House of Cards Page 5

  Blue smoke sailed from Janx’s nostrils, paling his eyes to granite-green, making them unreadable. “I think I begin to understand you, Margrit Knight. Stoneheart was wiser than he knew, breaking centuries of silence with you.”

  “Why do you call him that? You call me by my full name and you give Alban nicknames. Why do you do that?”

  Janx smiled, revealing curved eyeteeth again. “Who’s to stop me? What you don’t know, or understand, about the Old Races is this,” he said abruptly. Ice skimmed over Margrit’s skin, reminding her that easy banter and Janx’s playful manner were not the reasons she’d come to an East Harlem warehouse at two in the morning. “We keep ourselves in line through a series of checks and balances. Everyone owes someone something. It keeps us honest, for the most part.”

  “God,” Margrit said involuntarily. “I’d hate to see you with free rein.”

  Something nasty happened to Janx’s smile, a reptilian coldness coming into it. “Yes,” he agreed. “You would. It begins to look something like this.”

  He stood with startling abruptness, scooping up the paperwork she’d shifted earlier. He flipped open a folder, dealing mug shots out of it as if they were cards from a deck. Each photograph landed with astonishing precision along the edge of the table before her. She touched the second one, frowning at it. “That’s…I know him. He’s the man you were going to have drive me home in January.”

  “Patrick. He’s dead.”

  Margrit jerked her hand back, her gaze skittering to Janx, then to the other two photographs he’d dealt. “They’re all dead,” he confirmed. “Patrick, to whom you showed so little trust—how shall I put it? He oversaw the day-to-day aspects of financial fecundity.”

  “He shook people down for the money they owed you,” Margrit translated.

  Janx exhaled, a sound laced with acid humor. “He oversaw that arm of my organization, yes. You ought to have trusted him,” he added petulantly. “Patrick never looked for trouble. He only hurt people when it was strictly necessary, and I can’t imagine you’d have made it so.”

  “How reassuring. What happened to him? Them,” Margrit corrected. The faces of the other two men were unfamiliar. One was extraordinarily good-looking, charismatic even in the unflattering light of a mug shot. “And who were they?”

  “I assume you’re more interested in their positions than their names. The handsome one ran one of my larger substance rings, and the third—”

  “I really shouldn’t have asked. I swear, Janx, all I need to do is wander in here with a tape recorder sometime and you’d talk yourself right into a jail cell.”

  “Electronic devices tend to come to a short end around here, Margrit. You know that. Besides, you wouldn’t really put me in jail, would you?” Janx’s eyes widened, a protestation of hurt innocence that belied any care for the dead men whose photographs lay on the desk.

  Margrit worked her mouth, trying not to let herself laugh, then avoided the question by tapping Patrick’s picture. “So what happened to them?”

  “Margrit.” Janx sounded both disappointed and annoyed. “Eliseo Daisani happened to them, obviously.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”

  “Am I—Margrit,” he repeated. “Aside from the fact that no one else would dare, do you really think Daisani would allow Vanessa’s death to go unpunished? It’s tit for tat, nothing more. My lieutenants for his woman. I might even call it a fair trade.” His voice, usually oiled with humor, betrayed the faintest scratch of discord.

  “I take it they’re all human, then.” Margrit spoke through her teeth, anger rising on behalf of the men Janx dismissed with only a hint of regret. “God, you people are bastards. These men probably had families, Janx, people who cared about them.”

  “They did. But then, I like to imagine their loved ones knew what kind of men they were. Drug dealers and thugs are expected to come to a bad end, Margrit. Who could really be surprised? This is very much the natural order of things in the world, my dear. People die and ambitious new men replace them. Frequently their deaths are thanks to their replacements.”

  “So how do you know that isn’t happening now?”

  “Because there’s a pattern to these things, Margrit. I control my people. I watch for the ambitious ones, and when they’re strong enough, I present an opportunity for advancement. One does not replace three men in five days, when doing this. I need to be sure each new piece fits in with the whole before I’m ready to change another aspect of my organization’s leadership. This is not ambition. This is revenge.”

