House of Cards

CHAPTER 28

Moonlight softened the city’s shadows, turning concrete and steel to faded lilac and blue. A handful of stars glittered above, defying both city lights and the moon. Music and soft light rose from below, open windows carrying the sounds of Daisani’s party up to the rooftop. Wind played in Margrit’s hair, threatening to finish what the tango earlier had started and emphasizing bursts of chatter with its ebb and fall.

Alban alighted behind her with a soft thud and a rustle of wings. Margrit glanced back at him, smiling. His silver-shot tuxedo was gone, abandoned in favor of the jeans he typically wore in his gargoyle form. Typically, or rather, for her benefit: her first glimpse of his natural shape had been staggering, and he’d donned clothing he didn’t normally bother with so she might be able to meet his eyes. Bare-chested and pale in the moonlight, he looked like a dream come to life, warm and comforting and not at all human.

"When I said meet on the roof, it didn’t occur to me until too late that you didn’t have an elevator key for rooftop access."

"It occurred to me that you didn’t have wings." Alban sounded amused. "I assumed you had some method of getting yourself here, but it seemed like a curious place to meet."

"I wanted to see the view. Eliseo’s office faces west. I wanted to see…" Margrit gestured to the south. "I wanted this one."

Alban stepped up behind her, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. "No, you didn’t."

"What?" She frowned.

"This isn’t the view you wanted. You’re looking for something that isn’t there." He offered a cautious smile as Margrit turned more fully to gaze at him. "I know a thing or two about searching skylines for memories, Margrit."

She looked back at the city. "I guess we all do now." Alban opened a wing and folded it around her, garnering a quiet sigh of contentment as warmth drove sorrow away. "We have the whole night to ourselves," she said after a moment. "I don’t think there’s a single member of the Old Races in town who’s not at the party downstairs. What do you want to do?"

"With that introduction, I feel I ought to propose my insidious plan to take over the city."

Her voice brightened. "Do you have one?"

"I’m afraid not." Alban’s tone went dry. "If you’re looking for someone to conquer New York with, you might want to invite Janx up here instead."

"Not at all." Margrit turned against his chest, winding her arms around his waist and closing her eyes. "Why did you leave?"

"Because Biali was right." Alban’s heartbeat counted long seconds beneath Margrit’s ear before he spoke again. "Perhaps because I didn’t want to bear responsibility. But mostly, because he was right. I haven’t been part of my people’s world for centuries, Margrit. I didn’t have the right to answer the question the quorum asked tonight."

"Questions," Margrit corrected, and pulled a crooked smile when Alban leaned back to look down at her. "Kaaiai wasn’t the only one with an agenda. I asked them to overturn the other two rules, as well."

Alban went so still beside her that Margrit glanced up to see if stone had swept over him. "On telling humans about us?"

"And exile for killing another of the Old Races. I was sure I’d lost that one, when Biali took your place."

"Margrit." Alban’s voice sounded strangled, and he stepped back from her. "You thought I would support changing that law?"

Surprised offense pinked Margrit’s cheeks. "Why wouldn’t you? It’s your neck I was trying to save."

"Margrit, we have those laws-that law-for a reason. We aren’t so many that we can afford to lose each other to personal battles. Tell me it was overruled."

"What? I was trying to help you, Alban!"

"I understand that." The gargoyle’s voice dropped low, edged with dismay. "But I would not have voted with you. Margrit, how did the quorum decide?"

"It was a hung jury." Margrit moved away, folding her arms around her ribs. "Janx and Biali voted with me. Daisani, Kaaiai and Malik voted against."

"Biali-" Alban made another strangled sound. "That Biali voted with you should tell you everything you need to know as to why we cannot allow that law to be undone, Margrit. Even if it’s my neck, as you put it."

"But…" Embarrassed chagrin filled her, Margrit’s chest ached with disbelief.

"No. Margrit." Alban came forward again, enormous hands curled to brush knuckles against her cheeks. "It is a gift that you tried," he whispered. "A gift I wouldn’t have asked for. Wouldn’t have thought to ask for. I understand that in the human world it makes sense. That there are circumstances when a despicable action is the only recourse, and when turning to it may save more lives than it takes.

