Three Parts Dead by Max Gladstone Page B

anatomist’s devotion. It was limbed as a man, save for two folded leathery wings and a long tail. A snarl contorted its gruesome, hook-beaked face. The creature was bent like a drawn bow, ready to fly.
    Statues. The smell was strongest here, burning in her nostrils. Tara tightened her grip on her knife, and pondered.
    This building had been built to a careful pattern, architects and artists weighing each decoration against every other. Nothing was accidental or asymmetrical save for the strange rune carvings, which did not seem part of the original design. Yet to her right there was a single gargoyle, and to her left—
    As she turned to look, something long and sharp pressed against her throat, the point dimpling her skin. She swallowed, involuntarily, and her skin almost gave.
    “Scream,” said a low voice like crushed rock, “and you die.”
    It was amazing, she thought for the second time that day, how imminent death focused the mind.
    She remained still and quiet with the gargoyle’s claw at her throat, to show she would not call for help. When he didn’t say anything further, she whispered, “There’s no need to kill me.”
    “There is if you scream.”
    “What would my death accomplish if I did? As soon as they know you’re here, they’ll be after you, and they move fast.”
    “So do I.”
    She had to admit that. He was fast, and quiet. She hadn’t heard him climb onto the roof and approach her, for all his bulk. “Killing me will convince them you killed Judge Cabot. No evidence will stand against your murder of an innocent while fleeing the scene of the crime. The Blacksuits will track you to the ends of the earth. They’re tireless.” His claw twitched against her throat. “And you’re tired already.”
    “Quiet.”
    “How long have you been hanging off this building? Hiding from them? Hoping they couldn’t smell you the way I can?”
    “Stop.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “I am a Guardian.”
    She heard the capital letter. “I’m not interested in your title,” she said, as conversationally as she could manage. “I asked you to tell me your name. Because if I’m going to help you get out of this alive, we should get to know each other.”
    His breath should have been hot on the back of her neck, but he did not breathe. One cannot breathe with lungs of stone. She fought to control her pounding heart.
    “You need my help,” she said. “You’re obviously innocent.”
    “What?”
    Keep him talking, Tara thought. If you’re wrong, and you’re seldom wrong, then you want him to think you’re on his side. If you’re right, he wants to believe you. Recite the facts. Her throat was dry. Her breath came short. Dammit, be calm. Cool as crystal, as ice. Cool as Ms. Kevarian. “Whoever killed Cabot planned the murder well. Knew how to do it without leaving traces someone like me could follow. The murderer kept Cabot alive, more or less, until you came. You broke that pretty little bone circle, Cabot’s spirit left his body, and bam, his wards went off and the Blacksuits had a nice picture of you looming over his corpse, talons out. It won’t even matter if they were bloody.”
    The pressure against her throat eased.
    Ms. Abernathy?
    The Blacksuits were coming. She had to work fast.
    Tara turned around. The claw did not leave her neck. The gargoyle stood before her, seven and a half feet of silver-gray stone bowed forward until his face was level with her own. Furled wings rose like twin mountains from his back. His open eyes were emerald green and large—at least three times as big as hers, eyes the size of billiard balls. She focused on the eyes because otherwise she would focus on his hooked, toothed beak.
    “Listen. Is there any way you can make yourself less threatening? More human?”
    “They might recognize me. I looked human earlier, when I ran from them.”
    “Did they see you up close?”
    “No.”
    “Fine. I’ll deal with that. Just try to be a little less with the