  “And a fair trade,” Margrit said sharply. “So what do you want from me?”

  “You have no idea how much I would like to burn that second favor on something as delightful as a dance.”

  “I don’t need poetry, Janx. Just tell me what you want.”

  “Humans,” Janx said without distress. “So demanding, so shortsighted. You want everything so quickly. You must learn patience, my dear. It would stand you well in dealing with the Old Races.”

  “Janx, you’ve got a hundred of my lifetimes to look forward to. I’ve got threescore years and ten. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to waste time with you flirting around the subject.”

  “Margrit.” Janx turned the corners of his mouth down, a picture of injured feelings. “I’m not flirting.” Charm and lightheartedness slid from his eyes, cooling their color. “I’m trying to soften the blow.”

  She braced, as if what happened next might be a physical attack. Jade glinted through Janx’s eyes again, a smile playing over thin lips. “I do like that about you, Margrit Knight. You transform fear into defiance so quickly. Does it cost you?” He dismissed the question as easily as he asked it, brushing it away with long fingers. “Vanessa Gray was Daisani’s right hand for over a century, but she was only human. Forgive me,” he said with an upward dance of his eyebrows, “but from our perspective you are—”

  “Pawns,” Margrit said flatly. “Easily played and easily discarded, just like your lieutenants. I get it, Janx. What do you want from me?”

  “Malik is my right-hand man.”

  Margrit stared at the dragonlord without comprehension, then came to her feet, shoulders rising with tension. “Malik’s one of you. Djinn. Daisani can’t do anything to him. It’s against your laws. The price of killing one of the Old Races is exile. Nobody’d deal with Daisani anymore.”

  “Eliseo Daisani will hardly fail to avenge his lover of thirteen decades over something as desperately irrelevant as race or exile. I have no proof that he’s behind these murders, and he’s hardly going to provide it. Nor will he be so clumsy as to leave a trail back to him in Malik’s case.”

  “If he was going to, why wait? It’s been months.”

  “I believe a tool for revenge has only recently arrived.” Janx’s voice went quieter yet, a song in its softness. “The djinn are a desert race, Margrit Knight. Amongst the surviving Old Races they have only one natural and true enemy.”

  Margrit spread her hands, then slowly closed them, grasping understanding. “The selkies. Water creatures.” Surety filled the guess, and Janx’s brief smile confirmed it. “I thought there weren’t any left.”

  “Margrit. Don’t be disingenuous with me.”

  “Well, that’s what everybody keeps telling me. I met one, but she disappeared. I didn’t think there were enough left worth mentioning. I thought that was the whole thing about them. They crossbred with humans and died out. What’s that got to do with Malik? What’s it got to do with me?”

  “You don’t know.” Amusement washed through Janx’s expression as he approached her, leaning against the table and folding his arms over his chest. “That’s lovely. Margrit, my dear, all I care about is that I believe Malik’s assassination is in the making. I expect you to stop it.”

  FIVE

  MARGRIT’S LAUGHTER SHOT high, hurting her throat. “Me? I’d just as soon stick a needle in my eye, Janx. Or better yet, in his.”

  “I know.
” Janx beamed. “That’s what makes it a favor. Isn’t it wonderful?” Delight leached out of his mercurial voice, leaving it heavy. “I could make this a demand, Margrit, not a favor. Be grateful I’m inclined to play fairly.”

  “Is that a dragonly trait?” Margrit asked tightly. “Does your hoard only shine properly if it’s gotten through fair trade?”

  “Not at all. But jewels, once obtained, must be treated with care so their gloss remains unmarred.”

  Another laugh broke free, horror mixed with shock. “Am I a jewel in your hoard?”

  “Be grateful that you are not gold, my dear. Gold is soft, and easily distorted.” Before the threat settled in her bones, Janx went on, voice light and casual, though the words carried weight. “Jewels crack under pressure, but retain their heart until shattered. I’ve made Malik’s life your responsibility, and you can’t refuse me.”