"But we must hold a threat over our own heads to ensure our own safety. Banishment from our communities is a difficult thing to contemplate. We have so little besides each other. We can’t let that go. If we do we may lose ourselves forever. I understand your reasoning, but I beg you, never try this again. Please, Margrit. If you would grant me a gift, grant me this. Do not try to undo this law, even to save me."

Tears pricked at Margrit’s eyes. "You should’ve been a lawyer." Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard, averting her gaze. "I was trying to help you."

"Yes. As a human would, in the human world. But I don’t belong to that world, Margrit. I glide on its edges. I know it’s not easy, but you can’t think of me as one of you. You’re reluctant to imprison Janx or Daisani," he whispered. "Turn that reluctance to me. The laws that govern me are not the same as those that govern you."

"I should know that by now." Her throat remained tight, constricting her answer. "I thought-" She’d thought like a human. "Okay." A tiny, harsh nod accompanied the word. "Okay. I get your point. I shouldn’t have tried. I should’ve talked to you first. I just-"

"You saw an injustice and were determined to make it right." Alban smiled cautiously, as if afraid the expression would earn her ire. "It is a gift, Margrit, but not one I can accept. One I’m relieved to hear has not been granted." He drew in a deep breath and dropped his hands, stepping back again. "Perhaps I should leave you."

Margrit reached for his arm. "Don’t you dare." She consciously echoed him, taking a deep breath of her own and feeling it shudder in her lungs. "Don’t you dare. We’re finally talking. We’re finally together. Even if we’re talking about my colossal mistake," she added beneath her breath. "I’m not letting you go now."

"Not a mistake, Margrit. You meant well."

"I meant well, but I didn’t think. I didn’t think like one of you," she amended, and Alban chuckled.

"Perhaps because you’re not one of us. All right." He drew her close again, Margrit sighing into his warmth. "What now?"

"Take me flying."

"You’ll be cold, in that gown."

"Alban." Exasperated humor colored Margrit’s response. "You’ll just have to think of some way to warm me up."

"Humans," he murmured under his breath, but lifted Margrit with both hands, letting her bury her arms under his warm hair and snuggle against the expanse of his chest. She clung to him, nose against his shoulder to hide a grin, then squealed with excitement and laughter when he crouched and surged upward, broad wings snapping out to catch the air.

"You’re better at that than Biali," she shouted into the wind, once they were airborne.

Alban turned his head, wrinkling his nose as strands of her hair came loose and whipped across his face. "You flew with Biali?" His low growl made Margrit hug him in reassurance.

"When he brought me to see Janx the other night. Wouldn’t sully himself with the subway. It was like riding a roller coaster, all surges and stops. You flow." Margrit nuzzled his neck, putting her lips against his skin before she spoke again. "Don’t be jealous. It doesn’t suit you."

"It’s more of a dragon’s trait," Alban rumbled, "but we’re not immune to it. Your ability to conquer the men around you is somewhat distressing, Margrit, you must admit."

"Oh, so now you’re men." The wind stung her, bringing with it burgeoning desire as her nipples tightened against the cold, satin caressing them like a lover’s tongue. She spoke to distract herself, a halfhearted attempt at taking her mind from the heat of Alban’s body pressed against hers. "I haven’t conquered anybody, Alban. Janx flirts like he breathes, without thinking about it. Daisani plays at being charming, but I’m just a tool to him. Don’t fool yourself. Don’t let them fool you. This house of cards you Old Races have is fragile enough without introducing trouble where it doesn’t exist."

"And that tango?" The grumble left Alban’s voice, leaving ruefulness behind. Margrit tucked herself closer, her nose in his hair as she breathed in the scent of cold stone and wind. He shifted a hand beneath her bottom, pulling her closer, and she slid her thigh over his hip, fighting slippery fabric to hold it there.

"If I’d had any idea it would be a tango…"

Alban chuckled. "Malik is the least of my fears, so far as your attention is concerned."

"Implying there’s another reason to be concerned." Margrit tilted back, her eyes closed and her hair flattening as the wind pressed it against her cheeks and shoulders. Alban’s grip tightened as she loosened one arm from around his neck, then the other, bringing them up straight above her head, as if she was diving through the air.

