Hands of Flame (27 page)

MARGRIT AWAKENED WITH
a pounding head and the befuddling idea that she'd heard a gun.

Instinct drove her to sit up, but her muscles were rubbery and she faltered, barely able to lift her head.

Crimson spread out in front of her, the only clear thing in her foggy vision. It was warm, though cooling rapidly, and sticky, and she thought it should mean something to her, all that red liquid so close to her. It smelled of copper, only discernible because she lay so close to it. Other smells were far more overpowering: fire, smoke, barbecue. Her stomach rumbled and she tried to clap a hand against it, but her movements were too clumsy, and all she did was smear a hand in the blood.

Hunger twisted into nausea as she realized her unthinking recognition was right and that she lay in a pool of blood.

Recollection slammed into her, a shock of adrenaline giving her the energy necessary to jerk upright. Her vision cleared as she twisted to face the room, the world sharpening into hyperdefined focus.

The first sound she made after coming back from the dead was a laugh.

No one else heard it: it was too low and raw a sound, as she took in the impossible things spread out before her. Her blood in the foreground, yes, and the air thick with smoke and flame. Bodies, some charcoaled, some flayed, some gnawed upon as though an animal had gotten to them, lay scattered around the floor, and amongst them stood gargoyles and a dragon in their elemental forms, and selkies and a vampire who looked human to an untrained eye.

And under the dragon's claw lay Anthony Pulcella, who didn't belong there at all and who was about to pay for his audacity with his life. Beyond him was Grace O'Malley, only slightly less out of place, her peaches-and-cream complexion paled to ghostly white. Janx was speaking, something Margrit hadn't known he could do in his dragon form, and then he coiled upward, clearly preparing for a final strike.

“Dragonlord,” Margrit said, and her voice was a disaster, “you will
not.
”

 

Not if she lived a hundred years would she become accustomed to the lack of movement that came over the Old Races when something surprised them. Every being in the room save Tony went deadly still, bewilderment spasming over the detective's face. Margrit thought he hadn't heard her: the ruin of her voice was so quiet she'd barely heard herself, but the Old Races had better senses than humans did.

Janx, with terrible precision, turned his long face toward her, complex double eyelids shuttering over eyes
that burned emerald with challenge. His gaze was weighted, heated; all the things she had come to be accustomed to from the dragon. For the first time she felt no fear at all; could, indeed, barely remember why it was he'd frightened her. “You will not,” she said again, and air imploded as Janx returned to his human form.

“An unexpected surprise, Margrit Knight.” The dragonlord looked furious, hands repeatedly clenching into fists.

Relief swept Margrit as his change agreed to her demand, or at least gave her further time to negotiate. She sagged toward the floor, then ground her teeth and forced herself upward. Not just to sitting, but to her feet, a distance she wasn't at all sure she could travel. But then there was a hand at her elbow, supporting her, and Alban was at her side, his eyes round with hope and astonishment.

Margrit laughed, so breathless it would have been fragile had her throat not been ruined. As it was it scraped, a gurgle as dreadful as her last breaths had been, and she whispered, “Hi.”

“I thought you were dead.” Alban's hand on her arm was delicate, as though he doubted what he saw and touched. As though she might shatter under his grip, a possibility that felt alarmingly real. The nausea she'd felt before remained in place, symptomatic of light-headedness and blood loss, but she managed another broken laugh.

“I think I was. Mostly dead, at least.” Sick and trembling or not, she felt filled with laughter, its music bubbling up in her as a form of relief. “Daisani saved me. I think Tariq didn't cut quite deep enough, and Daisani's blood saved me. I was so sad I wouldn't get to see you again.” She swallowed and stopped speaking, every word
a strain. The room was unbelievably silent, her harsh voice and Tony's labored breathing the only sounds in it.

Every one of the remaining Old Races stared at her in the same astonishment Alban did. Overwhelmed by their gazes, she turned her face against his chest and held on with all the trembling strength she had at her disposal, grateful for his cool, stony scent and solid presence. Exhaustion held her too thoroughly for joy to turn to desire, but she could feel its call deep within her, wanting life to be celebrated.

