one corner; shelves stood against the wall at the head of the cot. Leather-bound books overflowed the shelves and lay in stacks on the floor. A small wooden table was pressed against a wall, a single chair pushed beneath it. Books and candles sat on the table. There was nowhere to cook, nor any obvious ventilation. Margrit turned, taking in the room as a whole. “Is there a back way out?”
Alban paused in the act of lighting another torch, examining her. “You don’t look like someone who would think of foxholes,” he said after a moment’s consideration.
Margrit shook her head. “I’m not. It’s just that if I were…like you…I wouldn’t want to live in a room with only one exit.”
Alban inclined his head, then finished lighting the second torch. “Under the bed. A trapdoor that leads into storm tunnels beneath the city. The passage to the tunnels is unpleasant, and the tunnels even more so, but both are superior to being burned alive.”
“Or broken to shards,” Margrit said. Alban lit another torch, nodding. The glitter of plastic wrapped around a book caught Margrit’s eye, and she picked it up, looking at the tagged spine. “You have a library card?”
“I do. Getting money can be difficult, so I take my pleasures where they’re most affordable.”
“I’d think Chelsea would lend you books. Why don’t you get a night job, if money is tight? I mean, if you have no money, what do you eat?”
“Small children.”
Margrit blanched and looked up, the book sliding from nerveless fingers. It hit the floor with a hard crack, and Alban threw his head back, laughing out loud. Margrit picked the volume up, color heating her cheeks. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Yes, it was.” Laughter echoed around the room again, deep and rich. “Oh, forgive me, but that was very funny.” He cleared his throat, still grinning, the open expression bringing human vitality to chiseled features. Margrit’s shoulders shook with laughter, her shock at his answer fading to rueful humor that she tried to hide with a stern look. Alban shrugged with the fluid motion of a pleased cat. In repose he was austere and beautiful, but with laughter creasing his features, he seemed approachable, almost ordinary, despite the wings that wrapped around his shoulders.
“Some of my people do take night jobs, security positions or the like. I…have chosen to remain outside of that. I prefer to have no part in your social security system, or anything that’s a means of identifying myself. I used to leave the city to hunt, but these days I volunteer at homeless shelters and have soup or sandwiches when I need to eat.” Alban’s expression turned serious and he put forth a hand, though he didn’t seem to expect her to take it. “Thank you for trusting me, Margrit.”
The attempt at looking stern ceased to be a struggle. Margrit wrapped her arms around her ribs as she studied him. “You’re welcome,” she said after a few seconds. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. Tell me about Tricia Sanger.”
CHAPTER 18
A GOGGLE-EYED LOOK of astonishment, Margrit reflected a moment later, was no more attractive on a stone face than a human one. Alban’s jaw actually dropped and he took a step back, blinking in astonishment. “Patricia…Perry. She married, I remember that. Margrit, what-?”
“Ann Boudreaux,” Margrit said very quietly. “Rachel Ward. Julia Patterson. Christina Lee.”
Alban flinched with every name, backing away until he bumped into a wall and sank down into the crouch that looked so natural to him. “Susannah Albright,” he murmured. “I only learned their names from the papers. From stories of monsters haunting women in the dark.” A smile with no joy in it passed over his face before he lifted his hand to hide all expression. “Susannah married, as well. You wouldn’t have found her in the list of dead women.”
“No.” Margrit’s voice cracked as she shook her head. “She and Tricia Sanger survived your watch. Alban, what happened to them?”
“I don’t know.” The gargoyle’s voice dropped low in frustration. “Margrit, I swear to you, I don’t know. I never spoke to any of them. I never harmed any of them.” He ran his hand over his face again, lips compressed. “They were a little like you,” he murmured eventually. “Brave, perhaps braver than they were wise. I watched over them, when I could.”
“And?” Margrit could hear the hardness in her voice and made no attempt to gentle it. “One woman dying under your watch I could dismiss, maybe. Even two might be coincidence. But not four, Alban. Not four.”
“More than four.” Reluctant dread colored Alban’s voice and he shook his head. “There’ve been…a dozen, over the years.”
“Jesus, Alban.” It took conscious effort to hold herself still. Margrit wet her lips, refusing to let herself fold her arms defensively as she stared at the gargoyle. The itch she’d felt in her feet while facing down Janx was back, making her want to bolt for the door. She could have-may very well have-misjudged. For a fleeting moment she regretted not being able to tell Tony he’d been right, before she drew in a breath so sharp it made her lungs ache. She was hardly dead yet, and-maybe-Alban wouldn’t have confessed the secret if he was guilty.
Or maybe he just didn’t intend to let her go. Margrit flared her nostrils in defiance, denying her own thought. “So tell me what’s going on.” Her voice cracked and she swallowed, fear making her want to rise on her toes, ready to run.
“I have never killed a human.” Alban turned his head to the side, a swift and guilty motion. “A woman,” he amended. “And never outside of a battle for my own life. Margrit.” He lifted his gaze, challenging and desperate. “When did they die?”
Margrit glared at him. “June 18, 187-”
“No! The hours, not the days.”
“Julia Patterson…” Margrit’s chin came up, surprise and relief making her suddenly cold. She reached for the blanket on Alban’s bed, dragging it around her shoulders and reveling in the scratchy gray wool. “Julia Patterson was found an hour past noon, still warm.” Margrit sat down, the strength that had pushed her to run deserting her without warning. She barely heard her own whisper. “It couldn’t have been you.”
Alban lowered his head, curled knuckles scraping against the floor as he swung his arm down, a gesture of relief. “I can’t prove the hours on all of them, Margrit. Some of them-most of them-were women so unimportant the police never took notice. But I swear to you, I do not know what happened to them. I stopped-” He broke off, then heaved a breath that bespoke exhaustion. “I stopped watching them so closely. For eighty years I’ve been…”
“Alone?” Margrit’s murmured question seemed loud in her own ears, as if unnoticed voices had fallen silent just as she spoke. Alban’s forehead wrinkled and she looked away before he could catch her gaze again.
“Alone,” he agreed after a few seconds. “More alone than usual. That this has begun again…” He straightened, turning away from her to idly straighten books in the dark wooden shelves. “I didn’t think I had enemies.”
“What about Biali?”
Alban stilled, then faced her again. “What were you doing talking to Janx?”
She held up her hand, palm out. “Right now you’re the one answering questions. What about Biali?”
Exasperation crossed his stony face, making heavy lines that seemed more etched than temporary, though they smoothed away again in a moment’s time. “Biali and I were rivals when we were young. It means nothing now.”
“Janx listed him among your enemies. Biali, Eliseo Daisani and Grace O’Malley.”
Befuddlement colored Alban’s features. “The pirate? She died centuries ago.”
Margrit smiled briefly. “I guess it’s her ghost, then. Don’t you read the papers?”
“I find them depressing.”
Margrit lifted her eyebrows and pulled the blanket tighter. “I guess they can be. O’Malley is this eccentric who’s trying to change the world from the bottom up. I don’t know what her connection to you might be. What was Biali your rival over?”
Alban curled his fingers in a loose fist, offering a smile that had more to do with loss than joy. “A woman.