"I don’t want to talk about Malik or the others anymore," she whispered, trusting the wind to bring the words to Alban’s ears. Cold cut through her gown, heightening her awareness of its thinness. She’d felt the same erotic charge when flying with him before, arching in his arms in just such a way, but now her clothing hid nothing of her desire, the fabric fitted to her skin by wind as much as by design. "Do gargoyles make love in the sky, Alban?"

"Only if we’ve flown very high first." Alban’s voice had gone deep. "We’re not made for hovering."

"So you fall together." Dizzy laughter swept Margrit, blooming into body-weakening desire. "My God. I thought running in the park was a rush. I don’t have wings." She drew her arms back down, folding them behind herself as if seeking them. Instead, she found the zipper of her dress and slid it open until Alban’s arms, secure around her waist, stopped it. She pressed one hand to her breasts, keeping the dress in place, watching Alban’s gaze darken. "Will I be able to catch you when you fall?"

"Far too late," he murmured. "I’ve long since fallen."

"Take me higher," Margrit whispered. "As high as we can go."

Alban said, "Look," very softly.

She tipped her head back and gasped. The city lay impossibly far below, glittering silently in the darkness. "How high are we?"

"High enough. You’re not dressed to go higher."

"I’m not dressed to go this high!"

"But I’ve thought of a way to keep you warm." Alban drew her closer, creating more points of heated contact where their bodies met. He loosened an arm from her waist, confident in his own strength, and slipped his hand over her ribs, smoothing the fabric with his palm. Margrit caught her breath, slowly unfolding to allow Alban to draw the gown away from her breasts. She trilled laughter, half in dismay at the increased cold, half heady with excitement. Alban murmured something senseless and lowered his head, finding her nipple with his mouth and tasting her with absurd delicacy, given his size. Margrit wound her fingers into his hair, arching beneath his mouth, the gown’s satin touch nothing compared to the exploring heat of his tongue.

His flight pattern changed, muscles no longer working to lift them higher into the sky. Instead his wings stretched wide, a faint cant coming into his gliding so they could sink in slow circles rather than in a dangerous plummet. Margrit made a soft dizzy sound expressing both relief and disappointment.

Alban lifted his head, pale eyes bright in the moonlight. "Forgive me. Was the fall the only rush you were looking for?"

Margrit shrieked in laughter and batted at the grinning gargoyle, tangling her fingers in his hair. "This will do. Stop talking. I need you close to keep warm." Giggles ran through her, boundless delight that increased with every sting of hair in her eyes and every shift of Alban’s strong hands against her body. Loving was meant to be shared in laughter, but the outpouring of joy that flooded her went beyond that, a heart-pounding acknowledgment of danger and power, things outside ordinary human scope. Her cheeks ached from smiling, an expression so broad it seemed embarrassing.

Rather than try to trust words, she shifted downward until she could kiss him, her ardency rising as she learned the shape and softness of his mouth. Wide mouth, far wider than hers, but fitting better than any lover she could remember. He tasted of champagne and stone, a mix of ordinary and impossible ricocheting through Margrit’s body like a call to battle, a delicious, irresistible challenge. He was so nearly human, so clearly not, as evidenced by the shifting moonlight above them, blocked and dimmed by Alban’s wings, then bright again, even through the tangle of her closed lashes. That they soared so near the stars gave truth to both what he was and what he was not, a creature beyond her scope and yet possible within the compass of her arms. He was the dream she hadn’t known she’d wanted, couldn’t have imagined existed, until he came into her life in an erotic offering, fear superceded and drowned by excitement.

She could feel caution in his kisses-not a lack of passion, but borne out by gentleness, as if he knew how easily his size, his alien form, might overwhelm her. For all that they sailed amongst thin clouds and cool moonlight at Alban’s whim, Margrit felt heart-pounding power, as if he offered her control by knowing how easy it would be to deny it.

She was sure her eyes stung from the cold wind, not a shocking rise of sentimentality and trust so profound she had to smile to avoid tears. Margrit slid one of Alban’s hands to her lower back, finding the gown’s half-fastened zipper and guiding it down, making the gesture as much his as hers. His chuckle, warm and low, came through the wind with a warning: "If I pull it any farther, someone will find a very expensive and beautiful dress strung over a flagpole or telephone wire tomorrow morning."

