Rationality told her this was all nonsense; her own experience told her otherwise. “I know,” she repeated with more strength. “Am I too far in it to back out?”
Chelsea shrugged, a minute motion that Margrit saw through her eyelashes. “Probably not. Will you abandon Alban, then?”
The acceptance burst through in a quick explosion of recognition, fear dissipating into a familiar thrill of preparing for battle. “No.” Margrit looked up, fighting back a tiny grin. “No, it’s not in me. You’re totally serious, aren’t you. There’s these old races and I’ve gotten dragged into them. Jesus.” She got up to pace about the tiny back room, realized there wasn’t enough space, and sat down again. “So what are you? Chelsea Huo, Proprietor of Huo’s On First: Also, Old Races Propaganda Officer on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
She laughed, pouring Margrit another cup of tea. “Close enough, overlooking the fact that it’s Saturday morning now. There are people in most of the large cities, Margrit, who know about the Old Races. It’s nearly impossible to live an entirely isolated life, even when you’re trying to protect a secret identity. There are people who help. With food, with money, with shelter.”
“With books,” Margrit said.
Chelsea nodded, eyes disappearing once more into a smile. “I help, when I can. I wouldn’t say propaganda officer. I prefer not to talk too much about them. Secrets don’t stay secret if you talk a lot, and the Old Races rely on discretion.” There was a warning in her words, one that made Margrit look up and spread a hand in promise.
“Who would believe me?” Margrit frowned at her tea, brushing the question aside. “If the old races-”
“Old Races,” Chelsea said gently, with an emphasis Margrit hadn’t used herself, a quiet resolve that bordered on reverence. “Give them the respect of years, Margrit. The Old Races are a group of peoples who have survived Saint George and Van Helsing, Odysseus and Aladdin. They have survived persecution and now eke out a living in a world so crowded with people they have no choice but to wear human forms and pretend they’re something they’re not. Afford them the title they give themselves. They deserve that much accord from humankind. They are the Old Races.”
“Ala…they’re all fictional, Chelsea. Legends.”
The woman glanced toward her bookstore, the leaning stacks and golden lights suddenly seeming darker and more ponderous as Margrit followed her gaze. “Are they?” the proprietor asked, with a spark of challenge in her eyes.
Certainty fled, leaving a question where none had ever been. After a few seconds Margrit gave an unsure smile and inclined her head. “Okay. The Old Races.” She said the words more carefully, making them a title in her mouth, then sighed. “If the Old Races rely on discretion, then isn’t what’s going on with Alban dangerous for all of them? If the police arrest him, or even just bring him in for questioning, and dawn comes-why wouldn’t the other Old Races just get rid of him first? Before that risk could come to fruition?”
“Get rid of him?” Chelsea echoed the phrase with interest.
Margrit made an abrupt motion with her hand. “Kill him. Take him out of the picture. Whatever was necessary in order to ensure he wasn’t going to betray the rest of them, whether he meant to or not?”
Humor creased Chelsea’s mouth. “It’s such a human response, isn’t it? Destroy the source of trouble. Murder is a human weapon, Margrit. The Old Races don’t stoop to it. To kill one of their own-any of the Old Races-is an exiling offense.”
Doubt crept into Margrit’s tone. “They wouldn’t kill one of their own even to protect the rest?”
“It’s not their way.”
“That’s-” Margrit broke off and laughed, a low sound. “Insane. Not that killing people is a good thing, but- you know what I mean.” She looked up to find Chelsea’s bemused smile turned on her. “It’s not human behavior.”
“That,” she said, “may be the point.”
Margrit dropped her chin, frowning at her tea. “What do they do to people who threaten the status quo? There must be something. There must be ways to find help or to get someone out of the limelight. Like witness protection.” A pang knotted her heart, stealing her breath. Witness protection would mean losing Alban.
If she could lose something she’d never had. Margrit tightened her hands around her teacup, remembering the hope in his colorless eyes and wondering at her own regret.
“I’m sure there is.” Chelsea shook her head. “But I’m not the person to ask that question of.”
“Then who is?”
Chelsea swirled her tea again. “If I tell you, you’ll act on the knowledge?”
“Yes.” Margrit tempered the bluntness of the answer with a faint smile. “I told him I’d help him, for one thing. For another, this is like Pandora’s box. I can’t put all this knowledge back inside where I don’t know it anymore. I’m involved in this.”
“Acting on what I tell you may involve you far more permanently than you wish, Margrit.” Chelsea’s almond eyes were serious. “You’re at a place where you might still walk away from what you know, but the line is there and you verge on crossing it.”
Margrit felt a smile creep over her face, the same tense, prepared smile that she felt when facing a courtroom or a new runner in the park. It spread tingles through her body, lifting hair on her arms and making her aware of every tiny sound around her: the ticking of a blunt old grandfather clock, the creak of floorboards, age and weather changes settling them rather than the pressure of footsteps. Horns and engines in the streets beyond the front door, as quiet as they ever got in the city. Amusement flashed through her as she remembered Cole’s words: Russell had waved a red flag in front of her and she’d charged it. The same was happening here, the taking of a major risk. Jumping with both feet. Leaping headlong before looking. Margrit’s smile grew into a full-out grin. God help anybody who tried to stop her. “I’m prepared for that.”
Wryness sparked in Chelsea’s expression, more vivid than speech. “Then you need to talk to a man named Janx.”
Margrit flinched, straightening up so fast she spilled tea on her hand. She sucked the hot liquid off her skin, staring at her in astonishment. “Janx?”
Chelsea’s feathery eyebrows lifted again. “You know him?”
“No, but somebody else said his name to me tonight, too. I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”
“He runs an establishment in East Harlem called the House of Cards.”
“Oh.” Margrit slumped back, staring into her teacup. “They say the guy who runs that place is a devil.”
Chelsea cocked her head to one side, her expression unchanging. “The criminals in your world use Janx’s people to do what even they won’t, Margrit. He’s a dangerous man.”
“But he’d know about people you don’t?” Margrit studied the petite woman across the table, gauging the tension in the lines of her mouth.
“Janx has informers,” Chelsea murmured. “I only have gossip. This is terribly dangerous, Margrit.”
“This is the part where I say, ‘Yeah, well, so am I,’ right?” She crooked a grin. “Okay, so I’m not. But maybe there’s something I can bargain with. Something he might want?”
“Your life would be a pretty trinket,” Chelsea said mildly. Fine hairs lifted on the back of Margrit’s neck, delicate prickles that stayed awhile, then spilled down her spine and ran goose bumps over her arms.
“Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked as lightly as she could. “Yes.”
Margrit inhaled, then let it out in a little puff of breath. “It’s working.”
“Good.” Chelsea pursed her small mouth again. “Unfortunately, I don’t have another answer.”
“There’s always another answer.” Margrit pushed her chair back and stood up again. “In this case, the other answer is ‘Go directly to jail, do not pass go.’ So I guess I’m going to East Harlem instead. Thank you, Chelsea. For the tea and everything.”
The shopkeeper stood, smiling, and came around the table to hug Margrit, who squeaked at the unexpected embrace. “Be careful. And come back and visit, if you can. We can exchange stories about Alban. I’m sure you’ll know him quite well by then.”
Margrit grinned, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “That sounds fun. Thanks again. For everything. Especially for taking the risk of trusting me and telling me some of what’s going on.”
Chelsea made a dismissive moue and flicked her fingers. “It’s not that much of a risk, my dear.”
Margrit pushed her way through the beaded curtain that separated the little back room from the main area of the bookstore, then turned around to wave. Chelsea nodded, reaching for Margrit’s teacup as rattling beads fell
