House of Cards

CHAPTER 35

One bewilderingly clear thought stood out: Janx’s scale could not possibly be found by the police. Glass lay everywhere, shards glittering and dangerous as they reflected neon and firelight. Margrit hadn’t thought there was enough wood in the place to burn, but Janx had done his work well, if not deliberately. Fire ate at the building’s structure, heat sending lights into brilliant sparkling explosions as it leaped around, working its way from one vulnerable spot to another. It moved faster than she thought it could, gobbling up its resources and sending showers of sparks down to the casino floor. She searched through the arc of glass below the dragon’s alcove, heartbeat hammering sickly.

There was almost no screaming anymore in the fire-ridden building, only men and women accustomed to desperation turning their focus on getting out before the walls came down. Most of those who were left moved with the uncanny grace of the Old Races, and they, having chased off the mortals, eyed one another. Treaties meant little in the face of ancient rivalries. Margrit ignored them, digging through glass and rubble more frantically.

Screams did come from the dance club directly below Janx’s alcove, a more youthful and enthusiastic crowd discovering the fire there. The fire, or police raids. Margrit turned her gaze up as a new burst of flame gouted from the alcove. Not the battle any longer; that was over. Just the effects of disaster laid down by monsters. Janx was right. Getting out, getting away from the Old Races, away from the world she’d immersed herself in, was the only way to stay alive and retain her own sanity. They were not what she’d thought they were.

Fury, fear and self-disgust rose at her own silent protests. Alban was precisely as he’d always claimed he was. Her refusal to see it, her inability, was her own flaw, but infuriatingly, she’d blamed him. Easier. Safer. She was not a woman who ran from things she feared or didn’t understand.

Margrit closed her hands around the scale and, clutching it to her belly, ran.

Cops poured into the abandoned casino. Margrit came up against a wall of them and scrambled backward, running for the shadows, as if she had something to hide. An ancient sprinkler system finally kicked on, dribbling water over five stories of fire-blackened warehouse. She slipped in a sooty puddle, crashing to her knees. An officer grabbed her arm, twisting it up behind her, his commands to not resist all but lost in the roar of fire and shouts of police and Old Races alike. Pain from banged knees and a twisted arm, combined with the acrid scent of smoke, brought tears to Margrit’s eyes, feeling thick as they trickled down her cheeks. She looked up, blinking through smoke and water and fire, uncertain she could trust her eyes.

No, Alban’s broad pale form was unmistakable, even in the fire-guttered conditions of the ruined casino. He took the steel stairs up to the rooftop three at a time, unburdened by the weight he carried in his arms. Janx.

A thrill of alarm tempered by confusion and fear shot through Margrit. She dropped her head, gasping out a sob, not knowing if it was relief or dismay that the two combatants had fled. Relief; she held on to that belief, heart aching with it. There would be police on the roof. Despite everything, Margrit hoped Alban would look for them before transforming, before making his escape into the night sky. She wanted to run, wanted freedom from the world she’d become embroiled in, but even so, the idea of losing the fantastic people she’d met to human science and curiosity horrified her.

The cop hauled her up, and she went without protest, stumbling over her own feet. Voices remained raised all around her, some young and frightened, others older and belligerent. A few people moved as she did, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, only visible in glimpses as they moved past her. Many more walked with the smooth arrogance of the Old Races, and she wondered how long any of them would stay behind bars. Janx’s scale lay against her stomach, inside her shirt, where she’d once hidden a selkie skin. So many things were hidden under the surface. She wondered if she would ever find clarity again.

As if in answer, she began to cough when clean air filled her lungs, coolness a salve to the smoke and bitterness of the burning casino. A hand on her head pushed her down into a cop car, and she leaned on the door when it was closed behind her, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Exhaustion more emotional than physical swept her, and for a while she was only distantly aware that bright flashes of red and blue assaulted her closed eyelids, or that people bumped against the vehicle, shaking it as they were removed from the House of Cards. Sirens howled, fire trucks announcing their arrival-all the sounds of city life compressed in a microcosm.

A sharp rap on the window startled her awake. She stared first through the windshield, the officer outside her window little more than a blur at the corner of her eye.

The House of Cards was in ruins, only the alleys between it and other warehouses keeping the whole block from bursting into flames. Smoke and steam rose up in equal parts, a few areas of heat still glowing through the wavering silver. Margrit half expected Janx to stalk out of the aftermath of destruction, eyes bright.

Instead, the knock came against the window again, and then the door was pulled open, Tony bracing his hands on the car’s roof. "Grit, what the hell are you doing here?"

She turned her attention to him, sudden bleakness rising up. "I don’t know."

"You look awful. What were you, inside? Jesus, Grit, you could’ve gotten killed. Come on, get-"

A voice rose in sharp protest and Tony waved it off, calling, "She’s all right, she’s the one who got us here," before finishing, "Get out of there." He offered her a hand and Margrit took it numbly, allowing him to help her out of the car. "You just can’t stand not being part of the action, can you. You don’t belong here, Margrit."

