House of Cards

CHAPTER 9

Hurrying home through the park without the confidence of having her inhuman defender watching from above was more nerve-rattling than Margrit would have imagined. Bad enough to be without his protection; worse still to be dressed in work clothes, unable to run reliably. She unlocked the front door to her apartment building and stepped inside, a rope of tension released from within her shoulders, as if the door closing behind her made the world a safer place.

It wasn’t cold enough outside to make her feel as numb as she did. Margrit climbed the flights of stairs to her apartment heavily, legs aching with the effort. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that Alban might flat-out reject her request for help. That he might disappear into the night like a ghost, leaving behind nothing more than the certainty that this time he meant it: he would not return to watch over her. Without Alban she had no support amongst the Old Races, no one she trusted.

"Grit? Is that you?" The question sailed out of the kitchen almost before Margrit had the key in the lock, Cole’s baritone carrying concern.

"Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I was at the office." Margrit followed her housemate’s voice to the kitchen and sat down on the stool next to the telephone.

Cole turned away from doing dishes, an eyebrow lifted dubiously, then both rising in surprise. "You really were. I figured you’d be running in the park."

"No." Margrit looked at her hands. "Not tonight."

"Maybe you should. Not that I want to encourage you to do stupid things, but you sound like the dog died." Cole picked up a dish towel, drying his hands, then folded his arms across his chest. "What’s wrong?"

"I’m thinking about taking another job." The idea formulated as she spoke.

Disbelief shot Cole’s voice into a higher register. "You’re kidding. What, did a position open up in the D.A.’s office? I thought you and Legal Aid were bound in holy matrimony."

"Not with public services at all. I saw Eliseo Daisani yesterday, and he offered me a job again." Margrit’s temples throbbed badly enough that she touched one, expecting to feel the vein popped beneath her skin.

"Elis- the Eliseo Daisani?" Cole asked, as though there were several possibilities, and as though he’d never said it before. Margrit smiled faintly, which did nothing to alleviate her headache. A headache was a malady, the sort of thing Daisani’s blood should wipe away. Maybe it didn’t work when the aches and pains were born of tension.

"That one, yeah. The very, very rich one."

"The very rich one who used to date your mother?"

Margrit winced. "If that’s what they did, yeah, I guess so. I try not to think about why my mother knows him, Cole. You’re not helping."

"Just wanted to make sure I had the right Daisani, Grit." Cole crossed the kitchen to crouch in front of her, taking her hands in his. "Why in the hell would you do that?"

For a fleeting moment Margrit considered telling the truth : I’m about to have a dragon pissed off at me for failing to protect his liegeman djinn, and the gargoyle I thought would help me has walked away. The vampire’s all I’ve got left. Daisani was the only person who could protect her if she failed to keep Malik alive. Moreover, if Daisani was behind Janx’s lieutenants’ deaths, maybe she could use herself as a bargaining chip to protect Malik. And Kaimana Kaaiai wanted her to be his courier between Janx and Daisani, anyway. Working for Daisani would only make that easier.

Margrit pulled her hands from Cole’s and pressed them to her face. "I’m defending this guy," she said into her palms. "He’s a complete bastard, a total son of a bitch. A rapist. The good news is I’m going to lose. Evidence is completely on the prosecutor’s side, and my guy’s too fucking dumb to take a plea. But I’m in there doing my best to get him off, because that’s my job, and Jesus, Cole, what kind of job is that?" She looked up through her fingers, finding his worried eyes studying her. "I don’t know. Maybe it’s just finally getting to me."

The worst of it was that the argument sounded plausible to her own ears, and from the sympathy tempering Cole’s expression, it resonated with him, as well. Margrit sighed. "Compared to that, a posh office with a park-side view and a big fat paycheck’s starting to sound pretty good."

"Ah, c’mon, Grit," Cole said gently. "Daisani’s building doesn’t even overlook the park."

Margrit exhaled a soft burst of laughter, winning a smile from her housemate before he asked, "You eaten recently?"

"Um…" She tipped her head back, stretching her throat. "Not since lunch, I guess. I don’t even remember if I ate lunch."

"Then you probably didn’t. You never forget a meal." Cole pushed himself upright and went to the fridge. "Cam’ll be home in a few minutes. You can have some dinner and we can talk about it. This is kind of out of nowhere, Grit, and you shouldn’t be making decisions with low blood sugar." He left the fridge door open as he pulled leftovers out, taking a newly washed plate from the dish rack to pile scalloped potatoes and ham onto it. Margrit watched silently, trying to push down an overwhelming rise of emotion that made her nose sting and her chest feel full.

