Hands of Flame n-3 Read online

  “She’s in the hospital. She’s hurt. Fighting down on the docks got out of hand. She’ll be all right,” Margrit added hastily. “Assuming nothing weird comes up in her blood work, anyway. She called me. I’m supposed to go…Oh, you know.” She sighed, suddenly feeling the weariness that had been absent earlier. “I’m supposed to go make sure their treaty holds, so they’ll keep fighting us instead of turning on each other. And you’re supposed to come along to shore me up, I guess.”

  Surprise snapped through Chelsea’s eyes again. “Are you, now? You’ve come a long way in a little time, Margrit Knight. From novice to negotiator. I may be impressed.”

  “Oh, good. I hope they are.” Margrit stuck her tongue out, feeling not at all impressive. “Are they going to listen to me?”

  “They’re there to negotiate, Margrit. They might be expecting Cara, but I’ve been helping her and they’ll recognize you as her proxy if I’m there to back it up. Even in the worst scenarios, none of the Old Races want to expose themselves to humanity. They’ll listen, if you’re ready for this.”

  But I’m not ready for it! The protest rang through Margrit’s mind as it had for the past hour, thoroughly clenched down. She knew too little about the situation, but at the same time she thought she understood the basic scenario. Most complications rose from one or two fundamental difficulties: she only had to address those, and with luck the remainder would come unraveled. She reminded herself of that as she climbed grate stairs in a dockside warehouse. Chelsea, a step ahead of her, looked calm and utterly collected, completely at odds with the butterflies in Margrit’s stomach.

  She was uncomfortably aware of the plummet just to her right. Workmen were visible below, forklifts beeping and crashes announcing the periodic drop of materials. Several moved with the characteristic ease of the Old Races, though more still were only human. She stopped to watch them, trying to find her equilibrium, and Chelsea glanced back with an arched eyebrow as she reached the door leading into the warehouse office. Margrit’s shoulders slumped, and, more determined than prepared, she nodded her readiness. Chelsea pushed the door open.

  The office was as far from Janx’s alcove as she could imagine, with ordinary plate-glass windows and cheap furniture, none of it saying anything about the people who’d put it there. Functional, not personal: she supposed that did say something about them, after all.

  Those people stood segregated, selkies on one side with their arms folded across broad chests so they made a living, glowering wall. Across from them, restless, slender djinn shifted and glanced around, their movements no more worried than the wind might be. All of them turned their attention to the door as it opened. Margrit caught one djinn begin a bow of respect, clearly meant for Chelsea, and then watched him arrest the gesture midmotion as he saw Margrit step up behind her.

  A rustle of not-sound whispered around the office, uniting djinn and selkie in consternation, surprise, offense. The impulse to simply walk away rushed up and Margrit pushed it down again. Chelsea stepped aside, giving Margrit the floor. To her astonishment, none of the Old Races spoke, leaving her a heavy silence to break. She had their attention with her presence; with any luck she could hold it with confidence and calm. “Cara Delaney’s been badly injured and is in a human hospital. She asked me to mediate the discussion she’d intended to head this morning. As I understand it—”

  “A human?” An unexpectedly familiar voice came from the group of djinn, and the man who stepped forward brought a shock of anger and fear that drowned Margrit’s dismay at being challenged. Details she hadn’t known she remembered stood out about the man: a rash of pocked skin beneath his cheekbones, keeping well-defined features from prettiness; the amber-clear color of his eyes; elegance bordering on arrogance. What she actively remembered was still there, maybe even stronger than before: disdain and anger mixed cold enough to be hatred. It was too easy to understand the rage that drove some of the Old Races; too easy to imagine what it was like to belong to a once-rich culture now forced into shadows. Margrit didn’t want to feel sympathy for a creature who had literally held her mother’s heart in his hand, but for a moment, caught up in his insulted, insulting gaze, she did.

  “A human,” she said as neutrally as she could, then reached for the name Janx had used when he’d mentioned this djinn: “And you’re Tariq.”

  The djinn curled his lip, then offered a bow of such grace it managed to be insolent. “At your service,” he added, then smiled. “Or your mother’s.”

