer that question, but another one surfaced first: “Were you looking for me?”

The woman's eyebrows rose. “Should I have been?”

“No.” Margrit pressed a hand to her forehead, then let it fall. “No, it's just that it never rains but it pours, so in retrospect I thought you might be. You
are
Kate or Ursula Hopkins, right?”

“I used to be.”

“I'm sorry,” came an annoyed female voice from the house behind the auburn-haired woman. “You got the cryptic twin.”

A second woman, this one with darker hair than the first and already fully dressed, came out of the house to elbow past the redhead and open the gate. “She'll keep you out here for a week, being mysterious at you. I'm Ursula.” She shot a look at her sister, and, clearly to keep the peace, said, “Or I was.” Then, back to Margrit, “If you're a friend of Alban's, there must be something wrong. Come on inside.”

Margrit, feeling light-headed, said, “Because Alban doesn't have any friends, or because he's sent one to find you?” and came through the gate.

Ursula latched it behind her. “Both, and on top of it you're here during the day, which isn't when anybody he'd usually call friend could visit. Kate, go get dressed.”

“And miss something? I don't think so.” Kate padded past both Margrit and Ursula, moving with ordinary human fluidity. Margrit lurched into step behind her, wondering if she could turn the Old Races grace on and off, or if her human upbringing had tethered her to the earth.