  “How exactly do you expect me to keep him alive?”

  His beatific smile darted back into place, lighting his eyes. “That’s not my problem, is it? Consider yourself fortunate. As a human, you have no constraints on what you might or must do to ensure his survival. Not, at least, in regards to the Old Races, and our lives are lived enough in shadow that I think human justice will never see any transgressions you may be forced to commit in my service.”

  “What—” Margrit’s voice broke and she swallowed, clearing disbelief and fear away. Her blood raced until she itched with it. Aching feet or not, the impulse to bolt into action, to run as far and fast as she could, was barely held in check. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Whatever is necessary, my dear. Whatever is necessary. Malik will be your constant companion—”

  “Like hell.” Margrit stood, painfully aware the heaviness of the action was nothing like Janx’s fluid movements. “Like hell. Absolutely not. I will not have him following me around. For one thing, I can’t do my job with a minor gang lord hovering over me. It’d ruin my career. For another, Malik hates me.”

  “You had the nerve to put him in his place, Margrit.”

  “And I’d do it again. That’s not the point. I’m not exposing myself to his presence. You might order him to leave me alone, but if he disobeys—”

  “It might be hard on him, but it’ll be infinitely worse for you. I believe you’ve used that argument in the past. Refusing me may be just as bad for you as Malik’s company.”

  “I can live with that.” Margrit set her teeth together, then beat Janx to the punch: “Or not. I’ll…” Her hands cramped and she looked down to see them fisted so tightly that, unfolded, they showed nail marks in her palms. She watched the half-moons change from white to red, using the changes as a timer with which to gauge her own temper. Only when they’d returned to her natural color did she trust that her thoughts were under control again, rational thinking overcoming blunt panic. She raised her eyes to find Janx with his feet kicked up on the table, fingers steepled in front of his mouth as if to hide the smirk that shaped his lips.

  “Two things,” she grated. “First, forget the whole favor-owed thing for a minute. I will not have somebody like Malik following me around. If you want me under a death sentence, carry it out yourself, Janx. Do me that much honor, at least.” Her pulse slowed in her throat as she met Janx’s gaze, fatalism outweighing fear.

  He folded his fingers down until only one remained pressed against his pursed lips as if he’d whisper, “Shh.” After a moment his eyes lidded, catlike, so slowly Margrit couldn’t be sure if she saw a subtle nod accompanying the action. He curved his finger down over his chin, then did nod, another small motion. “If it comes to that, perhaps I will. But how do you propose to keep Malik safe if he isn’t at your side?”

  “How do you think I propose to keep him safe even if he is?” Margrit asked incredulously. “The second thing is I don’t know what the hell you know that I don’t, but you’d better fill me in, starting at the beginning. Even if there were any selkies left, it’s just as much against your rules for them to kill Malik as it is for any of the other Old Races. Why—”

  “What few of them may be left are already exiled. The selkies, as a people, have nothing to lose. Imagine you’re one of the very last of a dying race, Margrit. Imagine you’re a young mother with a child, and what you might do to protect that child. And imagine what incentives a man like Eliseo Daisani might be able to offer you to shatter one last taboo.”

  “You can’t possibly think Daisani’s going to send Cara Delaney after Malik. Cara’s—” Margrit broke off, remembering the fragile selkie girl’s huge dark eyes and shivering fear. That was the impression that haunted her when she thought of Cara, but the girl had shown an unexpected strength, too, the last time they’d spoken. “If Daisani’d gotten his hands on her, he wouldn’t have given me back her selkie skin,” she said, trying the argument out on herself.

  Janx quirked an eyebrow, his thoughts clearly following hers. Margrit bared her teeth and glanced away, nodding. “Unless they’d agreed to hand it over to me as a red herring. It breaks up any link between them that a lawyer—well, I—might find. I don’t believe it,” she added more sharply.