  She was too well trained to rise to the bait, the blatant attempt releasing a string of tension within her. Tariq, at least, was as strained as she felt. The camaraderie, regardless of how unwelcome he would find it, made her feel as though the ground was more level. “A human has no reason to favor one of your factions over another. I’m a more neutral moderator than Cara could ever be. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea to invite me here even if she hadn’t been injured.”

  Chelsea, at her side, didn’t shift so much as to nod, but something in her stance relaxed, connoting approval or new confidence. Tariq stepped forward, full of airy belligerence. Margrit held up a hand, motion so sharp he actually stopped, then looked infuriated at having been put off by a mere human. This time Chelsea smiled, barely visible expression, and to Margrit’s surprise, spoke.

  “Margrit Knight has stood against her own kind to protect the Old Races. She has sat amongst a quorum of dignitaries as one of them, an honored and voting member. She has shown mercy where none was warranted. I declare her fit to stand among you as a mediator. Dare any of you dispute me?”

  The djinn exchanged sullen, resentful glances. Even the selkies shifted, as if hoping someone on the opposite side might be foolish enough to argue. Curiosity sang through Margrit, making her heart beat loudly enough she was sure it could be heard by each and every being in the room.

  Serene confidence radiated from the tiny woman as she met the gaze of each member of the Old Races. It reminded Margrit of Daisani’s brief pause during the quorum, when he’d waited to see if anyone would challenge him as he declared himself. Chelsea shared that absolute certainty, as though the idea someone might stand up to her was both inconceivable and slightly amusing.

  Almost as one, the selkies and djinn dropped their eyes, acquiescing for reasons that confounded and fascinated Margrit. Cara had wanted Chelsea there; this inexplicable iron hand was clearly the reason. Chelsea elevated feather-fine eyebrows and tipped her head toward Margrit, once more relinquishing the floor. Breathless with questions, Margrit reined in the impulse to give over to them and instead began again where she’d been interrupted. “As I understand it, there are two matters on the table. One is how to retain the territory you’ve taken. The other is an inquest into Malik al-Massrī’s death. Am I correct?”

  Her voice betrayed only professional calm, none of her curiosity in evidence. Eventually dealing with the enigmatic Old Races would cause all her control and calm to erupt in a barrage of wanting to know. She felt dangerously close to that breaking point now. Exercising the focus to deal with the problems at hand felt like a triumph of overblown proportions.

  “Inquest,” Tariq growled. Margrit angled herself toward him, now certain that he spoke for all his people, and that the selkies would abide by Cara’s wishes, and let her speak for them. “An inquest is not what we desire.”

  “We’ll get to that. You have a bigger problem on hand with this territory war.”

  “Bigger than the death of one of our own?” Incredulous anger snarled through the question.

  Margrit set her teeth together. “Yes, in fact. You can’t afford for your own people—any of you, no matter which race you’re from—to end up in human hospitals like Cara. God help me for saying it, but you need to either eliminate your competition immediately or create enough of a united front between the selkies and the djinn to take ambitious humans in hand and use them. Nobody’s happy about the mess you’ve created down here, and more bodies aren’t going to get the cops of
f your backs. The problem is you people aren’t criminals.” She heard herself and laughed, more frustrated than amused. “You’re temperamental and violent, but you’re not criminals. You needed Malik, didn’t you? Because he’s the only one who knew anything about running drugs and prostitutes and gambling rings and protection rackets.”

  Muscle played in Tariq’s jaw, answer enough. Margrit dropped her chin to her chest, muttering, “Kaimana’s a billionaire. He should be better prepared for taking over any kind of empire than this. Or is that why he dropped it in your laps?” She glanced from djinn to selkie and back again. “I knew he wanted to keep his hands clean, but it didn’t occur to me that he barely knew how to get them dirty. Hell, I could probably run this mess better than you can.” Too late, she wondered if that was why Cara had insisted Margrit take her place at the meeting. She said, “No,” out loud, afraid she needed the reprimand more than anyone else in the room.