"I could do that myself, you know," she said thickly. "I’m a hundred-percent capable of using a microwave."

"You’re fine where you are. Have you talked to Tony about this job change idea, Grit? Your parents? Russell?"

"Nobody. Just you." Margrit got up to close the fridge and leaned on its broad orange surface.

Cole glanced over his shoulder at her. "So you’re trying the idea on for size."

"I guess." She folded an arm around her ribs and bent the other up, pressing her knuckles against her mouth. "Did you always want to be a pastry chef?"

Cole chuckled. "We’re not making this about me, Grit. But yeah, I guess. I used to get under Mom’s feet in the kitchen. By the time I was fourteen I did most of the baking at home."

Margrit dropped her knuckles enough to grin. "That must’ve gone over well with the guys."

"Remember I grew up in San Francisco. Everybody just assumed I was gay." Cole grinned back. "Actually, nobody cared if I was queer as long as I fed them, so it went over fine with the guys." His smile broadened. "It went over even better with the girls. Anyway, people were always telling me I should be a chef, but I wanted to bake, not cook, and it took forever to get the idea there were jobs specifically for bakers."

"Hence the dust-gathering business degree?"

"Pretty much. I thought it’d be good to finish that up in case baking didn’t pay the bills. But yeah, it’s what I’ve always liked doing. No mid-career crisis." The microwave dinged and Cole took a plate of steaming food out and slid it toward Margrit. "Your dinner, madame."

"It’s a little early for me to have a mid-career crisis. Thank you." She took a fork from the clean dishes and broke up the scalloped potatoes, leaning in to inhale the steam. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed a hand against it, laughing weakly. "Guess I’m hungry."

"You’re always hungry. I’ve seen you eat a five course meal and look for a snack twenty minutes later. I don’t know why you don’t weigh three hundred pounds."

"Because I run in the park every night," Margrit said reasonably. Cole made a face, then looked pleased as she took a bite of potato and sighed contentedly. "S’ferry good," she promised around the mouthful.

"Of course it is. Okay, Grit. Tell me something." Cole elevated an eyebrow in challenge and Margrit nodded agreement around another mouthful. "How much of this job change idea is about Tony?"

The bite or two she’d taken turned heavy in her stomach. Margrit straightened up, feeling heat come to her cheeks and doubting she could blame the warm meal. "Tony?"

"Yeah, Tony. The guy who called here four times this evening trying to invite you to dinner."

"He-crap. I thought he was working. I thought-why didn’t he call my cell?"

"He did. You didn’t answer."

"Crap." Margrit closed her eyes and pushed the food away. "I turned the ringer off while I was in court. I didn’t see any messages from him when I checked earlier."

"It was hours ago now. So come on, ’fess up. How much of this has to do with him? I know you two’ve been trying to stabilize things."

"And my job’s a sore point." Margrit looked back at the potatoes, unable to find an answer. The easiest one was to let Cole believe he was right. It rankled, though, in a way that pretending the morality of defending criminals bothered her didn’t. If she’d been pretending. For a disconcerting moment, Margrit was unsure whether she had been or not. "I really hate the idea of giving up my job for a guy," she finally said.

"You would." Wryness colored Cole’s response. "It’s archaic. Nobody’s going to give you a hard time, Grit, you know that, right?"

"Yeah." Margrit wet her lips and tried for a smile as she looked at her dark-haired housemate. Guilt stabbed her, though, and she dropped her eyes again. She hadn’t lied, but she’d given Cole a neutral statement that could easily-obviously-be interpreted as an agreement to his hypothesis. It was a wonderful trick to pull off in a court. Using it against a friend made her feel tired.

And yet it was better than the truth. "Cole, don’t say anything to Tony, okay? I need to talk to him myself."

"You mistake me for a busybody. That’s Cameron." Cole jerked his chin toward the meal she’d abandoned. "Eat your dinner. Talk to your parents and Russell and Tony and get things figured out. And if you decide to go work for the richest man on the East Coast, when you get the Upper East Side penthouse apartment Cam and I are totally moving in with you."

Margrit laughed, surprise washing away some of her gloom. "But no pressure, right?"

"Absolutely none at all." Cole winked and turned back to the dishes, leaving Margrit to finish her dinner with thoughts of surviving the Old Races swirling in her mind.

