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 haven’t done anything yet. You’re not twenty-one, are you?”
“No.”
“So much for a shot to warm you up. It’s fine. Let’s get back to my office, though. It’s warmer there and it’s just around the block.” She touched the girl’s shoulder, encouraging her into motion. “You understand this kind of thing doesn’t just happen overnight?” she asked as they walked. “It takes permits and notices and hearings to tear down buildings, even old ones.”
“There weren’t any. I swear, Ms. Knight—” “I believe that you haven’t seen any. It’s just that it may be a place to start an injunction against the squatters being thrown out.” Margrit glanced at her. “Squatters, right?”
Cara nodded. Margrit followed suit, studying her again. The right clothes would make her the perfect witness: nothing too good, but clearly the best a homeless girl could afford. With her fragile loveliness and large eyes, and a helpless baby on her hip, she’d be a poster child for the poor displaced by the whims of the wealthy. “How old’s your daughter?”
“Three months. Her name’s Deirdre.” The name was gently drawn out, much the way Cara had said her own name.
“That’s pretty. So’s she.”
Cara smiled. “Thank you. It means sorrowful.”
Margrit blinked. “Why would you give her a sad name?”
“My people think a name should do many things. Reflect your circumstances, maybe give you something to stand up for, or fight against.”
Margrit’s eyebrows shot up. “Your people?”
Cara’s cheeks darkened in a flush and she fixed her gaze on her feet. “The Irish,” she said after a few seconds. Margrit pulled her eyebrows back down where they belonged and smiled.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody say it quite that way before. Are you from Ireland? You don’t sound like it.”
“I was born there.” “Are you—”
“My father was an American citizen,” Cara interrupted. “I’m not illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Margrit exhaled, slowing as she nodded at the Legal Aid Society building. “My office is in here. I’m glad you’re legal. That makes things less complicated.” The guard at the door straightened as Margrit led Cara up the steps and smiled at him. “Evening, Mark.”
“Thought you were out celebrating, Ms. Knight.”
“Margrit!” she reminded him for the hundredth time. He was well over six feet tall, and thick-shouldered as a wall, relying on intimidation rather than an inclination to hurt people to get his job done. He’d worked there longer than Margrit had and still refused to call her by her first name. “This is Cara. She’s with me.”
“Miss.” Mark ducked his head politely as he unkeyed the security alarm and unlocked the door. “Call down when you’re leaving, Ms. Knight, so I can turn off the alarm.”
“We will,” Margrit promised. “Thanks, Mark. Come on, Cara. I can at least make a pot of coffee while we talk.”
The security guard keyed the pad again as Margrit and the selkie girl disappeared into the lobby. Alban walked to the other side of the street, casting quick glances at the building as he ducked his head over a cup of coffee that was more for show than to quench thirst. A light came on in an office on the second floor and he let out a sigh that steamed in the chilly air. The guard watched him, caution in his eyes. Alban inclined his head and picked up his pace, letting his feet take him around the corner and out of sight.
Habit made him check the street even as he gathered himself. There were always stragglers in the city, drunks or homeless or late businessmen who might catch a glimpse of him if he allowed himself to become careless. A few times he’d been noticed, springing upward as he did now, a blur of strength and power hesitating on window ledges only long enough to pounce to the next. Fortunately, drunks and homeless were rarely considered reliable, and businessmen wouldn’t risk their reputations with stories of creatures scaling building walls in a single bound.
The ledge he found suited him, close enough to the street to watch easily, but far enough up that he would go unnoticed. Even if someone did see him, they would only be surprised, and uncertain if they’d ever noticed the stonework on the building before. There were risks, and then there were the constants of human nature.
Alban crouched, three points on the ledge and his right elbow draped over his knee. Wings settled around his shoulders, falling like a heavy cloak, and he waited, still as stone, for Margrit or the dawn.
SEVEN
THE LIGHT CLICKED off, sudden darkness across the street briefly incomprehensible. Alban blinked without understanding, then pushed back, hands on his knees as he straightened his spine. Bells from a nearby church had rung the first small hour of the morning long enough ago that he’d begun to think dawn would make an entrance before Margrit Knight took her leave from work, even if wintertime bought him more hours than a summer night would. Sunrise might come late, but he still preferred to be safely ensconced in his home well before it broke. Perching on building ledges during daylight hours made discovery far more likely.
The patient security guard, whose rounds had kept him within Alban’s line of sight all night, pressed a code into the numerical safety box on the building’s side, and a moment later held the door for a tired-looking Margrit. She gave him a weary smile, pulling her coat around herself more tightly against wind coming up from the water. It carried her words and
