Hands of Flame (37 page)

“I am not leaving you.”

“You'd better.” Tony Pulcella's hoarse voice came from the doorway. He stepped inside, holding a hand up against the heat, the other covering his mouth as he coughed. “All of you. It's going to be a hell of a lot easier to explain a building fire if there aren't a handful of people standing around like potential arsonists. And you can't afford to be in custody when the sun comes up,” he reminded Alban sharply.

Margrit, as much as the gargoyle, stared at the police detective without comprehension. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you were on your way here. I didn't know you'd be busy destroying the place, but I thought I'd better come over even before I saw the fire.
Go
,” he said more urgently, gesturing to Alban. “Margrit's right. You can't be here.”

Alban closed his hands into fists. “Margrit…”

Memory flashed through her again, Hajnal's near death on a rainy Paris night, and Alban's reluctant agreement to abandon her to dawn and stone. “I know, Alban. I know. I'll be right behind you, I promise. Get Tony out of here, too. He can't see what's about to happen.”

No one saw a vampire's natural form and lived to tell of it. The warning haunted her, but before any more arguments could be made, she bent her head over Daisani's shuddering form, and offered him her throat.

 

An image stood out in her mind. The last image, she imagined, that she would ever see. It was dramatic: a slim, dapper man standing before a wall of fire, looking down at her. Despite the fire, she was freezing, as though all the warmth had been drained from her body. Even her heartbeat seemed sluggish, as though there were nothing left to push. She'd felt that way once before, very recently, when her blood had spilled out on a concrete floor, taking her life with it.

Clarity brightened everything for an instant, letting her understand that the same thing had happened again. Nearly the same thing: this time she had chosen to buy one life with her own. Daisani crouched at her side, murmuring under the crackle of flame. “I will not see you again, Margrit Knight. You had best pray for all your days, however long they may be, that I will not see you again. Eliseo Daisani is dead, thanks to you, and the only reason you do not follow him to the grave is this act of grace you have offered. Live with that, if you can survive the fire.”

Margrit nodded, a flimsy motion that stole what strength she had left. Her eyes drifted closed, Daisani's image dancing behind her eyelids for a little while before it faded.

Liquid brushed across her lips, so sticky she tried to wipe it off. She couldn't: as before, her muscles were watery. Licking it away was a compulsive reaction, her body working without command from her mind. Iron's tang was drowned by sugar, so sweet she gagged before involuntary swallowing overrode the weak attempt to spit up.

For a brief eternity there was nothing.

Then life came roaring back in, a surge that rolled her onto her hands and knees, coughing and spitting against
too much smoke inhalation. Heat said the fire was behind her. Margrit crawled away, trembling with effort, and collapsed outside Daisani's apartment door. Cool air rushed to fill her lungs and she heaved for it, trying to clear her mind.

“Margrit.” Tony put a hand on her shoulder, then pushed her back to sit on her heels, keeping her upright with his own strength. He was blackened with soot, sweat making lines through it. “Grit, I couldn't get back in there to go after you—”

“Alban was supposed to get you out of here.” Her voice wasn't as bad as it had been after her throat had been cut. Margrit took it as a small favor, focusing on that instead of on the bewildered fear that pounded through her. “Where…?”

“Here.” The gargoyle, in his stone form, crouched at Tony's side. Margrit blinked at him, further bewildered until she realized she'd taken his broad white form to be part of the wall. She relaxed, fear draining away as she became more aware of the heat behind her. Alban offered a faint smile. “You couldn't imagine we'd leave you. Not after all of this.”

“You should have. I told you I'd be right behind you.”

“You weren't,” Alban said with the same tiny smile, though it fell away. “I've left you too many times already, Margrit Knight. Never again.”

“He wouldn't let me past him,” Tony growled.

Margrit folded her hand over Tony's at her shoulder, testing her own strength and finding it wanting. Memory flashed behind her eyes: Daisani's fluid, oily form a nightmare of blood-stench and fear that made her shudder. “Good. Daisani…”

“Is dead.” Tony took away the explanation she'd intended to make, speaking with unexpected firmness. “Which we're all going to be if we don't get out of here. This place is an inferno, Margrit. I've got to get downstairs.”