  The dragonlord spread his hands, neither agreement nor disagreement. “But let us say Cara’s appearance sparked the idea that it was possible. If she lives, then others do, and Daisani’s a resourceful man. We call in favors from afar, when circumstances warrant it.”

  Margrit shivered, unsubtly reminded of the assassin Janx had hired to murder Vanessa Gray. “And you think there’s another selkie in New York now. A selkie methodically whacking your lieutenants as he works his way up to the top. Why not start with Malik and be done with it?”

  “If it were my hit, I’d use a series of unrelated killers assigned to specific, select targets. I wouldn’t waste Biali on the mundane task of taking out a pimp, for example. The point is not to deftly remove one man, but to cause chaos in my organization and fear amongst my people.”

  Margrit held her breath so long her heartbeat echoed in her ears with increasingly urgent thuds as she stared at Janx. The sudden inhalation that followed made her lungs ache. “I really do not want to know what you would waste Biali on, but it’s killing me not to ask.” She held her breath again for another moment, then shook off temptation as best she could. “So I’m supposed to find this selkie and dissuade him? Just for the record, what happens if I fail?”

  “You don’t want that to happen,” Janx murmured.

  Margrit snorted a laugh and nodded. “Any idea where I should start?”

  “You’ve a tendency to be refreshingly direct, Margrit. You could simply go to the source.”

  “Go accuse Daisani of plotting murder? You’ve had better ideas.” She stood, shaking her head. “Why don’t you just keep Malik under wraps for a while and see who comes looking?”

  Janx’s mouth twitched with rueful humor. “If you have any suggestions as to how to keep a djinn in a bottle, I’m willing to listen. No one likes to be caged, but short of putting him in a box made of salt water, I don’t think a djinn can be. Stop this unraveling from happening,” he said more quietly. “Too many more losses, Malik or not, and my House will not stand. I need assistance, Margrit Knight, and you have a soft spot for the Old Races. Help me.”

  She sighed explosively. “You know I’ll try.”

  Janx’s smile lit up again and he stood, bowing gracefully in farewell. “I have every confidence that you’ll succeed.”

  That was more confidence than Margrit had. Janx’s words echoed in her dreams and followed her into the office the next morning, after far too little sleep. She’d had more than one half-formed plan since leaving the House of Cards, ranging from taking Janx’s suggestion and arriving on Daisani’s doorstep to demand to know if he was behind Janx’s lieutenants’ deaths, to a somewhat more pragmatic visit to Chelsea Huo’s bookshop to ask the little proprietor if she had any information about selkies, to standing on a rooftop bellowing for Alban. Instead, she’d gone home in the cab Janx
called for her and collapsed, falling asleep so quickly that when morning came she was surprised to discover she’d undressed the night before. Now she sat at her desk, cheek propped on her hand and her eyes not even halfway open, tired mind humming with the same possibilities that she’d considered the previous evening.

  A new stack of papers, topped with a note claiming “Urgent!” had arrived on her desk since she left work yesterday. The note was now half-hidden beneath a cup of coffee, the rare indulgence her only chance of making it through the morning.

  “Russell wants to see you.”

  “What?” Margrit flinched upright, rubbing her face and clutching her coffee. Sam offered a sunny, morning-person smile over the edge of her cubicle.

  “Russell wants to see you in his office. Morning, Margrit.” His grin got broader. “Late night, huh?”

  “Way too late.” She stared at her coffee a moment, then lifted the cup with focused determination, taking a large swallow before bumbling down to Russell’s office to lean in the doorway. He invited her to come in with the same gesture that told her to wait a moment for him to get off the phone. She sank down in a chair, fingers wrapped around the cardboard coffee cup, and watched the man in silence.

  His curling hair had been clipped short recently, a Caesar cut that emphasized the gray. It succeeded in making him look distinguished, that enviable stage aging men seemed to reach more easily than women. His linen shirt was still crisp this early in the day, and the suit jacket that hung over the back of his chair had threads of silk in it, details that reminded Margrit that her boss dressed better than a public employee was assumed to be capable of affording.