her, scraping at her skin and roughening her throat, only to be washed off by a deluge of salty water that pulled her under in its deadly tow. Hard light swept by again, illuminating swirling fiends as tires squealed. Faceless devils surrounded her, tightening their circle with every pass, until fine silver threads began to appear, tying her to each of them in a sticky web. Margrit twisted and thrashed and finally jolted upright, tangled in the covers, her heart hammering.
City noises filtered through the drumming of her heart: horns beeping and engines running, airplanes roaring overhead and voices calling back and forth, an endless cacophony of white noise. It blotted out the memory of the dream long enough for Margrit to stare at the bedside clock, then stagger out to the kitchen. She pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge and downed same without getting a glass, wiping the mouth of the carton perfunctorily with her sleeve. “Don’t tell,” she whispered to it, and went to stand at the balcony, staring down at the street. The juice carton felt unreasonably heavy in her fingers. She sloshed the liquid around, watching the flow of traffic with unfocused eyes.
Vampires and dragons and gargoyles. “Oh my.” Margrit sat on the doorframe’s edge, swirling the juice and taking absent sips.
There were critical moments in cases when she knew she’d come across the piece of information that would win the day or damn the defendant. Moments when the law hit critical mass, and nothing would stop justice-or injustice-from being done. Those rare seconds took her breath away, filling her with bright enthusiasm that seemed to stream from her fingertips and her eyes when she moved. Even if the news was bad, the realization of hitting a point of no return was stimulating. It was one of dozens of reasons Margrit practiced law; those moments stood out of time in ways that defined her.
Luka Johnson’s case had been one from the beginning. From the moment the case was handed to her, Margrit had been filled with conviction-irrational conviction, she’d often teased herself with a smile-that they would win, no matter how long it took. The bone-deep belief had kept her going, kept Luka going, through the girls’ birthdays and through the Christmases spent apart. It would just be a matter of time, Margrit had promised Luka repeatedly. They’d been in it together, neither of them straying from the path to clemency, until they could both walk out free women. Margrit had taken on the case knowing she’d be in it for the long haul.
A part of her had already accepted that she was in it with Alban for the long haul. Had been, maybe, since he’d appeared in the park, tall and absurdly polite, striking up a conversation in the middle of the night as if it was normal. Had been, certainly, since he’d revealed his true nature, the massive stony shoulders and delicate-looking wings a draw she wouldn’t be able to resist in the long run. How could anyone? Margrit wondered. Introduced to an element of the world that she’d never known existed, how could she go back to the way things had been? She’d tried-not long, and not hard, she admitted, but for a few hours she’d insisted to herself that she couldn’t champion the gargoyle, and that his world couldn’t mesh with hers.
And her subconscious had told her otherwise. Even now, if she closed her eyes, his image played in her darkened vision. His was a hard picture to hold on to, sliding between the man and the monster, though both had the same gentle hope in their expressions. He’d expected rejection, and who could blame him? She was human, and he was…
“Beautiful.” Margrit dropped her head against her knees, the juice carton dangling from her fingers as she remembered immeasurable grace and the strong lines of his face and body in either form. He was breathtaking.
Which didn’t make him innocent. She lifted her head again, staring at the buildings across the street. It was a fair bet that simply knowing the Old Races existed was detrimental to her health. There would be no protection offered humans by Old Race covenants, which meant for her own safety the only way to go was forward, gathering as much information as she could.
Margrit gave another breathy laugh. Information, the one really priceless commodity. She finished the juice and crushed the carton. Even if she hadn’t gone to see Janx-which, by the light of day, seemed ever more stupid- she’d become irrevocably involved. Anything she learned, the more she learned, would be her weapons against Janx and any other Old Race individuals who wanted to work with her or use her.
But Alban had come to her first, with a case. It was the easiest place to begin. Prove his innocence or guilt in her own mind. Find a way to help him if he was innocent, or turn him over to the Old Races if he was guilty.
A chill ran over her skin, brought on by more than the thin winter sunlight and still air. A lawyer was not supposed to play the role of judge, jury and executioner, but with a man who couldn’t be brought before human authorities, Margrit could see no choice.
She threw the juice carton away en route to the shower, her lips pressed together. God, she hoped he was innocent.
Garish headlines stood out from the faded microfilm, the print old-fashioned to Margrit’s eye. She sat back in her chair, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids. Reverse-color images danced against them: Monster Haunts Debutante.
Six headlines over a time period of a hundred and fifty years. A scattering of others, with less dramatic fonts and less prominent displays, said things like Stalker in Central Park? and Woman Feels Protective Presence. Two of those described a tall blond man with pale eyes and broad shoulders. Alban.
Margrit dropped her hand from her eyes and shuffled papers she’d printed out, pushing the top few aside to expose the first of four whose headlines were damning.
Murder In The Park!
Four murders in almost two centuries. All of them were women featured in other articles, complaining of monsters and stalkers in the dark. Margrit sighed and sat forward again, spinning through the reel in search of marriage records.
Four deaths, stretched over decades. The thread was there only if you knew to see it. “Or if you know to make it up,” Margrit muttered. The man in the nearest booth to her leaned back and gave her a sharp look. She scowled and went back to her microfilm.
The debutante married shortly after her “monster” headline appeared. A photograph in the society section showed a petite, dark-haired woman on the arm of her new husband, her curls worn unfashionably long for the twenties. Tricia Sanger, née Perry, soon to move to Philadelphia, where her husband would pursue his career in the oil industry. She was one of the two who’d survived an encounter with Alban.
Margrit growled under her breath and slapped the microfilm light off, pulling her lip in frustration. She was thinking like Alban was guilty.
But the equation added up. What were the odds someone else was stalking the same women Alban had encountered, over more than fifteen decades? Margrit shook her head almost before she thought the question, dismissing the possibility. Humans didn’t live that long.
Did gargoyles? She blinked and straightened her spine, staring at the dark microfilm reader screen. She was taking Janx’s word for it, and found herself grunting with irritation.
The man down the aisle cleared his throat disapprovingly. Margrit gritted her teeth and muttered, “Asshole.” The disapproving man didn’t hear that, and she found herself flashing a smug grin at the screen before becoming lost in thought once more. “You’re taking Janx’s word,” she repeated aloud, trying to keep it under her breath.
Do you trust me? She could hear Alban’s deep voice shivering through her bones, the quiet hope and desperation in the question.
Did she? Margrit slumped in the chair, fingers finding their way to her forehead to press there. Did she trust him, or was it just the romance and excitement of learning there were people, not-human people, living secret lives in the world she’d thought she’d known? Did she trust Janx’s word over Alban’s? Margrit snorted quietly. “Only if you’re suicidal, girlfriend. Dammit.” The guy in the booth down the row from her frowned again. She frowned back and printed out Tricia Sanger’s wedding announcement, adding it to the pile of papers on her table.
If it was Alban killing these women-Margrit shook her head abruptly and turned the reader back on. It wasn’t. Not now, at least. Maybe over the past two centuries, but not now. She would be his target now, not random women in the city. He-or someone-killed one at a time, over two hundred years. Not two in five days.
“Not guilty, your honor. Not this time, anyway,” she breathed. “Or I hope not.” She’d deal with the past later. For now…Margrit turned her wrist, glancing at her watch. Sunset wasn’t for hours, and she had three names. Biali meant absolutely nothing to her; she would have to ask Alban if it had meaning for him. The others…