"I know." She knotted her hand around Tony’s, looking back at the fire. "I’m sorry. I won’t do this again."

He ducked his head and breathed a curse she was sure she wasn’t meant to hear, then looked up at her again. "You said that last time."

"No." Margrit flinched as something within the House collapsed, sending a boom into the air. "Last time I very carefully didn’t say I wouldn’t get involved in this kind of thing again. This time I’m saying it. Did you…get him?"

"There’s a body upstairs in his office. We don’t know who it is yet. Crushed, though. Doesn’t take a genius to see it wasn’t the fire that got him." Tony glanced at her. "I hate to ask, but you know anything about that?"

"You mean, did I come by here this evening to pulverize Janx before you got a chance to arrest him? I didn’t." Margrit smiled faintly. "There was some kind of fight up there," she said a moment later, smile gone. "Just before you guys came in. The fire started there."

Tony sighed. "Maybe somebody tipped him off. There’re people on the force working for him, I know that. Arson might’ve been his way out. Grit, you should go home, get some sleep. You’re going to be all over the news tomorrow. We lost Janx, but we took down his operation, all because of you."

"Not because of me," Margrit said softly. Tony looked askance at her and she shook her head. "You’ve got no real link to me, Tony. Deep Throat gave you those files."

Tony scowled. "Why?"

Dizziness swept her and Margrit pressed the heel of her hand against her eye. "There’s always Daisani." Another lie. Misery swirled around her and she shoved it away, unable to offer anything else to the detective. He frowned, then nodded slowly, and she managed to drag a smile into place. "Don’t forget to take a shower before the press conference. Good luck."

He nodded stiffly, full of uncertainty, and Margrit waved herself off, leaving Tony behind in a halo of firelight.

"So this is what your promises come to." Grace O’Malley’s voice came out of the darkness. Margrit jerked awake with an aborted scream clogging her throat, clutching covers like an ingenue. She flung them away, disgusted with herself, and shoved out of bed, squinting in the faint red light offered by her alarm clock.

"Grace? What’re you-how’d you get into my house?"

"Grace has her ways." The black-clad vigilante stepped forward, light gleaming off her leathers, highlighting her curves. "You promised your war wouldn’t come to my world."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." Margrit reached for the bedside light, dismayed when clicking the switch did nothing. She rubbed her face and kicked a pile of laundry out of the way as she stalked to the wall switch. Light flooded the room and she squinted again, eyes watering. Grace turned to follow her path, one hand lifted and wrapped in gold links. "What is that?"

"Payment," Grace spat. "From Janx."

"A dragon gave you gold?" Margrit chuckled hoarsely. "He must really be trying to curry favor. What’s going on?"

The blond woman tightened her fist, metal shifting with quiet clinks. "Your gargoyle brought him to me. Down to where my kids are. He’s made my haven Janx’s new center of operations." She opened her hand abruptly, flinging the gold links onto Margrit’s bed. "You promised me!"

Margrit pulled her gaze from the snake of gold on her comforter. "You invited Alban into your world, Grace. This one’s not on me. I’m sorry, but I never dreamed he might do something like that. Where is he? I need to see him." She’d come home without trying to find him, and closed herself in her room, unwilling or unable to face her housemates. She’d showered and then crawled into bed still clutching Janx’s scale; it lay beneath her pillow now, where the water gun intended to keep her safe from Malik had once been.

Malik. She had been so careful not to let herself think of him, of the way his body had fallen, salt water preventing the transformation into mist that would have saved his life. Janx was right: they all shared the burden for that death, and the price would be higher for her than for Malik’s Old Races brethren.

Dark light slid into Grace’s eyes, nothing kind in her expression at all. "Yeah, love, and I want to taste the kiss of angels. We don’t get what we want, do we. I can’t have Janx down there, stealing my children and showing them the posh life crime can earn them. You promised me, Knight. I don’t care what it takes. Get him out of my tunnels and out of my kids’ lives, or angels help me, I will haunt you for the rest of your days."

"How would I get somebody like Janx out of your life?"

"You got him into it," Grace said implacably. "You’ll figure it out, love." She turned away, hand on the doorknob before Margrit said, "Your necklace."

"Keep it. A prettier piece than Iscariot got, don’t you think?" She closed the door behind her as Margrit surged forward to snatch up the links, then run for the bedroom door, to fling the necklace after Grace.

The hallway was empty, the front door closed and the chains on the locks in place. Margrit threw the necklace anyway, sending it clattering against the door, then sat down on the floor, her face in her hands. A creak announced Cole and Cameron’s door opening. Margrit cursed into her palms, then looked up to find Cole frowning down at her. "I thought I heard voices."