“Margrit?” Tony's voice sounded almost as hoarse as her own did. Margrit released Alban, uncertain she could keep her feet without his support, but there was no need: Tony was there, crushing her in his arms and mumbling disbelief into her hair. “You were dead, Grit. You were
dead.
”

Another raw, shaking laugh broke free. “I got better. Do you remember—” Speech hurt, and she was grateful when Alban took over, words deep and tempered with sympathy.

“A gift from another of our kind, detective. One sip of a vampire's blood offers health to your people. You recall how quickly she recovered from her injuries in January.”

Tony looked up at Alban, then set Margrit back a few inches, his hands on her shoulders hard with relief and concern. “So fast the doctors thought their X-rays must've been wrong. But this, Margrit, I mean—your throat…”

Margrit put her fingers against the cut, shuddering to discover it wasn't yet fully closed. “I think every time I get hurt it steps up the recovery time. I got the shit beat out of me last night.” She looked beyond Tony, finding Grace, who looked strangely insubstantial amongst the Old Races. Even Tony's strong coloring helped make the tall vigilante look less real than those around her. For a
moment an answer swam behind Margrit's eyes, but it slipped away again and she whispered, “I could feel myself healing, then. I think I might not be alive if it weren't for you.”

Grace executed an elegant bow, flourishing with her fingers as Margrit looked back to Tony. “What are you two doing here?”

Janx grumbled a warning that Margrit silenced with a look, while Tony fell back a step and shook his head. “Wish to hell I knew. She came out of nowhere and said I had to come with her.”

“When a cadre of gargoyles goes off looking for trouble, Grace knows to call in a ringer. I didn't know we'd find a mess as bad as this one, but sometimes it takes old-fashioned human ingenuity to get people's attention. I figured the copper shooting off a round or two would do it.”

“You have a gun,” Margrit said blankly.

Grace wrinkled her nose and slipped the weapon from the small of her back, then knocked open the chamber to shake its contents onto the floor. Nothing fell, and with a semiembarrassed shrug, she said, “No bullets, love.”

Margrit stared at Grace, remembering too vividly the way she'd pressed the gun's barrel to her forehead. Her stomach lurched with the dismay of discovering old fear had been useless, but before she found words to protest with, Kate, quiet and sullen, said, “I thought we were the ringers,” to Ursula.

Janx turned on them both, clearly glad to have a target for his ire. He was nearly purple with indignation, and a purposeful pair of gargoyles stepped forward to prevent him from launching himself at the girls. “Did you think
I wouldn't notice?” he demanded. “Did you think you could come into
my
city,
my
territory, and proclaim yourself without challenge? Did you—”

“How did you even know I was here?” The curiosity behind Kate's question was clearly genuine, startling Janx and sending a pang of regret through Margrit. The half-blood children of the Old Races were so thoroughly denied their heritages it was no surprise that Ausra had succumbed to madness. Kate and Ursula had fared better, but Margrit doubted either of them truly understood the world their fathers had come from.

“You announced yourself with your transformation.” Janx's anger lost its grip on him, confusion rising to replace it. “How can you not know that? How can you not know our tongue? Who
are
you?”

Kate exchanged a panicked glance with her sister, but it was Alban who stood with Margrit gathered in his arms, and replied for all of them. “This is Katherine Hopkins, Janx. Sarah's daughter, and yours.”

 

“Daughter.” Janx echoed the word dully, as lacking in animation as Alban had ever seen him.

“They've been in New York for years,” Alban said. “Since…”

“Nineteen sixty-two,” Ursula provided. “We've lived in all five boroughs. Kate wants to go upstate next.”

Janx shook himself, dragging his gaze from Kate to Ursula. “Daughter.”

“Not me. Just her.” Ursula slid her arm around Kate's waist, shoring her up. “My father is Eliseo Daisani.”

Janx and Tony made similar sounds of dismay, the former amusing Alban and the latter drawing his atten
tion to the detective. Grace O'Malley offered him a reassuring touch, her long fingers light and gentle over his. They made an attractive pair, almost Alban and Margrit's mirror opposites, with Grace pale and blond and Tony golden-skinned and dark-haired. The idea traced a smile on Alban's lips before he turned back to the twins. “I didn't recognize you,” he said to Kate. “Not at first. I thought you were Janx. Did you know, in all these centuries, I'd never seen your other form?”