  Admonishment still echoing in her ears, she looked back to Tariq. “Cara’s in charge of this, isn’t she. You agreed to support the selkies in their petition to rejoin the Old Races in exchange for a position of human economic strength. But you’re under Cara’s thumb, and therefore Kaimana’s, and they can control you by dint of numbers, if it comes down to it. But Cara’s not a bad guy. She’s gotten tougher, but she really doesn’t have the stomach for dealing with this part of the world. So you’re constrained by what she’s willing to do. What Kaimana’s willing to do. Am I right?”

  Tariq nodded this time, movement sharp and angry. Margrit muttered exasperation and scowled from one faction to the other. Dark selkie gazes remained neutral, though a growing sense of unfriendliness emanated from them. Margrit, irritated, said, “Not being a bad guy isn’t a bad thing, people,” then returned her attention to Tariq. “Given the circumstances under which we previously met, I’m sure you won’t take offense if I characterize you as a complete bastard.”

  The djinn went still, then thinned a smile and nodded.

  “All right. This is how you’re going to deal with the infighting and the human encroachment, then.” Tension rose sharply, minute shifting amongst all the Old Races bringing them closer to her. Margrit counted out a long breath, afraid she would come to badly regret the decision she was making. “I’m willing to offer Tariq the reins of this business.”

  The selkies spoke for the first time, sudden burst of incoherent sound that Margrit waved down. “If you’re going to stop getting your asses kicked, you need a big bad, and Cara’s not the right person for the role. Furthermore, this whole setup’s a lousy one for the djinn. All the dirty work and none of the benefits. So maybe we can do a deal here.” The term came easily, as if she stood outside a courtroom arguing over a client’s sentencing, though the gathered djinn were an even more unlikely client than Alban had been.

  A smile crawled across Tariq’s face. “What are your terms?”

  “Don’t pursue vengeance for Malik. The Old Races can’t afford a race war. There aren’t enough of any of you. That’s the major term.”

  Tariq’s amber eyes darkened until Margrit had no sense of what he thought. “And the minor ones?”

  “I recommend that your human competition not suddenly start waking up dead. I recommend you find a way to deliver them alive and in one piece, maybe neck-deep in prosecutable crimes, to the NYPD. I also recommend that you not expand on what you took from Janx in any meaningful fashion until you are damned good and certain of your grounding. The docks are a hairsbreadth from a war zone right now. I want to see them stabilized, not destroyed.”

  “And if I—we—choose not to accept your terms?”

  “Then the NYPD and the FDNY will come down here with trucks filled with salt water and handcuffs lined with vampire blood and they will take you down, Tariq.” His face tightened with astonished anger and Margrit shook her head, speaking more softly. “Don’t underestimate me. Letting the Old Races continue to run Janx’s empire creates a danger for my own race, and I’m the gasoline being poured on the flames. This is a good deal for you. Do not piss me off.”

  “For them,” one of the selkies spat. “It’s a good deal for the djinn, not us.”

  Margrit swung to face him, reveling in the oversized action. Adrenaline burned through her, focusing her words. “The selkies wanted legitimacy amongst the Old Races. The djinn, who, as I understand it, have until now remained in their desert homelands and let time pass them by, wanted a piece of the modern world. You’ve both gotten what you were after. What you have right now is an opportunity to walk away from this mess and let somebody more ruthless put it back together. I’d take it if I were you.”

  “An abrogation of responsibility?” Chelsea asked quietly.

  “Think of it more as me taking it on.” Tension lanced through Margrit’s shoulders. Whether or not Kaimana had intended the selkies to help keep the djinn in check, she fully planned to do that herself.

  Somehow.

  Chelsea pursed her lips, but nodded, and despite looking far from convinced, the young selkie who’d spoken subsided. Margrit wondered briefly if their society was heavily matriarchal, though Kaimana’s position as a powerful leader amongst them suggested otherwise. Regardless, she was relieved at the lack of argument.

  “We will have to discuss this,” Tariq said. “Malik al-Massrī’s death is not something we take lightly.”