Margrit nodded, feeling sweat slide down her spine. She set her jaw and shoved to her feet, refusing either Tony or Alban's help for a few seconds. Just long enough to determine she
could
stand unaided if she had to. Satisfied, wobbling, she put out a hand, and both men reached for it. Margrit caught a glimpse of their exchanged expressions, and almost found a laugh to tease them with. Tony, after an instant, dropped his hand, and Margrit's laughter turned to a weak smile as she leaned on Alban. Her thoughts were clearing, as were her lungs. She still felt drained, exhausted from blood loss, but one idea came into focus: “The elevators will be locked down, and you can't run down forty flights of stairs. Come up to the roof. Let Alban bring you down.”

“Uh—” Tony shot a look between the two of them, and Alban shifted, causing a rumble of amusement under Margrit's ear.

“She's right. It would be quicker, if you're willing to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Flame exploded from the apartment. Alban scooped Margrit into his arms and fell into step behind Tony, protecting the humans as they ran for the stairs. Tony's bellow echoed over the noise. “I trust you a hell of a lot more than I trust that fire!”

They burst onto the rooftop, Tony sliding to a stop as his voice broke in dismay. “You set the roof on fire, too?”

Margrit patted Alban's arm, half reassurance and half a request to be set on her feet as she looked over the
burning helicopter and flame-eaten expanse of blacktop. “I forgot about that. News helicopters—”

“Are already on their way.” Alban flashed into his human form, still holding her, and nodded skyward, where lights were converging on the building. “Let's hope their cameras are washed out by the fire. Detective, if we're to exit discreetly, we had best do it now. Margrit, I think you'd better come with us. I won't be able to return without drawing attention.”

“Can you fly with both of us?”

Alban gave her a foreshortened, nonplussed look that finally brought out her laughter. “I guess that's a yes. All right. How—”

The question was cut off as Alban, with an apologetic twist to his mouth but no more ceremony than that, jerked his head toward the darker edge of the building and dropped Margrit from the bride's carry he held her in, wrapping a single arm around her waist instead. He offered the other arm to Tony, eyebrows lifted as he said, “Detective, if you would…?”

“You can't carry us that far!” Tony fit himself into the offered space awkwardly even as he protested, and let out a baritone yell under Margrit's shriek of laughter as Alban did, in fact, lift them both easily, and ran across the rooftop to leap into freefall.

Alban transformed, the charge of bursting air earning another bellow from Tony. Their plummet broke as Alban's wings snapped open, and he turned on a wingtip, updrafts pulling tears from Margrit's eyes. “I'm afraid this will be a rougher flight than usual,” Alban murmured. “I don't dare circle the building for fear the news cameras will catch a glimpse of us.”

“That's fine.” Tony's voice was strained. “Just get us on the ground.” His face was pale. A death grip locked around Alban's neck. Margrit grinned wildly at him, then shouted in panicked delight as Alban folded his wings and cut toward the ground at dramatic speed.

They landed harder than they ever had, her hold around the gargoyle's neck slipping and reminding her that weakness hadn't yet passed. Alban set Tony on his feet and transformed into his human shape.

Tony staggered away, staring toward the distant rooftop and then at Alban. “Jesus. I thought we were dead.”

“Not at my hand, detective.”

“Good goddamned thing. Grit…?”

“I'm fine.” Margrit slid out of Alban's arm, still leaning on him for support, and found her cell phone. “Tony, if the docks aren't a hundred-percent quieter by tomorrow night, you're going to have to—” She broke off, suddenly wishing her clarity of thought would fade a little. “This is going to sound insane.”

Tony shot a finger toward the sky. “
Now
you're worried about insane, after jumping off a forty-story building?”

Margrit glanced upward, then shrugged in acknowledgment. “If the docks haven't quieted down, you're going to need to go in with FDNY trucks of salt water and hose all your malcontents down. A lot of them are djinn, and that'll keep them from misting. If you can find Ursula Hopkins, ask for a pint of her blood and line your handcuffs with them. You're not going to be able to hold the djinn for long, but it'd at least shake them up.”

