Hands of Flame

No one saw a vampire’s natural form and lived to tell of it. The warning haunted her, but before any more arguments could be made, she bent her head over Daisani’s shuddering form, and offered him her throat.

An image stood out in her mind. The last image, she imagined, that she would ever see. It was dramatic: a slim, dapper man standing before a wall of fire, looking down at her. Despite the fire, she was freezing, as though all the warmth had been drained from her body. Even her heartbeat seemed sluggish, as though there were nothing left to push. She’d felt that way once before, very recently, when her blood had spilled out on a concrete floor, taking her life with it.

Clarity brightened everything for an instant, letting her understand that the same thing had happened again. Nearly the same thing: this time she had chosen to buy one life with her own. Daisani crouched at her side, murmuring under the crackle of flame. “I will not see you again, Margrit Knight. You had best pray for all your days, however long they may be, that I will not see you again. Eliseo Daisani is dead, thanks to you, and the only reason you do not follow him to the grave is this act of grace you have offered. Live with that, if you can survive the fire.”

Margrit nodded, a flimsy motion that stole what strength she had left. Her eyes drifted closed, Daisani’s image dancing behind her eyelids for a little while before it faded.

Liquid brushed across her lips, so sticky she tried to wipe it off. She couldn’t: as before, her muscles were watery. Licking it away was a compulsive reaction, her body working without command from her mind. Iron’s tang was drowned by sugar, so sweet she gagged before involuntary swallowing overrode the weak attempt to spit up.

For a brief eternity there was nothing.

Then life came roaring back in, a surge that rolled her onto her hands and knees, coughing and spitting against too much smoke inhalation. Heat said the fire was behind her. Margrit crawled away, trembling with effort, and collapsed outside Daisani’s apartment door. Cool air rushed to fill her lungs and she heaved for it, trying to clear her mind.

“Margrit.” Tony put a hand on her shoulder, then pushed her back to sit on her heels, keeping her upright with his own strength. He was blackened with soot, sweat making lines through it. “Grit, I couldn’t get back in there to go after you—”

“Alban was supposed to get you out of here.” Her voice wasn’t as bad as it had been after her throat had been cut. Margrit took it as a small favor, focusing on that instead of on the bewildered fear that pounded through her. “Where…?”

“Here.” The gargoyle, in his stone form, crouched at Tony’s side. Margrit blinked at him, further bewildered until she realized she’d taken his broad white form to be part of the wall. She relaxed, fear draining away as she became more aware of the heat behind her. Alban offered a faint smile. “You couldn’t imagine we’d leave you. Not after all of this.”

“You should have. I told you I’d be right behind you.”

“You weren’t,” Alban said with the same tiny smile, though it fell away. “I’ve left you too many times already, Margrit Knight. Never again.”

“He wouldn’t let me past him,” Tony growled.

Margrit folded her hand over Tony’s at her shoulder, testing her own strength and finding it wanting. Memory flashed behind her eyes: Daisani’s fluid, oily form a nightmare of blood-stench and fear that made her shudder. “Good. Daisani…”

“Is dead.” Tony took away the explanation she’d intended to make, speaking with unexpected firmness. “Which we’re all going to be if we don’t get out of here. This place is an inferno, Margrit. I’ve got to get downstairs.”

Margrit nodded, feeling sweat slide down her spine. She set her jaw and shoved to her feet, refusing either Tony or Alban’s help for a few seconds. Just long enough to determine she could stand unaided if she had to. Satisfied, wobbling, she put out a hand, and both men reached for it. Margrit caught a glimpse of their exchanged expressions, and almost found a laugh to tease them with. Tony, after an instant, dropped his hand, and Margrit’s laughter turned to a weak smile as she leaned on Alban. Her thoughts were clearing, as were her lungs. She still felt drained, exhausted from blood loss, but one idea came into focus: “The elevators will be locked down, and you can’t run down forty flights of stairs. Come up to the roof. Let Alban bring you down.”

“Uh—” Tony shot a look between the two of them, and Alban shifted, causing a rumble of amusement under Margrit’s ear.

“She’s right. It would be quicker, if you’re willing to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Flame exploded from the apartment. Alban scooped Margrit into his arms and fell into step behind Tony, protecting the humans as they ran for the stairs. Tony’s bellow echoed over the noise. “I trust you a hell of a lot more than I trust that fire!”

They burst onto the rooftop, Tony sliding to a stop as his voice broke in dismay. “You set the roof on fire, too?”

Margrit patted Alban’s arm, half reassurance and half a request to be set on her feet as she looked over the burning helicopter and flame-eaten expanse of blacktop. “I forgot about that. News helicopters—”

“Are already on their way.” Alban flashed into his human form, still holding her, and nodded skyward, where lights were converging on the building. “Let’s hope their cameras are washed out by the fire. Detective, if we’re to exit discreetly, we had best do it now. Margrit, I think you’d better come with us. I won’t be able to return without drawing attention.”

“Can you fly with both of us?”

Alban gave her a foreshortened, nonplussed look that finally brought out her laughter. “I guess that’s a yes. All right. How—”

The question was cut off as Alban, with an apologetic twist to his mouth but no more ceremony than that, jerked his head toward the darker edge of the building and dropped Margrit from the bride’s carry he held her in, wrapping a single arm around her waist instead. He offered the other arm to Tony, eyebrows lifted as he said, “Detective, if you would…?”

“You can’t carry us that far!” Tony fit himself into the offered space awkwardly even as he protested, and let out a baritone yell under Margrit’s shriek of laughter as Alban did, in fact, lift them both easily, and ran across the rooftop to leap into freefall.

Alban transformed, the charge of bursting air earning another bellow from Tony. Their plummet broke as Alban’s wings snapped open, and he turned on a wingtip, updrafts pulling tears from Margrit’s eyes. “I’m afraid this will be a rougher flight than usual,” Alban murmured. “I don’t dare circle the building for fear the news cameras will catch a glimpse of us.”

“That’s fine.” Tony’s voice was strained. “Just get us on the ground.” His face was pale. A death grip locked around Alban’s neck. Margrit gri

They landed harder than they ever had, her hold around the gargoyle’s neck slipping and reminding her that weakness hadn’t yet passed. Alban set Tony on his feet and transformed into his human shape.

Tony staggered away, staring toward the distant rooftop and then at Alban. “Jesus. I thought we were dead.”

“Not at my hand, detective.”

“Good goddamned thing. Grit…?”

“I’m fine.” Margrit slid out of Alban’s arm, still leaning on him for support, and found her cell phone. “Tony, if the docks aren’t a hundred-percent quieter by tomorrow night, you’re going to have to—” She broke off, suddenly wishing her clarity of thought would fade a little. “This is going to sound insane.”

Tony shot a finger toward the sky. “Now you’re worried about insane, after jumping off a forty-story building?”

Margrit glanced upward, then shrugged in acknowledgment. “If the docks haven’t quieted down, you’re going to need to go in with FDNY trucks of salt water and hose all your malcontents down. A lot of them are dji