Hands of Flame. C.E. Murphy

nodded.

      “All right. This is how you’re going to deal with the infighting and the human encroachment, then.” Tension rose sharply, minute shifting amongst all the Old Races bringing them closer to her. Margrit counted out a long breath, afraid she would come to badly regret the decision she was making. “I’m willing to offer Tariq the reins of this business.”

      The selkies spoke for the first time, sudden burst of incoherent sound that Margrit waved down. “If you’re going to stop getting your asses kicked, you need a big bad, and Cara’s not the right person for the role. Furthermore, this whole setup’s a lousy one for the djinn. All the dirty work and none of the benefits. So maybe we can do a deal here.” The term came easily, as if she stood outside a courtroom arguing over a client’s sentencing, though the gathered djinn were an even more unlikely client than Alban had been.

      A smile crawled across Tariq’s face. “What are your terms?”

      “Don’t pursue vengeance for Malik. The Old Races can’t afford a race war. There aren’t enough of any of you. That’s the major term.”

      Tariq’s amber eyes darkened until Margrit had no sense of what he thought. “And the minor ones?”

      “I recommend that your human competition not suddenly start waking up dead. I recommend you find a way to deliver them alive and in one piece, maybe neck-deep in prosecutable crimes, to the NYPD. I also recommend that you not expand on what you took from Janx in any meaningful fashion until you are damned good and certain of your grounding. The docks are a hairsbreadth from a war zone right now. I want to see them stabilized, not destroyed.”

      “And if I—we—choose not to accept your terms?”

      “Then the NYPD and the FDNY will come down here with trucks filled with salt water and handcuffs lined with vampire blood and they will take you down, Tariq.” His face tightened with astonished anger and Margrit shook her head, speaking more softly. “Don’t underestimate me. Letting the Old Races continue to run Janx’s empire creates a danger for my own race, and I’m the gasoline being poured on the flames. This is a good deal for you. Do not piss me off.”

      “For them,” one of the selkies spat. “It’s a good deal for the djinn, not us.”

      Margrit swung to face him, reveling in the oversized action. Adrenaline burned through her, focusing her words. “The selkies wanted legitimacy amongst the Old Races. The djinn, who, as I understand it, have until now remained in their desert homelands and let time pass them by, wanted a piece of the modern world. You’ve both gotten what you were after. What you have right now is an opportunity to walk away from this mess and let somebody more ruthless put it back together. I’d take it if I were you.”

      “An abrogation of responsibility?” Chelsea asked quietly.

      “Think of it more as me taking it on.” Tension lanced through Margrit’s shoulders. Whether or not Kaimana had intended the selkies to help keep the djinn in check, she fully planned to do that herself. Somehow.

      Chelsea pursed her lips, but nodded, and despite looking far from convinced, the young selkie who’d spoken subsided. Margrit wondered briefly if their society was heavily matriarchal, though Kaimana’s position as a powerful leader amongst them suggested otherwise. Regardless, she was relieved at the lack of argument.

      “We will have to discuss this,” Tariq said. “Malik al-Massri’s death is not something we take lightly.”

      Margrit inclined her head, the motion coming close to a bow. She hoped it hid the shiver of nerves that ran under her skin, lifting goose bumps. She could—and would—make good on her threat if the djinn didn’t comply with her terms, but any investigation of Malik’s death would end badly for her. If the Old Races accepted accident as a forgivable circumstance surrounding a death, she would confess to the part she’d played, but they weren’t inclined to show clemency to their own kind, much less a human. Voice steady, she replied, “Nor should it be. Is a day long enough for deliberations?”

      “We’ll send a messenger when we’ve decided.”

      “Fine. Not more than forty-eight hours, though. This needs to be settled.” Margrit nodded again, and trusting there was no ceremony for departures, took the opportunity to escape.

      Chelsea exited a step ahead of her, blocking her on the grate landing as the door banged shut behind them. Accompanied by the rattle of windows, Chelsea asked, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

      “Of course not, but never let them see you sweat, right?” Margrit wrapped a hand around the stairway’s cold, metal railing. “I couldn’t think of another way out of it. They can’t go to war amongst themselves. If they’re lucky, they’ll just half wipe each other out. If they’re not lucky, we’ll learn about them.”

      “So the sacrifice you chose was your own people.” Chelsea sounded more interested than condemning, as though Margrit had proven thought-provoking.

      Margrit dropped her head, weight leaned into the railing. “The needs of the many over the good of the few. In one way, it doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to come in and clean up Janx’s empire. Whether the djinn run it or a human does …” She shrugged. “Either way, it’s still going to be criminal. People are going to die in the long term. Maybe this will keep some of them alive in the short term. Do you have a better answer?”

      “If I did, I would have suggested it earlier.” Chelsea let silence hang for a judicious moment, then conceded, “The caveats were well done. I don’t know if the djinn will agree, but your threat was a good one. Can you back it up?”

      “I think so. I hope so. It depends on if Tony’s willing to believe me.” She motioned at the warehouse, evoking another one with the gesture. “He’s still angry, but he thinks all my weird behavior was trying to help set a trap for Janx. If I told him fire trucks full of salt water were the only way to quell the violence down here, he might listen to me.”

      “I was more thinking of the vampire’s blood.”

      “Oh.” Margrit straightened away from the railing. “Actually, that part I’m more certain of. Daisani was pretty annoyed with me for making him let Tariq go. I think he’d like a chance to snag another djinn. Or thirty.”

      “Slippery ground you stand on there.”

      Margrit shot the smaller woman a sharp look. “I think I’m bending over backward here to give the djinn a fair chance. Especially since Tariq was the one who nearly pulled my mother’s heart out. So if they don’t hold up their end of what I’ve set out, I don’t have many qualms about knocking this game board over. I’d like to have the moral high ground, but it’s hard to find, much less stay on. I’m doing my best, Chelsea. It might not be good enough, but I’m doing my best.”

      A smile passed over Chelsea’s face. “Good. The fire’s still there. I just wanted to make sure.”

      “Oh, now you’re manipulating me, too? Thanks.” Margrit pulled a face at Chelsea’s cheerful nod. “So how did you do it?”

      “Mmm?” Chelsea’s eyebrows rose in modest curiosity.

      “You gave me legitimacy in there. Why didn’t they fight you? No offense, but you’re just a bookshop owner.”

      “Oh, that.” Chelsea shrugged it off. “Even the Old Races can be taught to behave if you’re firm enough with them. I think you may be learning that yourself.”

      “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

      “I am.” Chelsea gestured. “Shall we?”

      “Yeah.” Margrit took the lead, trotting down the stairs.

      White-hot noise met her at the bottom.

      NINE

      SHE COULD TELL she screamed because the tang of copper tainted her throat, and with it