"You’re only half-dressed." Margrit caught her lower lip in her teeth, smiling foolishly at Alban’s intent expression. "Seems only fair I should be, too."

He stroked his thumb along her spine, creating a shiver that had nothing to do with gusting wind. "Are you certain?" His voice, like his touch, was gentle.

A pulse of desire ran through her, spiking in her groin and breasts, even making her hands ache with need. "I’m sure."

An instant later the gown slid down, tangling briefly in Margrit’s shoes. She laughed, kicking at the fabric but unable to loosen the straps that held her shoes in place. For a moment the garment fluttered beside them, a living thing of twisting, pale gold in the blue light, before it began its descent to the city below. Margrit reached toward it, half envying its freedom to fall, but then brought herself back to Alban’s warmth without regret. Only with him could she come close to having that very freedom, and the desire to do so grew within her, aching and demanding. She hitched her thigh over his hip again, pressing liquid heat against the waistband of his jeans and drawing a rumble from him. "You’re considerably less than half-dressed now."

His fingers bumped over her hip, where the narrow line of a thong bikini was all that marred the skin. He tangled his hand in the elastic, turning his head to meet Margrit’s gaze. She nodded, tiny breathless motion, and he snapped the band, easily, possessively. Margrit, half expecting it, still gasped with a thrill of pleasure as her heartbeat surged, a primal response to Alban’s show of strength.

He murmured, "Hold on to me," and Margrit, as if she hadn’t been, knotted her arms around his neck and sought his throat with her lips. His warmth against her was the comfort of heated stone, profound enough that even with wind rushing by, its chill seemed to pass over her unnoticed. Alban shifted her up his body again, moving her small mass rather than duck his head and endanger the pattern of their flight as he covered her nipples with his mouth. Margrit swallowed a cry, then let it go, amused at the idea that someone might be close enough to hear. Trusting Alban’s grip on her, she loosened her hands from around his neck, but he made a sound of discouragement. "Hold on."

"But-"

"Later." Soft humor tinged the word. "There will be time for me later." He shifted his grip on her bottom, drawing her leg farther over his hip before he took advantage of the changed position and slipped a knuckled finger between her thighs from behind. Margrit went rigid, hands knotted in his hair as she keened, opening herself farther to his touch. His exploration was gentle, parting folds and seeking heat until she buried her face in his shoulder, trying to catch her breath. Alban murmured in delight, encouraging her response by finding her center of pleasure and covering it with a delicacy that belied the danger of taloned hands. The whimpered pleas that erupted from Margrit’s throat were incoherent with need, earning a sound of pleasure from her lover. He folded a second knuckle inward, offering sweet teasing to a body aching to be touched, and then a whispered apology. "No more. These hands aren’t made for a body as fragile as yours."

Frustrated heat swept Margrit’s cheeks. "Other parts of you must be." She let her grip loosen, sliding down Alban’s body a few inches, trusting him to hold her, and all but losing her grasp entirely when it was the hand between her thighs that caught her weight. Pleasure shot through her, whiting out the moonlight and briefly overriding any vestiges of cold she might have felt. Alban’s breath hitched at the hard pulse against his fingers, then again as raging desire brought Margrit’s hungry mouth to his chest, her tongue and teeth seeking out a nipple. She breathed, "Don’t let me fall," against his skin, then flattened her hand against his belly and slid it beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Her own skin hadn’t felt cold to her until she wrapped her fingers around the silken heat of Alban’s length. He rumbled, a deep aching sound of desire, then suddenly surged upward, no longer content to glide in ever-sinking circles. Margrit gasped in shy delight as the very beat of his wings helped her find a rhythm to stroke him with, until impatience brought her hand free so she could tug open his jeans and explore him more fully. Alabaster skin, unmarred by curls, glowed in contrast to the denim, in contrast to the darkness of Margrit’s skin in the moonlight. She blurted, "Look," in a high voice, garnering a rough laugh from the gargoyle.

"We may fall from the sky if I do. Your hands are…"

"Cold," Margrit offered. "Dark. Small."

"Extraordinary," Alban groaned. "Margrit, it has been…a very long time since anyone has touched me so." A shudder ran over him, extending to his wing tips, and he leveled out again, beginning the circling a new.

