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…

Eliseo Daisani was the easy one, and she was sure she wouldn’t find a history of his grievances with Alban in the microfilm archives. But the third…

Margrit abandoned the microfilm archives and jogged upstairs to the public computers, logging into the New York Times Web site to punch “Grace O’Malley” into the search function.

The most recent headline dated from a few months earlier, bold letters declaring Pirate Queen Reveals Treasure! Margrit clicked through, flicking her finger against the mouse button impatiently while the page loaded.

Local legend Grace O’Malley came forward yesterday to reveal an archaeological find off an abandoned subway line beneath the streets of New York. Evidently used as a speakeasy in the 1920s, the room she discovered has been closed up since at least 1925, when a wall collapsed, cutting off a section of the subway line. The route was never reopened, and the speakeasy has remained untouched for eighty years. Bottles of gin still line the counters, and cigarettes lie in ashtrays, undisturbed for nearly a century. At least three decorative Tiffany windows are intact.

O’Malley herself has a notorious reputation as a vigilante and thief, allegations she has denied in the past. Despite repeated efforts, no prosecution has ever been brought against her, suggesting that there are those within City Hall who are on O’Malley’s side. Named for the legendary Irish pirate Grace O’Malley, who ruled the high seas during the 1500’s, the modern-day O’Malley’s mission statement is to help young people who don’t otherwise have a chance. As usual, she was not available for comment.

City officials are pleased that she brought her discovery to their attention, and say her revelation of the site was prompted by the hopes of improving her perceived status in New York, a move away from the piratical nature she’s been dubbed with. The city hopes to open the site to the public within three months as part of a New York history tour.

Margrit fumbled her phone out of her bag, tapping it against her mouth for a moment before beeping out a number. No one glared this time; the computer room was considerably louder than the microfilm archives. “Cam? This is Grit. Want to go play tourist with me?”

“Places like this always make me want to chop all my hair off and start wearing fringy dresses.”

“Cole would burst into tears if you cut all your hair off.” Margrit grinned up at her tall blond friend as they shuffled forward in line. “So much for New Yorkers being blasé and bored, huh?”

The historic subway site teemed with visitors, many of them with city-bred accents. Cam laughed and shook her head, claiming, “They’re all from out of state. New Yorkers are too cool to come poking around like this on opening day.”

“So what’s our excuse?”

“You’re up to something.” Cam lifted her eyebrows challengingly, making Margrit grin again.

“You’d look great in flapper dresses. C’mon, I want to get inside.”

“See! I knew it!” Cam followed on Margrit’s heels like an oversized, smug puppy. “You are up to something. You’re changing the subject.”

“What?” Margrit looked over her shoulder, eyes wide with innocence. “You would look great in flapper dresses. You’re tall and slender. I’ve got the wrong shape.”

Cam made an hourglass in the air, saying, “Va-va-vavoom is not the wrong shape.”

“It is for a flapper.” Margrit slid past a pair of men, each carrying a three-year-old on his shoulders. “It’s-wow.”

The speakeasy reminded her of Daisani’s offices, filled with lush fabrics undamaged by time, thanks to the sealed-off air of the abandoned subway. The newspaper article had been misleading: the club was built into the tunnel itself, with rich woods curved along the walls, polished until they gleamed. Electric light fixtures were set in so neatly they seemed to be part of the wood’s golden glow.

The back wall of the room was one of the Tiffany windows, abstract patterns of brilliant reds and greens edged by dune gold and gray. Somehow light filtered through it, no one point of brightness suggesting a single source of illumination.

Cam let out a low whistle. “This was rich people territory.”

“No kidding. God, look at that window!” Margrit dug her cell phone out of her purse, snapping pictures and peering at the photos to judge their quality. “Can I have this in my bedroom?”

“Which part?”

Margrit waved an expansive hand. “All of it!”

Two aisles ran the length of the room, their red carpet barely worn with time. Margrit felt guilty stepping on it, and one of the attendants gave her a rueful, acknowledging smile. “It’s all right. We’re going to keep it open like this for about a week, and then the whole viewing area is going to be changed so the carpets aren’t damaged. Take advantage while you can.”

Margrit nodded, still feeling guilty as she moved forward. The pile was thick beneath her boots, shifting with her weight, as if the rug were brand-new. The sitting areas were cordoned off with velvet ropes, but a glance at the carpeting there told Margrit the furniture hadn’t been moved to accommodate tourists. The club was laid out the same way it had been for eighty years or more. Couches and chairs covered in leather and velvet were set around teak and redwood tables, close enough for easy talking, without drinks being out of reach.

“A chaise longue,” Margrit said with a giggle. “A real chaise longue. Cool.”

“You just reverted to being about twelve,” Cam said, grinning.

“Well, it is cool!” she protested. “Isn’t it?”

Her friend held up a hand in agreement, still grinning. “It is. You’re just not supposed to let it show.”