admiration. “I’m always looking for new blood.”
Margrit’s breath caught in her throat, neither an inhalation nor exhalation, simply frozen as her mouth went dry and her eyes began to burn, unable to blink or water. Running in the park, even dealing with Janx, had nothing on the tightness of her chest now, as she stood face-to-face with a vampire. One part of her mind screamed to her to run; the rest held her in place, stiff with terror, hoping that the predator wouldn’t notice the prey if it didn’t move.
Daisani’s eyes half closed as he inhaled deeply. “I wondered. You do know,” he purred.
“I know.” Margrit forced out the words, her voice hoarse. “And I was doing so well.”
“You were. But now.” Daisani spread his hands, eyes still half-lidded. “Now I think we truly understand one another.” He turned away, walking to the far end of his office with the liquid grace Margrit was coming to recognize as a hallmark of the Old Races, and took the smaller of the two sealskins down from the wall. “A gesture of good faith,” he murmured as he returned to her, offering the skin. Margrit put her hands out for it and he folded it between them, then put his hands over hers. They were hot and dry, the pulse shockingly fast.
“A gesture of good faith,” he repeated. “But if you fail me, Miss Knight, you had best remember I have more than one use for new blood.”
Margrit made it all the way to the lobby before she threw up.
Evening sunlight shone a brilliant gold, making Margrit’s eyes ache as she squinted against it. The bitter aftertaste of bile hung at the back of her throat and her stomach churned, making her eyes water at the acidity. She clutched the soft sealskin against her chest, running before she was even aware she was moving. Escape seemed paramount, anything to put distance between herself and the man she’d left behind.
Man. The word haunted her even as she ran, Daisani’s sheer unnerving presence upsetting her definition of the concept. She’d met frightening men before, killers who looked at her as if she were something meant to be dominated and consumed. She’d never felt so much like a morsel on a plate as she had standing inside Eliseo Daisani’s personal space.
Part of it was the terrifying way he moved, with no pretense of humanity in the impossibly quick flow from one place to another. Alban, by comparison, was as ponderous as a human, the weight that stone lent him binding him to the earth as surely as Margrit herself was. But then, she’d ridden memory with Alban, she reminded herself forcefully, and in that shared history he had wished for a vampire’s unearthly speed.
And there was that in itself: the gift of sharing memory, so she’d been a part of it, thinking herself there until she could barely distinguish herself from Alban. It was not a human talent. Not something a man could do.
She didn’t want the gargoyle to be right. Didn’t want the differences between them to be as broad as human and inhuman. She knew the marks racism left.
Alban belonged to another race.
Margrit drew breath through her teeth. It didn’t matter right now. What mattered was whether she’d played it right in her meeting with Daisani. She’d never had so much as a chance to mention Grace O’Malley or the real reasons he wanted Cara’s building taken down. It was something Margrit could argue in court. Not the real whys and wherefores, but a plea for an injunction against the speed with which Daisani’s corporation was moving would stand up. It would cause a delay, giving her time to deal with the real issues.
The warmth of seal fur against her skin told her everything she really needed to know. Margrit burst into Cara’s building as the sun slid past the horizon.
Waking up outdoors was startlingly cold.
Despite not being particularly susceptible to cold, winter seemed to have settled deeply into his skin, stone chilled all the way through. Alban opened his eyes slowly, searching memory for the last time he’d slept outdoors with no protection from the elements. It had been decades, perhaps bordering on centuries. If it could be said that stone softened, he was clearly getting soft.
He left his eyes half-lidded as he glanced around the rooftop. There was no frost built up on his skin; sunset was barely past, the western sky still bleeding gold and red. Margrit’s building was just two blocks away, as far as he’d needed-or dared-to fly in the moments before sunrise that morning. That, too, had been a sign of softness: he had sensed dawn coming, but lingered too long with Margrit, arguing about Biali’s trustworthiness.
Alban made a fist against his knee, a slow action that belied the depth of frustration that surged through him. He hadn’t made her understand. The Old Races had nothing but their trust in one another. Without it, they were all dead, exposed to humanity as freaks and curiosities.
The sky had been bright with daybreak when they’d finally ended the discussion, gratifying alarm sweeping Margrit’s face as she realized the hour. She’d pushed him away, hurrying him to safer grounds. Not as safe as his home beneath Trinity, perhaps, but quiet rooftops were less risky by far than city alleys.
There were no sounds of activity on the roof now, nothing to betray him as he straightened from his protective crouch to his full height, shaking off the gargoyle for the man.
“I couldn’t stand it, love.”
Alban whipped around, hands curved to mimic the talons he didn’t have in this form. Grace O’Malley sat on top of one of the roof’s heat vents, a leather-clad leg cocked up so she could wrap her arms around it. Alban flexed his fingers again, willing himself not to flash into the more dangerous gargoyle form. “How long have you been there?”
Grace lifted her chin, nodding toward the sunset. “Long enough to freeze my pretty tush. I followed you.”
Alban snarled, discomfited, and deliberately stepped back, trying to regain his equilibrium. “How?”
“Now, that’d be telling, love. Just know I been keepin’ watch. You can thank me for it later.” She gave a wink that made Alban shift his shoulders with unease.
“Couldn’t stand it,” Grace said a second time. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a gargoyle.”
“You…” Alban curled his lip, weighing his words before he spoke. “You know about gargoyles.” He exhaled, finding he was relieved. “No wonder you didn’t panic.”
“I know lots I shouldn’t, love.” Grace hopped off the heater and landed as silently as a cat, sauntering up to him. “There’s not lots I can offer that you’d have a need for, I’d wager, but there might be a thing, at that. A thing or even two.”
“What?” Alban’s shoulders rose defensively, and Grace grinned at him.
“The coppers found your lair, didn’t they? And you’ll be needing a place to stay now. Somewhere safe in the daylight hours. I can give you that.”
“At what cost?”
Grace’s expression hardened, making her beauty seem old and dangerous. “Help me protect the children, love. That’s all.” The hardness faded from her expression and she lifted a fingertip to Alban’s chin. “Well, maybe another thing or even two, at that.”
Alban wrapped his hand around hers, dwarfing her fingers even in his human form. “And if I don’t?”
She shrugged. “You’re Alban Korund, love. There are plenty who’d pay to wrap that fine throat of yours in irons. Korund the Outcast. What else do they call you? ‘The Breach?’ What’s that one mean, Korund? I’ve wondered awhile, I have.”
Disbelief and fear rose in his breast, mixing together to create fury inside an instant. Alban tightened his hand around her wrist, keeping to his less powerful human form with conscious effort. “How-?”
Grace gave a dismissive laugh. “Don’t bother, gargoyle. I told you, Grace knows more than she should.”
“How?” He didn’t loosen his grip, his heartbeat a stony thud that rarely came to his notice, but now rang loud and heavy in his ears. “Who are you?”
“Grace O’Malley, love.” She made her fingers thin and slid her hand from Alban’s grasp, so easily his own fingers crushed together. “Only Grace O’Malley. Have we got a deal?”
Alban snarled again, hands knotted so tightly he felt the ache to his bones, as deep as the cold that had settled in them. “A gargoyle does not need coercing to protect the helpless, Grace O’Malley. But I wonder if Janx wasn’t right, after all.”
“I’m not your enemy, Korund. Opportunistic, is all. I like to make sure everyone understands the rules when we play the game. Will you watch the children?”