Tony pulled a hand over his mouth. “Salt water. And blood.”

“Not just any blood. Vampire blood.” Margrit winced
at Tony's expression, but he turned his hand palm out, refusing any further commentary she might have.

“Salt water and vampire blood. Anything else, Grit?”

“No, except…” Margrit turned away, searching for the call-back feature on Cameron's phone, and dialed the number that came up.

Voice mail answered, another small gift she was grateful for. “Kaimana. This is Margrit Knight.” For an instant the world rushed up around her as it had when Alban had leapt off the building, all too overwhelming. As if he sensed her wave of exhaustion, Alban tucked himself behind her. She leaned back, shoulders dropping a little. “You get your bag of tricks after all, Kaimana. Eliseo Daisani is dead. Be prepared to hit the market hard Monday morning.” She hung up, fisting her hand around the phone, then put it away to the sound of Alban's low chuckle.

“Not ten minutes ago you were nearly dead, Margrit Knight, and now you stand in the wreckage of Eliseo's life and make deals. No wonder they've named you the Negotiator.”

“You've got to get out of here, both of you.” Tony drew Margrit's attention from the warmth and comfort that Alban's arms offered. “Cops'll be here any minute. I can hear the sirens.”

“If you wish to depart with us, detective…”

“No—I called it in. They're going to expect me to be here. Go on, get going.”

Margrit marshaled failing strength and put a hand out toward Tony. He caught it and held on a moment, then released her. “Go, before I have to explain who and what the hell you are. And don't worry,” he added, resigned, “I never saw any of you.”

Margrit whispered, “Thank you, Tony.” And then she was in Alban's arms and they were running, leaping, soaring into the space between buildings, leaving the life she'd known behind them, and a future of indefinite years and infinite possibilities ahead.

Trenton

THE BRIDE WORE
a fitted bodice that showed off her strong shoulders and arms, and a meringue of a skirt, all frothy and light, that was at odds with her athleticism, but which made the most of her height and slim form. Margrit, standing for her at the altar, a bunch of daisies clutched in her hands, felt tears of idiotic joy well up as Cameron came down the aisle on her father's arm. She snuffled into the flowers, then swallowed a sneeze that sent tears spilling after all, and caught Cole's quick laugh as he tore his eyes from Cameron to check on her. Margrit jerked her head back toward Cam, and Cole's gaze returned to her more than willingly, his smile turning dazzled.

Cameron's smile was as wide and foolish as Margrit's own; as wide and foolish as anyone's at the wedding. People were packed into the Dugans' backyard, the ultimate in intimate affairs, but Margrit could think of nothing better suited to her friends.

Tony stood opposite her as Cole's best man, more
gorgeous than usual in a tuxedo that had to be far too hot under the late-afternoon sun, though neither he nor Cole looked inclined to complain. Margrit sought out Tony's date in the crowd, still astonished to see her in public, much less clad in something other than black leather. Grace O'Malley cleaned up well, wearing a crisp pantsuit that was both formal enough for the ceremony and somehow flawlessly herself, as well. She arched an eyebrow when Margrit caught her eye, then did much as Margrit herself had just done: gestured with her chin, telling Margrit to pay attention to what was important.

Beaming, Margrit did so, taking Cam's bouquet when it was handed to her; watching Tony fumble for the rings and Cole's expression of alarm; laughing, after the vows were exchanged, when Cameron's bouquet, flung into the air, landed squarely at Grace's feet, the vigilante woman staring at it as though it was a pit viper.

And when the afternoon turned to evening, then slipped toward night, Margrit found her way to the newlyweds and exchanged fierce hugs, then slipped away from the party, skirts gathered like Cinderella so she might find her lover when daylight's spell was broken.

Manhattan

The police-locked door opened easily enough, though she didn't technically have a key. Most of the mess had been cleared up, shelves put to rights and books replaced on them. The stock hadn't been sold off; instead, someone had bought the establishment wholesale, intending to keep it as a bookstore. The back room was no longer curtained off by a fall of beads, and furniture had been
removed so more shelves could be brought in. It made the front of the store roomier, in fact, much less precarious to navigate. Still, it lacked a certain hominess with all that extra room.