“Of course we knew.” Ursula answered for Kate, who stared greedily at Janx. “Mama drilled that into us when we were still girls. Once we could transform to the degree that we wanted, we never did it again. It's harder to get caught if you don't flaunt your differences.”

“To the
degree
you want?” Janx gaped at Ursula, then looked back at the auburn-haired woman who was his daughter. “You have halfway forms?”

“Of course.” Kate looked nonplussed. “Don't you?”

All of Janx's cool and nonchalance slipped away. “No!”

Margrit's voice fluted as high as it could with the injuries to her throat: “These are things that can be argued about later. Where's Tariq?”

Cara, pinch-faced with pain, looked up from one of her injured podmates. “The vampire ate him.”

“I did
not!
” Offense shot through Ursula's voice, mitigated an instant later by the admission, “He got away.”

Margrit stepped forward, relying on Alban's support and not trying to hide it. A flare of pride burst in his chest, that he should be fortunate enough to have encountered a woman like this one, and that she could see beyond his alien nature and care for him. She was one of the most fiercely independent people he had ever known, and the
tastes he'd had of her memories told him that when she chose
not
to walk beside him or rely upon him, it was to establish herself as worthy of consideration on her own terms. That she was now willing to accept his help said as much about who she was as it did about who they were. Alban fought down a smile that felt silly with delight as Margrit shuffled a step or two closer to Cara.

“Are the selkies satisfied that my death has fulfilled the wergild against Janx and Alban for their part in Malik's death?”

Cara, bemused, said, “You're not dead.”

“I was.” Margrit turned her head toward Alban, who felt his insides go cold again as he nodded. “The agreement didn't stipulate I had to stay that way.”

Humor crowed in Alban's chest, crowding out the cold. Margrit was still shaking and far too pale from blood loss, and yet determined to drive nails into the coffin of a war still on the edge of burgeoning. Her voice cleared a little as she repeated, “Are the selkies satisfied?”

“The selkies are,” Cara said bitterly. “We give up our claim on Janx's territory—”

The dragon hissed in triumph and Cara turned a hard look on him, finishing, “And cede it to the djinn with all our support.”

Margrit slumped against Alban, her hand on his arm trembling with the effort of keeping herself upright. He tightened his fingers at her waist, understanding she wanted to show as much strength as possible, and didn't nestle her close again, for all that it was in his heart to do so.

Using him for steadiness, she turned toward Eldred. “We can't let war come of this. Will the gargoyles accept the djinn as masters of Janx's empire?”

“It is of no loss to us,” Eldred said. “If it will keep the peace, then yes, of course.”

“The
dragons,
” Janx snarled, “will
not.
”

Margrit glanced at Alban, her smile exhausted, then gave that same weary look to Janx. “You're not the only dragon here today.” Drawing herself up, ignoring the outrage that flushed Janx's cheeks, she turned to Kate. “What say the dragons?”

Avarice as powerful as anything Alban had ever seen in Janx's eyes flashed across Kate's face. Then she shot her father a glance, and when she spoke, her words were measured, more like Ursula's than usual. “A dragon and a vampire came here today to support the Negotiator. Neither of us have a stake in Janx's territory, and we're willing to accept djinn rule here. We'll stand together to help them hold it, if necessary.”

Fury contorted Janx's face. Alban stepped forward, flanking Margrit and ready to push her behind himself if danger sparked. She stayed him with a touch, perhaps still too close to death to fear it. “And you, dragonlord? Do you cede control over your empire to the djinn?”

Janx looked from one face to another, high color still burning his cheeks, and finally brought a venomous look back to Margrit. “You've given me no choice. Congratulations, Ms. Knight. It seems you've won a round.”

 

“I've won two.” Margrit curled a hand in Alban's bloody shirt, bracing herself. “Your territory ceded, and Tony's life. I'm calling in my third favor, Janx. Just to make it clear.”