House of Cards

House of Cards
C.E. Murphy

New York City's only legal counsel to the fabled Old Races, Margrit Knight is levelheaded in all matters extraordinary.But when she's summoned to negotiate a peace treaty among rival factions, her own mortal world threatens to fall apart. Margrit's been in hot water before, but reentering the underworld brings a new set of problems. And a new set of friends and enemies, including a ruthless vampire mobster, a dragonlord who won't take no for an answer, a band of subversive selkies. . . oh, and Alban Korund, the sexy gargoyle who got her into this mess–and whose granite-strong touch still haunts her every fantasy. . .

Praise for C.E. MURPHY and her books

THE NEGOTIATOR

Hands of Flame “Fast-paced action and a twisty-turny plot make for a good read … Fans of the series will be sad to leave Margrit’s world behind, at least for the time being.” —RT Book Reviews

House of Cards “Violent confrontations add action on top of tense intrigue in this involving, even thrilling, middle book in a divertingly different contemporary fantasy romance series.” —LOCUS

“The second title in Murphy’s Negotiator series is every bit as interesting and fun as the first. Margrit is a fascinatingly complex heroine who doesn’t shy away from making difficult choices.”

—RT Book Reviews

Heart of Stone “[An] exciting series opener … Margrit makes for a deeply compelling heroine as she struggles to sort out the sudden upheaval in her professional and romantic lives.” —Publishers Weekly

“A fascinating new series … as usual, Murphy delivers interesting worldbuilding and magical systems, believable and sympathetic characters and a compelling story told at a breakneck pace.”

—RT Book Reviews

Author’s Note

“Where,” comes the dreaded question, “do you get your ideas?”

The Negotiator trilogy originally sprang from a Beauty and the Beast-with-gargoyles idea a friend and I discussed. The resemblance between that initial discussion and the story you’re now reading is pretty much imperceptible. Well, there were gargoyles in the original idea, so I suppose it’s perceptible, but only just.

I came back to the idea a couple of years later, having realized that if there were gargoyles, there were probably other nonhuman races littering the planet, as well, and that an interesting way to learn about them would be to put an ordinary human woman in their midst. Margrit Knight arrived fully formed in my head one morning, and from there I essentially never looked back. (I rewrote a lot, but I never looked back!) Discovering her world and embroiling her in the Old Races’ politics has been a fantastic journey for me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have!

Catie

HOUSE OF CARDS

C.E. MURPHY

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

For Trent

(Although some may call him … Tim^H^H^HPaul) I wouldn’t have made it through this one without your help, man. Thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First off, I would like to say to my editor, Matrice: Did you not read the last set of acknowledgments? The ones that said, “Please don’t ever make me work this hard again”? But it’s a much, much better book for it, so thank you.:)

My Live Journal friends list came through en masse with New York details, information about the legal system, about high-quality pens, about seventeenth-century London … and every single question they answered got cut in revisions. Regardless, I am extremely grateful to them all. If I were slightly more competent I’d have prepared a list of people who were particularly and especially helpful, but I wasn’t that together this time around. Next time, I promise.

Chris McGrath has provided me with another gorgeous cover, and I can’t wait to see it wrapped around my words. It’s one of the best parts of being a writer.

Trent was my much-belabored usual suspect this time around, while Ted, as usual, patiently offered plot ideas when I got stuck. I also owe a huge debt of thanks to Team Whac-A-Mole (Alison, Anna, Catherine K, Catherine S, Erica and Neal) for whacking spam moles on cemurphy.net.:)

ONE

HUMANS WOULD CALL it a catch-22.

He’d read the book the phrase came from, even sympathized with the protagonist, a man desperate to avoid fighting in a war but with no recourse to do so except claim insanity. The difficulty lay in the military’s own desperation for warriors. If he said he was crazy and wanted to fight, all the better; they would take him. If he didn’t, that was simply normal, and they’d conscript him regardless.

Gargoyles did not find themselves in such situations.

Alban’s shoulders slid down as he passed a hand over his eyes. Gargoyles didn’t find themselves in such situations, and yet. And yet.

A woman ran on the pathways below him, finding her stride without fear in the March night. She ran as if Central Park were her demesne and the things that stalked it too slow or thick-witted to capture her. She’d done it before she knew he was there, watching and protecting her. She would have continued long since, had he never revealed himself to her.