"What do the gargoyles know of the selkies, Stoneheart?"

Janx asked the question without preamble, dancing a cigarette through long fingers and watching the casino below through the windows. Malik had appeared in the shadows, a smear against burnished walls. His glower and the throttlehold he had on his cane were more damning than words could be, making it clear that he resented Alban’s presence. Alban, no happier about it, doubted the djinn would appreciate their solidarity.

He shifted his shoulders, making the hem of his coat swing. "I know as little as you do. They bred themselves out, disappeared into humanity. If there are full-blooded selkies left they’re well-hidden and deeply secretive. Cara Delaney is the only one I’ve seen or heard of in decades." Though Margrit had mentioned a selkie, Alban recalled with a jolt. He hadn’t thought to ask if it had been Cara, though using the phrase "accosted by" in reference to the slight girl seemed overblown.

"I didn’t ask what you knew." Janx came to his feet and stalked to the windows, his impatience drawing Alban away from his thoughts. "I asked what the gargoyles know. Lore keepers, living memory, history-makers."

"Recorders," Alban objected. "Not makers. Even when I last joined the memory, the selkies were a dying race. You know that, Janx."

"I know that’s what we believe. But that selkie girl came into my territory-"

"Yours?"

Janx shifted his attention from the casino to Alban, weight of his gaze enough to give even a gargoyle pause as the air went still and hot around him. "Mine," Janx said in a low, even voice. "Do you contest my ownership, Stoneheart?"

"I only thought Eliseo might object," Alban said mildly, not intending it for an apology. Jade glittered bright in Janx’s eyes before his lashes tangled, shuttering emotion. When he looked up again it was with the long-toothed smile that so often graced his face, and the heavy pressure in the room lightened.

"That’s a topic for Eliseo and myself, and none of your concern, kind as you are to show it. Now, if I may continue without further interruption?" His eyebrows, half-hidden by falling locks of hair, arched, and he smiled another serpent’s smile when Alban inclined his head. "I’m grateful. That selkie girl came here and now I sense a change in the currents. I would know how many of them are left. Ask the histories."

"Janx." Alban’s gaze flickered to Malik, then back to the dragonlord. Janx fluttered a hand in a swirl of smoke, and Malik curled his lip before dissipating. Neither gargoyle nor dragon moved for several seconds, waiting for the djinn’s scent to fade, proof that he was truly gone, before Alban said, "It is not my secret I protect by remaining outside of the gestalt."

"Gestalt." Janx laughed, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "What a very human word, Alban. After so little time, she’s corrupted you so thoroughly. First in your loyalties, now in your language. Where will it end?"

Alban rumbled, deep sound bordering on a growl even from the lesser breadth of his human chest. Janx’s eyes narrowed and he gestured with the cigarette again, following the swirl of smoke with obvious pleasure. "I’ve learned what I can about the gargoyles’ memory-mind. You can enter and extract memories without leaving any of your own. Our old secrets will be safe."

"You’ve been misinformed." Alban turned away, watching the frantic casino below. "Entering the histories is never a process of only taking. The mental bonds that link gargoyles are fluid. Surface memories, the most recent or the most recently brought up, can be read and made part of the-" He broke off, then repeated, "Gestalt," with a note of defiance. "Willpower alone defines how much is read, and I am badly out of practice. An active seeker might pull more from me than I want shared."

"Are you claiming your will is weak, Stoneheart?" Janx’s voice floated on the air, mocking and light. "After your earlier arguments? Do you now say a gargoyle who has held himself deliberately apart from the memories and minds of his people for three centuries is weak-minded? I would think such discipline would take extraordinary willpower, when done by choice instead of force."

"In time, it ceases to matter. I’ve become unwelcome in our memories, and without a clear show of repentance, an offering of my experiences will likely be driven out. I believe that’s why Biali stays in New York," Alban added, more to himself than the dragon. "To enforce an exile I put on myself. He has reason enough to resent me."

"How delightful." Genuine good humor brightened Janx’s voice for a moment. "The only two gargoyles on the planet holding a grudge match, and they’re both in my employ. I do so love life, don’t you? You work for me now, Stoneheart." Humor dropped, leaving heat without anger. "You’ll pursue my request, and keep secrets safe at whatever cost. I want to know how many selkies are left, and if possible, what they’re doing here. Find out, and tell me."

