“Yeah? And what do you want me to say? That it’s okay you’re screwing a freak?”
“No.” Margrit’s reply was very soft, even to her own ears. “Mostly what I want you to say—to promise—is that you won’t tell anybody, under any circumstances, what you know. Because if the rest of them find out you’ve learned about them, if they think you’re any kind of risk, they’ll kill you, Cole. Both of you. Their existence depends on secrecy.”
“Of course we wouldn’t tell.” Cameron sounded confident and strong, her expression laced with challenge as she looked toward her fiancé. “Aside from who would believe us, it’d be a death sentence. Not for us,” she said as Cole’s gaze darkened. “For them. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for killing somebody, would you, Cole?”
“That thing isn’t a somebody. It’s a monster. How do you even know it’s safe, Margrit? How do you know it’s not going to turn around and tear you apart someday?”
“Because if he wanted me dead, I’d be dead half a dozen times over already.” A shiver turned Margrit’s skin to goose bumps as she realized how true her statement was. She’d been in more danger in the weeks she’d known Alban than she’d ever known before. “He wouldn’t have had to have done anything. He could’ve just let that cab run me down in January.”
“Was that on purpose?” Horror filled Cameron’s question and her voice shot higher as Margrit nodded. “Grit, what happened back then? Did Alban kill all those people?”
“No.” Margrit glanced upward for strength, then plunged on. “It was another gargoyle, a woman who thought Alban was her father and had abandoned her and her mother. She tried to kill me. Alban saved my life.” She rubbed her hand over her forearm, remembering the pain of its break. “He’s been protecting me for a long time.”
Cole demanded, “How long?” as Cam’s worry relaxed a little.
“Years,” Margrit replied reluctantly. Cole’s expression said the same things she had thought when she’d first learned that Alban had been watching over her: that she’d been stalked by a lunatic. “He doesn’t think of it that way,” she said to the unspoken accusation. “Gargoyles protect. That’s what they do. It’s what they are.”
“At least somebody was keeping an eye on her.” Cam’s smile wavered hopefully. “I mean, she wasn’t out there running every night all alone after all.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Cole asked.
Cam’s tottery smile fell away. “It does me.”
“Knowing there was a monster stalking your best friend makes you—” Cole broke off with a sound of fear and frustration, then turned on his heel and reentered their bedroom. The door closed behind him at a decibel and speed just shy of a slam.
Cameron flinched and Margrit dropped her chin to her chest. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Cam sounded exhausted and bewildered. “Grit, I don’t know…”
Margrit lifted her gaze again, tightness pricking at her eyes and throat. “I know. It’s one thing to date somebody your friends don’t approve of, but this is different. This isn’t the guy you think might be violent or have a drug problem or who’s just a jerk.” She chuckled and put a hand over her face for a moment. “In fact, Alban’s about as far from any of that as you can get. But it’s a little hard to ignore what he is.”
“Would you have told us?” Cam folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself tightly as she watched Margrit.
“Yes. I wanted you to get to know him before I did, because…” Margrit gestured toward the closed bedroom door Cole had retreated behind. “I thought it’d be easier to explain if you already basically thought he was a decent guy. I can’t think of a much worse way for Cole to have found out than the way he did.”
An image of Alban wrestling with Janx against a backdrop of fire flashed through her mind and Margrit curled a lip. That would have been infinitely worse. Even she’d been frightened and angry. “I would’ve told you,” she said with a sigh, pulling her thoughts back to what had actually happened instead of dwelling on more dreadful might-have-beens. “You guys are my best friends. I didn’t want to keep secrets.”
“But you did.”
“Biding time isn’t quite the same as keeping them.” Margrit brushed away the cautious suggestion. “No points for lawyering my way out, huh? Sorry.”
“It’s not that I don’t understand, Grit…”
“I know. It’s just that with things as they are, there’s no real way out. I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault.” Optimism crept into her voice, but faded before she was finished speaking. “I hope Cole can forgive me. That you both can.”
“What if he can’t?”
Margrit looked away, regret knifing through her gut and cutting into her lungs. Janx’s insistence that she hadn’t yet crossed an irrevocable line, that she could still return to the world and life she’d known, rang in her ears. “I know I’m supposed to say I’d choose my friends, Cam. That I’d choose my life. But I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Cameron pushed off the doorjamb, sorrow in her face and voice. “Yeah, you do. You just don’t want to say it out loud because you don’t want to hurt my feelings, and maybe because you’re not quite ready to make it real. But you said it the other night, didn’t you. Alban lets you fly.” She spread her hands, then let them drop as she shrugged. “If he turns out to have wings of wax, I’ll try to be there to help catch you when you fall.”
At least her headache had faded. Margrit leaned against the train window as it left the station, grateful for the few minutes of dark before it climbed up to ground level, and for the cool, fresh air that blew in from somewhere. Her mind still felt awash with static, though that, too, was less distracting than it had been. Cam’s promise, full of friendship and concern, had followed Margrit out of the apartment and still haunted her now. Cole’s anger had heavily tempered Cameron’s enthusiasm, and Margrit had few illusions as to whose side, ultimately, Cameron would stand on.
Not that she blamed her friend; she, too, was finding herself choosing sides, and leaning toward the one that inevitably cut her off from most of the world she’d known. That her old friendships might not survive cut deeply, but Cam was right: it seemed to be a sacrifice Margrit was willing to make.
As was her job. Margrit turned her wrist up to glance at her watch. It was creeping past seven. If meeting with the twins went extraordinarily well, she might make it back into the city by nine. In hopes of doing so, she had dressed professionally. Even a brief appearance at work was better than nothing. Her coworkers had planned a going-away party for her that night. Margrit wondered if it would still be held if she’d failed to come into work at all for her final two days at Legal Aid. The calendar would read eight hours left, if anyone had bothered to tear off pages while she wasn’t there.
The train’s automated voice announced her stop and she got off mechanically, glad to hail a taxi and let someone else worry about getting her to the specific address. It seemed as though it had been a noticeable portion of forever since she’d last gone for a run, though careful counting told her it had only been two days. Maybe at lunch, if she had a period of time as defined as lunch that afternoon.
The cabbie pulled over at a well-kept brownstone. Margrit studied it out the window for a few seconds, as if she could learn something about the women who lived inside by doing so, then paid the driver and climbed out, hesitating at the walkway for another moment.
Not much could be deduced from their front yard: it was neatly mowed, with a scattering of just-blooming snapdragons and tiger lilies against the house, their scent carried by a brief twist of breeze. There was no evidence of children, something Margrit wouldn’t have thought of had there not been tricycles and play sets in other yards. The idea of locating not only a dragon or vampire heir, but an entire litter of grandchildren and great-grandchildren brought a smile to Margrit’s lips, and, buoyed, she opened the gate and made her way to the front door. Another quick glance at her watch told her it was still far too early to arrive unannounced on a stranger’s doorstep.