Possessiveness surged through Margrit, bearing hunger with it. She tightened her fingers around him, making a demand of the touch. "Good," she said irrationally. "That makes you mine." Her heart ached at the pronouncement, and unexpected gladness took her breath away. There was a world below that she’d moved away from, leaving little in the way of regret: things she might have done differently, perhaps, but no results she would change, not now, not sharing the sky with a gargoyle. "Your world," she whispered. "Your world is the one I want to belong to, Alban. Your world, with you. Can I be a part of it?" She drew herself up his body again, seeking his wide mouth, hoping he could taste the desire and hope in her kiss.

"You already are. Whether you choose to remain…" Loss sounded in his voice, sparking ferocious in Margrit’s resolve.

"I do." With her dark gaze fixed on Alban’s, she shifted her weight, curling her legs around his waist.

"Margrit." Her name was a hoarse whisper. "Margrit." The same emotions she’d felt, hope and desire, conflicted in his voice. "Margrit, this form, your size-" It was her own once-voiced laughing objection that he tried to remind her of, but she stopped his objections with a kiss.

"I know." Her own voice was low, intense. "I know what I said. But tall men fit with small women all the time, and I want you. I want you. My Alban. My gargoyle." She nuzzled his throat, shivering, and whispered, "Don’t let me fall."

"Never." Alban’s reply was torn away by the wind, but his hands were certain, encompassing her waist as they guided one another in joining. Rough denim scraped Margrit’s inner thighs, a delicious counterpart to the silken strength within her. Then there were only soft whispers of focused astonishment as Margrit clung to her lover in the night sky, circling, circling, always circling, toward the earth.

"Leave me on my balcony." Margrit pushed at Alban, moving him not an inch.

Gradual descent had taken them to rooftops, their bodies entwined in lovemaking until Alban lifted his head toward the east, his expression dismayed. Margrit had demanded his tuxedo jacket and shirt from his other form, and wore them now, hugging the oversize clothes to her body. The shirt fell halfway to her knees, almost a dress in itself, though she’d given her gold strapped shoes a rueful look for not matching Alban’s silver-threaded suit. "Alban, dawn is coming. You need to go home."

"I don’t want to leave you."

Margrit nudged him again. "You’ll turn to stone with daylight whether you want to or not. I’d rather be home safe-because I am not walking through New York in this outfit-and I’d rather you didn’t stay out so long you turned to stone in midflight. I’ll still want you tonight," she promised more softly, then stepped closer to him, curling her fingers against the stony smoothness of his chest. "You could come to dinner. I could cook."

Teasing danced in Alban’s pale gaze. "Is that incentive or reason to stay away?"

She laughed. "It’s not too bad. Not as good as Cole cooking, but not too bad. A late dinner, maybe, around nine? That would give you plenty of time to get there."

"What about your housemates?"

"They’ll be polite, at least. They were all right last night. Yesterday. Whenever that was."

"All right." Alban stole a kiss before murmuring, "Though I don’t see what’s wrong with your outfit." He chortled over Margrit’s splutter of protest and scooped her up, springing skyward. Winging across the Manhattan skyline seemed to take no time at all, Margrit stepping out of Alban’s arms onto her balcony only minutes later.

"Nine o’clock, okay?"

"I’ll be here." Alban bowed his head to linger in a kiss. "Thank you, Margrit."

She crooked a smile, wanting to brush off his thanks, and at the same time feeling she understood the impulse that prompted it. "Good night, Alban."

He shared her smile, then turned and cast himself off the balcony into the lightening sky. Margrit watched him go, then tipped her head up, smiling at the few stars left in the night, before tugging on the balcony door.

It stuck, making her grimace in dismay. A second pull verified that it was locked. She spun around, knowing it was too late to call Alban back, hoping it might not be. Not even his shadow was visible in the burgeoning light. She smacked her palms against the balcony railing in a nonverbal curse. The street below was comparatively quiet, but climbing down the fire escape ladders in her current clothing…Margrit gnashed her teeth, seeing nothing to be done for it.

She’d stepped up to the railing, about to swing her leg over it, when the balcony door’s lock clicked, resounding in the morning stillness. Margrit froze as the door slid open, then forced herself to turn her head and look back.

Cole stood framed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He looked Margrit up and down, then, blandly, said, "Nice shoes."