"Just me talking to Casper."

"What time is it?"

"I don’t know. Late. Probably about time for you to get up and go to work."

Cole sat down beside her, looping his arms over his knees and glancing at her through bangs growing too long. "Grit…"

"Whatever you’re going to say, Cole, can it wait until later?" She could still smell smoke on her skin and hair, despite having showered. "I don’t have anything left to fight with now. Can it just…wait? Please?"

He answered with a long silence, finally ending it with a sigh. "Are you okay, Margrit? I mean, really. Are you okay?"

"I don’t know."

Cole sighed again and reached out to put his arm around her shoulders and tug her toward him. "Okay. For right now, okay."

"Thank you." Margrit turned her head against his arm, grateful for his silence, grateful for his simple humanity. They sat together a while before he pulled in a deep breath. "I’m not picking a fight. But do you smell like a bonfire?"

Rough laughter scraped Margrit’s throat. "Yeah, I do. I-"

"Nope." Cole cut across the beginning of her explanation firmly. "I don’t want to know. We’re not fighting tonight," he said, stressing the words. "You can tell me later. We can fight about it then."

"Okay." Margrit unwound from his hug and scrubbed her face tiredly. "I should go back to bed. You should go back to bed. You have to be up in ten minutes."

"If I have to be up in ten minutes I should just take a shower." Cole crooked a smile. "You could make me an omelet for breakfast while I shower."

"I could make you scrambled eggs with stuff in them," Margrit countered wearily. "I never made a successful omelet in my life. I can’t flip them."

"Lawyers, always negotiating. Scrambled eggs with stuff in them sounds like a great breakfast." Cole’s smile improved a few degrees and he got to his feet, offering Margrit a hand. She let him pull her up and they parted ways, Cole into the hallway bathroom that was by default his and Cameron’s, and Margrit to the kitchen.

A white shadow on the balcony, little more than a blur against the night, caught her eye. For a moment the impulse to pull the curtains and ignore the world outside swept her. Then she lifted her chin and opened the balcony door, uncertain if it was relief or dismay that made her stomach jump as Alban turned to face her.

"You’re all right." He remained at the balcony’s far side, and she in the doorway.

"I’m not dead, anyway." Margrit hesitated, then dropped her shoulders. "Janx?"

"Alive. Infuriating our hostess with his presence. I had to bring him to-"

"I know. She dropped by to let me know." Margrit looked over her shoulder to where she’d thrown Grace’s necklace, reminding herself to pick it up before Cameron or Cole saw it. "The police have got Malik’s body, Alban."

"No." He all but whispered the word. "Or, perhaps, but they won’t by morning. Djinn were arrested tonight. They can’t be held with iron bars and metal handcuffs. They’ll take him away before any examination is done."

"Great. Accessory to murder and now responsible for missing bodies." Margrit pressed her lips together and looked away, though she glimpsed Alban shaking his head.

"Neither, Margrit. You acted in self-defense, and by human law, I acted to save another. Not that human law will judge me. We know how my people will rule."

A breath of laughter escaped her. "And I thought I was the lawyer here."

Alban returned her smile cautiously. "I may have learned a thing or two from you in the last week. Margrit-"

"No." She held up her hand, uncomfortably aware she was echoing Tony’s sentiment from earlier. "Not right now, okay, Alban? No apologies, no explanations, no anything. I need a couple of days. I can’t escape your world." She bit her lower lip, searching for the truth within her. "I can’t, and I don’t want to. But I need a little time to back off and breathe. This…has been a hard week. So give me some time, okay? I’ll be fine. I just need space."

"Are you certain?"

"I’m very, very certain. And right now you have to go, because Cole’s going to be out of the shower in a minute." She had never had the chance to tell Alban that Cole had seen him. The impulse to do so rose and faded in the same breath; it would not send the gargoyle from her balcony, and she needed him to go. There would be time later to deal with the ramifications of Cole’s discovery. "Just give me a few days, Alban. It’s been too much." Another wave of familiarity swept her; she’d pushed Tony away too often using that same argument. It was a mistake she didn’t want to make again.

For the first time in what felt like days a genuine smile broke over her face. Margrit stepped out the kitchen door, crossing the step or two to Alban and winding her arms around his neck. "I’ll come back to you, Stoneheart. Just give me a chance to catch up on my sleep, okay?"

Before he could speak, she stood on her toes and stole a kiss, heart hammering with joy that came from nowhere. Then, still smiling, she darted back into the apartment and turned to wave at the stunned gargoyle.

There was hope.

Alban watched Margrit slide the door closed, astonishment making him thick and slow. He had come in all expectation of finding refusals and goodbyes, and instead had been offered hope. Slow delight washed through him, and he turned to do as he was bade: give her space and time.

Seconds later he settled on the roof across the street, crouching where he could see her apartment windows.

She had not, after all, said how much space.