But he had, and now she knew. Knew about him and his people, and knew that he soared from treetop to treetop, keeping her safe from monsters worse than him. Knew that his nature demanded he protect her, once he’d chosen her as his ward.

He’d walked away from their impossible relationship, certain that leaving was the only way to allow her a life with any meaning in her own world. In introducing himself to her—necessary as it had seemed—he’d also introduced an overwhelming element of danger into her human experience. She had accepted that, even embraced it, but he could not. He was a protector, and to protect her, he had to leave her behind.

Doing the right thing shouldn’t leave such a taste of coal at the back of his throat, burned and ashy. For a span of a few brief hours—days, but in a life as long as his, the hours meant more than the days—he’d flown with her, shared laughter and fear, even known the touch of death and the shaking relief of life in its aftermath. Better to let it go, the memory bright and untarnished, than wait and watch as she inevitably realized she could never fit into the half-life that held him captive.

And she, with the safety her clean, well-lit world offered to her, defiantly began her late-night sprints through the park again. She seemed utterly confident—confident of her own speed, confident of the park’s gentle side, confident that he would not abandon her despite his protestations.

To his chagrin, she was right.

A gargoyle should not find himself in such a situation.

Muttering a growl deep in his throat, he flexed his wings, catching the wind and letting it carry him higher into the sky than necessary. He was a pale creature against night’s darkness, broad wingspan and powerful form easily visible, but humans rarely looked up. Even if someone did, he would be gone in an instant, a flight of imagination so potent few would dare voice it. Rationality and human experience demanded that he couldn’t exist. No one valuing his job or social standing would insist he’d seen a gargoyle circling over Central Park, and should the park’s less favorable denizens see him, well, no one would believe them, either.

And Margrit, should she look up from racing insubstantial competitors far below, would never tell.

She still watched the sky as she ran.

She knew better. She knew better for a host of reasons, the most obvious being that if a gargoyle watched her, he would keep out of her line of sight so they could both pretend he wasn’t there. Twisting to catch him not only invited injury, but collided thoroughly with the other obvious reason she shouldn’t watch the sky: to run safely in the park she had to move like she knew what she was doing. Aggressors wanted victims who wouldn’t cause a problem. She’d learned to keep her eyes straight ahead and her chin up, ears sharpened for sounds above those of her own labored breathing. She wore no headset when she ran at night; that was a luxury reserved for daylight hours. Running made its own music in her mind, a cadence she could lose herself to. Words pounded out to her footsteps, broken down into syllables. Law review sometimes, but as often as not a single word caught in her thoughts. Ir. Ir. Ir-rah-shun-al.

Irrational.

Alban.

Memories of the gargoyle did more than linger; they waited until she thought she was free of him, then announced themselves again with distressing clarity. Even after weeks of not seeing him, she could bring to mind his strong features and white hair more easily than anyone else’s.

Margrit shook her head, trying to chase memories away. The hard motion put a wobble in her run and her foot came down badly, tweaking her knee. She dropped into a walk, swearing under her breath. Her heartbeat ached, less from the run than from wariness that bordered on fear. The park seemed a haven only when she ran through it. Walking off an injury felt like announcing she was too slow and cumbersome to avoid danger.

Worse, though, would be not giving herself the time to recover, and damaging the ligament so badly she couldn’t run at all. The idea felt like prison walls closing in. Margrit shivered the thought away, flexing her quads to test her knee. The sharp ache had already faded. She slowed more, then stopped, bending to rub her kneecap. It felt normal, no swelling or stiffness telling her she’d twisted it a moment earlier.

An inconsequential injury, nothing more. Just a twinge to warn her, not something worse that healed itself more rapidly than logic could account for. It’d been the same with nicks from a razor blade, or paper cuts sliced through a fingertip, the last few weeks. The damage had been too slight to justify concern.

Margrit licked her lips as a gag-sweet taste of sugary copper rose in her throat. It carried with it the image of a slight, swarthy man opening his wrist and pressing thick welling blood against her mouth. Only after she’d swallowed convulsively had he looked pleased. Folding his sleeve back down, he’d told her what he’d shared: one sip for healing.

Such a gift as a vampire gave.