Heart of Stone. C.E. Murphy

squinted at him, eyebrows drawn down in furrows before they suddenly shot up. “Oh, shit. No! Crap!” She slid off the counter to the bar stool, then to the floor, dismayed at how it wobbled.

      Russell laughed. “You okay? You’ve had a lot to drink.”

      “We all have,” Margrit said with a quick grin. “But I haven’t drunk enough to drown my career in alcohol, sir. I’m all right. I’ll be back in a bit.”

      The silence outside the bar was deafening. Margrit leaned against the building, still smiling broadly as she auto-dialed Tony. There was no answer, but voice mail picked up and she said, “I won my case. You’re forgiven. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. Um, dinner tomorrow night, maybe? If we can both make it, anyway. Call me back, Tony. I miss you.”

      Margrit heard the note of wryness in her own voice as she ended the call. She missed him when times were good more than when they were bad. Another reason, probably, that they rarely stayed together more than a few months before taking a break. It’d been going on for years now, with too much time invested to walk away, yet too many down moments to consider it a successful relationship.

      Alban Korund’s pale gaze, colorless in the strange club lighting, flashed in her memory, a startling counterpart to thoughts of Tony Pulcella and his warm Italian coloring. Margrit shook the image off, muttering “Bah” under her breath as she pushed away from the building wall. Men wanted for murder had no business lingering in her imagination, even when the erratic bond with Tony seemed to be a little more strained than usual.

      “Miss Knight?” A woman—a girl, really—appeared out of nowhere, as suddenly as Alban departed. Margrit straightened her shoulders, irritated at the stubborn focus of her thoughts.

      “I’m sorry,” she said brusquely. “I don’t have any spare change.” She turned her back, reaching for the bar door.

      The girl blurted, “No!” and caught her elbow. Margrit jerked away, turning back in outraged astonishment that made the stranger cringe, though it didn’t stop her tongue.

      “I need your help, please. Please, I saw you on the news and I don’t know where else to go.” She shifted a bundle under a gray blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, the whole motion as smooth and choreographed as a dance, then looked up pleadingly. “They’re going to tear our building down and we don’t have anywhere else to go. Please, Ms. Knight.”

      “We?” Margrit asked warily. The girl nodded and slipped the blanket away to show Margrit a contented, tiny baby who blinked sleepily and waved a little fist at her.

      “My daughter and I. Please. Can you help us?”

      Margrit groaned and let the bar door swing shut again.

      Alban stepped back, letting the shadows of an alley swallow him. His hair was too bright, too noticeable, to risk moving farther into the light. The police might see him, but more to the point, the girl might see him. What was she doing there? What were they doing here?

      A human couldn’t recognize the slightly too fluid movements. Humans saw inexpressible grace if they noticed anything at all. It took another of the Old Races to see one of their own. The girl moved as if she’d been born to live in water, as if the natural substance around her supported her weight, and gravity had no effect. He’d thought there were none of her people left, the selkies whose attempt at saving themselves had driven them out of the sight and minds of the other remaining Old Races.

      Alban folded his arms over his chest, watching the girl, watching Margrit. She’d missed her evening run, but others had been out, stretching their legs and jogging, talking about the day’s news. Talking about Margrit—his Margrit, the lawyer for Legal Aid. He’d leaped from one tree to another, following the conversation. Margrit Knight. She was as he’d imagined a lawyer should be: a warrior, fighting the good fight.

      He came downtown over the rooftops, finding her offices on Water Street. Early nights were in his favor for once, allowing him to watch from above as a herd of proud, laughing lawyers swept Margrit out of the building as evening fell. It was the second time he’d seen her in something other than running outfits, and as much poise and taste were reflected in her professional clothes as the soft camisole and skirt he’d touched the night before. He curled his hand, feeling none of that delicacy in his own form.

      One of a dozen reasons he ought never to have spoken to her at all. Ironically, it was the same reason that made him want to clear his name with her, though he could hardly imagine explaining that reason to her.

      What, then, he wondered, did he intend to do? Without explanations, there could be nothing between them, not even the trust needed for a lawyer to fight for her client. With explanations—

      With explanations there could be nothing at all. It was the reality of her people and his. Alban lowered his head, folding his fingers into a loose fist. He’d listened to voices below calling congratulations, until the air around him rang with them. Good-natured arguments over who had the honor of buying the first drink lingered even after Margrit and her compatriots entered the upscale pub they’d chosen.

      Half a dozen times he’d thought of following them in, wisdom overcoming the impulse every time. He was wanted for questioning about a murder. Walking into a room filled with lawyers would hardly keep him out of the public eye, and he didn’t dare be detained past sunrise. And now too many years of deliberately staying apart had cost him. Margrit had been alone for a few moments, leaning against the building as she spoke into her phone. There had been time to approach. Two centuries of caution made him too slow, and now the girl had joined her.

      The girl. Legend had it that the selkie race had tried to save itself by breeding with humans. The other Old Races abhorred the tactic, and no one had wept when the selkies had faded away, drowned in the cold seas they’d come from. A few, it seemed, survived. Alban shook his head and hunched his shoulders as he stood in the shadows. For all their attempts to preserve themselves, it appeared the selkies were left hiding in the darkness with the rest of the Old Races.

      Alban strained to hear the conversation, but the wind carried their words the wrong direction, his sensitive hearing unable to compensate. Moving closer was out of the question, the chances of revealing himself too high.

      He missed the weight of wings as he shifted his shoulders, the motion too slight without them. Ironic, to counsel himself to patience now, when it was that forbearance that had lost him the chance to speak with Margrit. He sighed and settled deeper into the shadows, watching the two women. He would take the next chance. He had to.

      It would explain everything, Margrit thought, if this girl had been following her since yesterday, working up her nerve to come forward. It would explain her own vague uneasiness and sense of being followed. But she’d said she’d heard Margrit’s name only that evening, and Alban had been at the Blue Room the night before. The idea crystallized briefly before fading away again: he’d found her at the club, too unlikely to be coincidence. There had been something to her paranoia.

      Warmth flushed through Margrit, a blush of color that had no business belonging to the idea of being followed. Keeping a dangerous habit was bad enough. Not-so-vicarious thrills at having her own stalker was considerably worse.

      Though still, even with the peculiar fingerprints, even with the impossibility of Alban’s leap, what remained was the confidence of his hands on her hips, and the curiosity in his eyes as they’d spoken.

      Margrit stifled another groan, this time of impatience at herself, and wrenched her attention back to the young woman asking for her help.

      She was pretty in a mournful way, with brown eyes so dark they seemed to have no boundary between iris and pupil. Her cheeks were hollow and the knees of her jeans were pale with wear and age. The hems were ratty and the sneakers had seen better days. She was a picture of betrayed innocence, a good witness, Margrit thought clinically, and dropped her chin in a nod. “What’s your name?”

      “Cara. Cara Delaney. Thank you. Thank you for listening.”

      Margrit shook her head. “I