"Ask properly." Alban lifted his eyebrows in cool challenge as Janx’s eyes popped with surprise. "There are rituals, Janx."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I may also refuse." He hadn’t required that Margrit follow the rituals, when she’d sent him into memory to see what he could learn about his life mate’s death. But Margrit was human, and the laws that governed the Old Races didn’t apply to her.

All the more reason to keep away from her, and do what he could to make sure she remained as uninvolved as possible at this late hour. Alban waited on Janx, keeping his expression neutral. Those two things, at least, a gargoyle was good at.

After an exasperated moment Janx blew out a breath and muttered, "I come to the moon-lit memory of our people to seek what we’ve forgotten beneath the burning sun. I come from fire born of earth and wind born of sky. My name is Janx, and I ask that you share history with me, your brother. Happy now?"

An ache clawed its way through Alban as Janx followed the form, then burst in an unexpected bubble of humor at the dragon’s petulant ending. "Yes. Thank you."

Janx huffed another sulky breath and Alban dropped his gaze, half to hide a smile and half in acknowledgment of the loneliness the ritual had awakened. It had been centuries since he’d heard the phrases Janx had spoken. They’d left a hollow place inside him, so empty he hadn’t recognized it until it was filled again. The promises he’d made so many years earlier weighed heavily, borne down now by a taste of regret he thought he’d long ago left behind. "I’ll return when I have what answers I can bring you."

Wisdom, if it dictated anything, dictated that he retreat to Grace’s hideaway and try from there to do as Janx…Alban hesitated over the next word, torn between asked and demanded. Duty and desire warred in him again; duty bound by his word, desire to reject that contract and disregard the dragon’s wishes. Duty won, as it must; that was his nature, as profound a part of him as the wings that let him fly unfettered above city lights. Caution, the other god that ruled him, warned again against the poor wisdom of searching the memories beneath the open sky.

But a memory haunted him, the bleakness of mountain peaks and deep valleys that represented the overmind that belonged to all the gargoyle race. It had once been vivacious, a place of life and ever-growing knowledge, but too many had died. Terribly few of the peaks grew now, blunted by time and aging memory. Foothills, the memories of children, were few and far between: all signs of a dying people. Reluctance to enter that dour realm again drove Alban high through the city towers, as if remembering under the stars might help bring life back to what had once been a great repository of memory and legend.

All the history of the Old Races. Not just the remaining five, but innumerable other peoples whose light had faded as humans swept the planet. Exploration and settling was their nature, as much as solitude and contemplation was a gargoyle’s. Humans had not meant, in the first many thousand years, to encroach upon habitat used by different peoples than themselves.

It had been far more recently that mankind began to hunt the legends: dragons and sea serpents, closely related but diametrically different. Wild men in the mountains, always few thanks to the harsh climate in which they existed, were hunted to the brink of extinction and beyond, until only tales of Bigfoot remained. Harpies, winged and bitter even before their female-heavy tribes were decimated, and the siryns whose songs were so haunting that sailors spoke of them even still. Vampires, hungry for the very blood that gave humanity life, were feared even more than dragons. Men who destroyed vampires were heroes among mortals.

All of their stories and more lay in the gargoyles’ memories, in the minds of the one race bound so tightly to stone that daylight took life from them and left nothing but the protective state that could shield memory against even the ravages of time. That was the purpose of Alban’s race, beyond all else: to preserve history.

His people had once gone amongst the others, listening to stories and opening themselves to their memories so histories might be fully recorded. They might be hidden from the world but they would never be forgotten, even as the unadaptable died and were lost to time.

Only the remaining handful had learned the precarious balance between pretending humanity and remaining true to their own natures. Of those, whole tribes of djinn remained in the deserts, riding sandstorms and acting out their hate against humanity in brutal raids that left reporters bewildered and humanitarians horrified. They were the most united, possibly the most populous, of the Old Races, but their ambitions were reined in by desert boundaries, more by choice than necessity. Humans were too many, and the Old Races, even together, far too few.

Gargoyles, after the djinn, still held the most numbers, but even those were countable: fewer than fifteen hundred when Alban had last known. The others diminished far more rapidly, with dragons counting in the tens or dozens, and the selkies thought to be all but gone. The memories carried more sorrow than joy now, their price heavy in emotion and heavier still in cost of daylight hours unshared with the rest of the world.

Alban settled on a building top, reluctance weighing his wings until he could fly no longer. Duty and desire tangled together, becoming more difficult to discern: the last price paid for bearing the memory of the Old Races. A plea for information carried in the gestalt was not to be refused.

He closed his eyes and let memory ride him.