  Margrit inclined her head, the motion coming close to a bow. She hoped it hid the shiver of nerves that ran under her skin, lifting goose bumps. She could—and would—make good on her threat if the djinn didn’t comply with her terms, but any investigation of Malik’s death would end badly for her. If the Old Races accepted accident as a forgivable circumstance surrounding a death, she would confess to the part she’d played, but they weren’t inclined to show clemency to their own kind, much less a human. Voice steady, she replied, “Nor should it be. Is a day long enough for deliberations?”

  “We’ll send a messenger when we’ve decided.”

  “Fine. Not more than forty-eight hours, though. This needs to be settled.” Margrit nodded again, and trusting there was no ceremony for departures, took the opportunity to escape.

  Chelsea exited a step ahead of her, blocking her on the grate landing as the door banged shut behind them. Accompanied by the rattle of windows, Chelsea asked, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Of course not, but never let them see you sweat, right?” Margrit wrapped a hand around the stairway’s cold, metal railing. “I couldn’t think of another way out of it. They can’t go to war amongst themselves. If they’re lucky, they’ll just half wipe each other out. If they’re not lucky, we’ll learn about them.”

  “So the sacrifice you chose was your own people.” Chelsea sounded more interested than condemning, as though Margrit had proven thought-provoking.

  Margrit dropped her head, weight leaned into the railing. “The needs of the many over the good of the few. In one way, it doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to come in and clean up Janx’s empire. Whether the djinn run it or a human does…” She shrugged. “Either way, it’s still going to be criminal. People are going to die in the long term. Maybe this will keep some of them alive in the short term. Do you have a better answer?”

  “If I did, I would have suggested it earlier.” Chelsea let silence hang for a judicious moment, then conceded, “The caveats were well done. I don’t know if the djinn will agree, but your threat was a good one. Can you back it up?”

  “I think so. I hope so. It depends on if Tony’s willing to believe me.” She motioned at the warehouse, evoking another one with the gesture. “He’s still angry, but he thinks all my weird behavior was trying to help set a trap for Janx. If I told him fire trucks full of salt water were the only way to quell the violence down here, he might listen to me.”

  “I was more thinking of the vampire’s blood.”

  “Oh.” Margrit straightened away from the railing. “Actually, that part I’m more certain of. Daisani
was pretty annoyed with me for making him let Tariq go. I think he’d like a chance to snag another djinn. Or thirty.”

  “Slippery ground you stand on there.”

  Margrit shot the smaller woman a sharp look. “I think I’m bending over backward here to give the djinn a fair chance. Especially since Tariq was the one who nearly pulled my mother’s heart out. So if they don’t hold up their end of what I’ve set out, I don’t have many qualms about knocking this game board over. I’d like to have the moral high ground, but it’s hard to find, much less stay on. I’m doing my best, Chelsea. It might not be good enough, but I’m doing my best.”

  A smile passed over Chelsea’s face. “Good. The fire’s still there. I just wanted to make sure.”

  “Oh, now you’re manipulating me, too? Thanks.” Margrit pulled a face at Chelsea’s cheerful nod. “So how did you do it?”

  “Mmm?” Chelsea’s eyebrows rose in modest curiosity.

  “You gave me legitimacy in there. Why didn’t they fight you? No offense, but you’re just a bookshop owner.”

  “Oh, that.” Chelsea shrugged it off. “Even the Old Races can be taught to behave if you’re firm enough with them. I think you may be learning that yourself.”

  “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  “I am.” Chelsea gestured. “Shall we?”

  “Yeah.” Margrit took the lead, trotting down the stairs.

  White-hot noise met her at the bottom.

  CHAPTER 9

  She could tell she screamed because the tang of copper tainted her throat, and with it came the raw, red feeling of too much force. Her ears, though, rang with a profundity that outweighed any hope of hearing her own voice. She knew her eyes were open because she touched them, felt the lashes parted and the sting of salt and minute dirt from her fingertips against their orbs. Fingertip pressure, as light as it was, sent bloody waves through the snow-blinding whiteness that had become her vision. She closed her eyes, instinct whispering that the comfort of expected darkness was better than the wide-eyed blindness. Red overwhelmed white, but reassuring black lay out of her reach.