Margrit dropped her hand to look first at Janx, then at Alban. Then she nodded, another jerky movement, and ran silently from the burning alcove. Alban made an abortive gesture to follow, then closed his hands into fists, uncertain of himself. Uncertain of anything, anymore. Empty horror coated his insides, an overwhelming numbness where true emotion should lie. Bad enough to fail to protect a charge. Actually causing his death…Cool disbelief wrapped him in safety, leaving him unable to process what had happened.
Janx exhaled painfully. "Good girl. Probably the only sensible thing that woman has done since meeting you." He reached for Malik’s cane, teeth gritted as he twisted the sword back into its sheath, then used it to shove himself upward. "She’s human, Stoneheart. We’re not. Don’t expect too much from her." He curled his hand around the cane head, dropping his voice. "I cannot fly, Alban. I cannot escape this place and the human police without your help."
Anger and sorrow knotted themselves in Alban’s chest as he looked at Janx. "This will cost you, dragonlord."
Thin, fluting laughter escaped Janx’s lips and he lowered his head. "Yes. Yes, of course it will, my old friend. Come." Pain sharpened his voice, but not enough to make the word a demand. "Let us leave my fallen House and discuss the price of salvation."
CHAPTER 35
One bewilderingly clear thought stood out: Janx’s scale could not possibly be found by the police. Glass lay everywhere, shards glittering and dangerous as they reflected neon and firelight. Margrit hadn’t thought there was enough wood in the place to burn, but Janx had done his work well, if not deliberately. Fire ate at the building’s structure, heat sending lights into brilliant sparkling explosions as it leaped around, working its way from one vulnerable spot to another. It moved faster than she thought it could, gobbling up its resources and sending showers of sparks down to the casino floor. She searched through the arc of glass below the dragon’s alcove, heartbeat hammering sickly.
There was almost no screaming anymore in the fire-ridden building, only men and women accustomed to desperation turning their focus on getting out before the walls came down. Most of those who were left moved with the uncanny grace of the Old Races, and they, having chased off the mortals, eyed one another. Treaties meant little in the face of ancient rivalries. Margrit ignored them, digging through glass and rubble more frantically.
Screams did come from the dance club directly below Janx’s alcove, a more youthful and enthusiastic crowd discovering the fire there. The fire, or police raids. Margrit turned her gaze up as a new burst of flame gouted from the alcove. Not the battle any longer; that was over. Just the effects of disaster laid down by monsters. Janx was right. Getting out, getting away from the Old Races, away from the world she’d immersed herself in, was the only way to stay alive and retain her own sanity. They were not what she’d thought they were.
Fury, fear and self-disgust rose at her own silent protests. Alban was precisely as he’d always claimed he was. Her refusal to see it, her inability, was her own flaw, but infuriatingly, she’d blamed him. Easier. Safer. She was not a woman who ran from things she feared or didn’t understand.
Margrit closed her hands around the scale and, clutching it to her belly, ran.
Cops poured into the abandoned casino. Margrit came up against a wall of them and scrambled backward, running for the shadows, as if she had something to hide. An ancient sprinkler system finally kicked on, dribbling water over five stories of fire-blackened warehouse. She slipped in a sooty puddle, crashing to her knees. An officer grabbed her arm, twisting it up behind her, his commands to not resist all but lost in the roar of fire and shouts of police and Old Races alike. Pain from banged knees and a twisted arm, combined with the acrid scent of smoke, brought tears to Margrit’s eyes, feeling thick as they trickled down her cheeks. She looked up, blinking through smoke and water and fire, uncertain she could trust her eyes.
No, Alban’s broad pale form was unmistakable, even in the fire-guttered conditions of the ruined casino. He took the steel stairs up to the rooftop three at a time, unburdened by the weight he carried in his arms. Janx.
A thrill of alarm tempered by confusion and fear shot through Margrit. She dropped her head, gasping out a sob, not knowing if it was relief or dismay that the two combatants had fled. Relief; she held on to that belief, heart aching with it. There would be police on the roof. Despite everything, Margrit hoped Alban would look for them before transforming, before making his escape into the night sky. She wanted to run, wanted freedom from the world she’d become embroiled in, but even so, the idea of losing the fantastic people she’d met to human science and curiosity horrified her.
The cop hauled her up, and she went without protest, stumbling over her own feet. Voices remained raised all around her, some young and frightened, others older and belligerent. A few people moved as she did, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, only visible in glimpses as they moved past her. Many more walked with the smooth arrogance of the Old Races, and she wondered how long any of them would stay behind bars. Janx’s scale lay against her stomach, inside her shirt, where she’d once hidden a selkie skin. So many things were hidden under the surface. She wondered if she would ever find clarity again.
As if in answer, she began to cough when clean air filled her lungs, coolness a salve to the smoke and bitterness of the burning casino. A hand on her head pushed her down into a cop car, and she leaned on the door when it was closed behind her, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Exhaustion more emotional than physical swept her, and for a while she was only distantly aware that bright flashes of red and blue assaulted her closed eyelids, or that people bumped against the vehicle, shaking it as they were removed from the House of Cards. Sirens howled, fire trucks announcing their arrival-all the sounds of city life compressed in a microcosm.
A sharp rap on the window startled her awake. She stared first through the windshield, the officer outside her window little more than a blur at the corner of her eye.
The House of Cards was in ruins, only the alleys between it and other warehouses keeping the whole block from bursting into flames. Smoke and steam rose up in equal parts, a few areas of heat still glowing through the wavering silver. Margrit half expected Janx to stalk out of the aftermath of destruction, eyes bright.
Instead, the knock came against the window again, and then the door was pulled open, Tony bracing his hands on the car’s roof. "Grit, what the hell are you doing here?"
She turned her attention to him, sudden bleakness rising up. "I don’t know."
"You look awful. What were you, inside? Jesus, Grit, you could’ve gotten killed. Come on, get-"
A voice rose in sharp protest and Tony waved it off, calling, "She’s all right, she’s the one who got us here," before finishing, "Get out of there." He offered her a hand and Margrit took it numbly, allowing him to help her out of the car. "You just can’t stand not being part of the action, can you. You don’t belong here, Margrit."
"I know." She knotted her hand around Tony’s, looking back at the fire. "I’m sorry. I won’t do this again."
He ducked his head and breathed a curse she was sure she wasn’t meant to hear, then looked up at her again. "You said that last time."
"No." Margrit flinched as something within the House collapsed, sending a boom into the air. "Last time I very carefully didn’t say I wouldn’t get involved in this kind of thing again. This time I’m saying it. Did you…get him?"