But it was no longer her concern. The one item she wanted was still there, tucked into a corner where it had somehow gone unnoticed as the new owner made changes. Well, not somehow: no doubt it had been obvious that a touch of greenery made the place cozier, and no one liked to throw out a perfectly healthy plant. Especially one with a rich, comforting scent. It was no surprise that it remained.

Chelsea Huo collected her tea tree and slipped out of the bookstore again, not bothering to lock the door behind her.

Krakatoa

Jewels sweated, gleaming in waves of heat. This was the deepest room, closest to the heart of the earth, where only the sturdiest of treasures could be kept. More fragile winnings—Fabergé eggs, worked metals, mummies, scrolls liberated from Alexandria—stayed in safer climes, caves with natural temperature control, or even in modern secured vaults, though nothing of real importance, of course, was kept in such places. Janx wound his way through treasures to dip his talons in a pool of molten gold, sighing with satisfaction as the gleam worn down by too many battles returned to its former beauty.

Kate's heartbeat was that of a hummingbird's, so rapid even his ears couldn't tell one beat from another with any clarity. Amused, he finished dipping his claws and waved them dry before turning to see her wide-eyed expression. One dragon shouldn't look so impressed at another's
hoard, but then, in her brief life she'd never seen one at all. He moved to the side, inclining his head in invitation, and Kate's eyes widened further before she roiled forward to dip her claws, too.

Metal cooling, she curled up around the base of the molten pool to admire her nails. Janx, with a hiss of smoke and amusement, left her to preen. It would be days, by his reckoning, before she lost interest in the glimmer of her own adorned talons, and there were vast rooms of beloved prizes he had not visited in far too long.

Rome

It was too easy, really. Done in the middle of the night at speeds only her kind could achieve, it was easy. Damp earth was slung aside, iron chains stricken, wooden stakes thrown into the ground. She wasn't strong, but they were desiccated, barely more than bones in skin sacks. The task took barely three hours, even with moving them to safety. Finding enough blood to revive them, that was harder.

Tokyo

A slim man, short by Western standards, not particularly handsome, but animated enough to hide it, lifted his eyes in the midst of a business meeting. He looked on a city half a world away, gaze blank with it; blank with the awakening of his brethren and all it portended. Then someone spoke his name and he brought himself back to his duty, a small job in a small company. His apology was made in fluid, flawless Japanese, and his transgression was forgiven, which, all things told, was just as well.

Brooklyn

An older woman—no, an elderly one—came out of her house to tidy snapdragons and tiger lilies in the evening sunlight as she talked on the phone. She crouched in the dirt more easily than a woman of her age might be expected to, pulling and digging at roots and plants with thoughtless practice as she nodded at the voice on the other end of the line. Then she snorted and straightened, and the years fell away until she was no more than
older
, silver-haired, suddenly still beautiful, and with a raw note of London's slaughter fields in her voice when she didn't bother to train it away. “Don't be ridiculous. I'll move on when you two have found somewhere new to settle. Be careful, darling, and give your sister my love.”

Manhattan

It is the highest point in the city easily accessible to a human, especially at night. He's wiser than to have remained there during the day, but in the first minutes after the sunset releases him, he wings his way there and waits well above the observation deck, observing from his own unique vantage.

And as promised, not too terribly long after the sun has fallen over the horizon, she appears on the observation deck below, a broad smile shaping her face as she turns to search the building's upper reaches for him.

She's dressed in a copper gown that fits her curves and makes the warm tones of her skin rich even in the artificial light of a city night. She waves when she sees him,
and her smile lights even more, until it reflects the joy within his own heart.

With an incautious glance around, he plummets from his waiting place, landing in a solid crouch at her side. She slides her fingers into his hair, then laughs as he stands and takes her with him. Like any two ordinary lovers, he spins her around in a circle, reveling in the sound of her delight. Reveling in holding her in his arms, and most of all, most incredibly of all, reveling in wonder as Margrit Knight touches her lips to his ear and whispers, “I love you.”