He turned and sprang into the shadows, into the sky, a pale blur of winged imagination before treetops and distance took him away. Margrit shouted his name, running a few steps forward before stopping again in open- mouthed fury as the gargoyle disappeared from sight for the second time in three nights.
Regret and rage wound through him like snakes, conspiring to take away his breath. He ought to have known better; he did know better. It wasn’t only Margrit who might look for him in the night sky, and of those who were likely to, she was the least troublesome. He ought to have kept his word to himself, his promise to the beautiful lawyer, and stayed away. Instead he’d let sentiment rule him-he, a gargoyle, bending to the whim of emotion-and now Margrit paid the price.
Well, if irrationality was to govern him, he would ride it as far as it took him.
He folded his wings and dove, flight from the park having carried him high and to the north. He back-winged only a matter of yards above the rooftop he sought, wings aching with the strain of pulling out of the dive. Then again, it wasn’t a soft landing he intended. Stony weight smashed down, Alban landing in a three-point crouch that shook the roof, and, he trusted, echoed deep into the warehouse establishment below him. Caution made him transform to his human shape, heavy taloned fingers turning to a clenched mortal fist before his gaze.
Seconds later the rooftop door flew open and half a dozen armed men spilled through it. Alban lifted his gaze by degrees, knowing full well the picture he made: a solitary, pale man splashed against the black rooftop, a place with no easy access. The wind lifted his hair and opened his suit coat, making a flare like wings as he came to his feet with slow deliberation. The men who surrounded him-tough-looking, as if they’d seen their share of battle-exchanged wary glances, unsure of how to respond to his fearless stance.
One raised a gun as Alban stepped forward, daring to block the gargoyle’s path to the door. 'You can’t go in th -'
'Stand down, Ricardo.' It wasn’t the voice Alban wanted to hear, but it would do; Malik appeared in the doorway, his cane held by its throat as he swung it. 'Korund. What a surprise.'
Alban walked forward until he stood inches from the djinn, staring more than eight inches down at him. 'I am already an exile. If any harm comes to Margrit Knight, I have nothing to lose by avenging her. You would do well to remember that.' He felt surprising freedom in voicing the threat, as though it broke shackles he’d been unaware of wearing. 'I will see Janx, and I will see him now.'
'Janx doesn- nnk !' Fury lit Malik’s eyes as Alban planted a hand against his collarbones and shoved him against the door frame. It proved that Alban’s decision to transform to a human shape had been wise: had the armed men now behind him known that Malik was other than human, Alban would never have been able to put a hand on the djinn. The distinctive sound of weapons cocking followed hard on Malik’s outraged protest. Alban ignored them and stalked down concrete stairs toward Janx’s office. Malik’s voice sounded, ordering a stand-down for the second time. The door above banged shut, no heavy mortal footsteps following him. An instant later Malik coalesced in front of Alban, rage contorting his features.
Alban ignored him, startled to discover how little he had to say to the djinn. Malik vaporized again rather than be trampled, and a hint of small-minded glee bubbled at the back of Alban’s mind. He and the djinn could, at best, stymie one another. Malik might be capable of taking the breath from Alban’s body, but could do nothing to the gargoyle’s stone form, and gargoyles, as a people, were far more patient than the djinn. A gargoyle could remain in his stone shape until his djinn tormentors grew bored and left.
It would hardly come to that on Janx’s threshold, though. Malik didn’t reappear a second time, no doubt gone to warn his master of Alban’s arrival. That was unnecessary; short of human methods of destruction, only a gargoyle could manage the building-shaking landing Alban had made a minute earlier, and the only other gargoyle in New York was in Janx’s employ.
Concrete steps turned to iron grating, creaking beneath Alban’s weight. As the casino below came into view, he paused, fully aware of the windowed alcove to his right that overlooked the same broad room he studied. This was Janx’s House of Cards, the center of more criminal activities than Alban could easily name. The police, he understood, often managed to arrest minor players in Janx’s empire, but Janx himself went unscathed. Whether that was because he owned enough of the city to keep himself safe or because the authorities feared what might rise in his place, Alban didn’t know.
Below him, the desperate and weary played poker and roulette, hoping for a life-changing break of luck. The air tasted of despair, neon lights turning smoke to off-colored swirls as dull as the hope in the room. No one looked up: so human of them. Alban might well have walked through the warehouse’s upper reaches in his natural form and gone unnoticed. The temptation to risk it by shifting flared and died again. Anger had carried him this far, but a gargoyle’s temperament didn’t lend itself to impetuousness. Alban came down the stairs, following a hallway to Janx’s office, disconcerted by its familiarity. It was not a place he would consider himself comfortable in. Perhaps the ire that drove him burned away minor uneasiness.
Janx waited at the window within his alcove, a cigarette held loosely in his fingers as he watched the casino below. Neon light colored his skin to red and made his smile bloody as Alban entered the room. 'I can’t wait to hear this.'
'How much credit do you deserve, Janx?' Alban kept his voice to a low rumble, undermining the dragonlord’s light tenor and amusement. 'How much of my arrival here did you orchestrate?'
Janx turned from the window, cigarette moved to his lips so he could spread long-fingered hands in a protestation of innocence. 'I can only hope I’m clever enough to have arranged this. Tell me your suspicions and I’ll tell you if I’m that deucedly maniacal.'
'Margrit Knight was attacked in the park two nights ago. Did you send the muggers to force my hand? To create a situation in which she was inexorably drawn back into our world?'
Hard-edged regret followed astonishment in Janx’s jade gaze, answer enough, before a lazy smile slid into place and masked his true emotions. He drew breath to speak, and Alban made a short gesture, cutting him off. Janx’s lashes lowered and he pursed his lips, echoing Alban’s gesture more languidly. 'I would have,' he said, rather than lay claim to the devious behavior. 'Weeks ago, if I’d thought of it. My compliments to you, Stoneheart. Who would have imagined you to have such a suspicious mind?'
'It seems I’ve been keeping bad company of late. Call off your favor, Janx. You know Margrit can’t keep someone like Malik safe. Whatever game you’re playing at has nothing to do with his life.'
A corner of Janx’s mouth turned up in slow wonder. ' Au contraire, my old friend, it certainly does. Though you’re right about Margrit being doomed to fail. It’s a test.'
'For Eliseo. To see how much she’s worth. Call it off.'
Janx brought his palms together in a lazy clap. 'You’ve become sly, Alban. Whatever is the world coming to?'
'Janx.'
'Do you want to bargain, Stoneheart?' Janx stepped away from his window to drag a folding chair from the table, whipping it around to sit on it backward. Alban watched Janx’s theatrics without changing expression, and remained standing, knowing he loomed, even in his human form.
The dragonlord thrust out his lower lip. 'Margrit is much more obliging than you are, Alban. She plays along.'
'Margrit is human.' Alban’s voice dropped another register, scraping the bottom of a mortal vocal range. 'I am less fragile than that.'
'If you want to bargain, Stoneheart, let’s be about it. What do I gain for releasing Margrit from the favor she owes me?'
'How long has it been, Janx?' The depth left Alban’s voice, replaced by softness. 'How many years?'
Jade eyes darkened and muscle tightened in Janx’s jaw. 'You know the answer.'
'I want to hear you say it.'
'Three hundred. Three hundred years and forty-two, since London burned and you swore an oath to men not of your race.'
'Not men.'
'We have no other word for ourselves. It’s lost to time and human influence, if we ever had one. We have always been ‘the people,’ among our languages. Do not,' the dragon said impatiently, 'play word games with me, Alban. Your bargain. I would hear it.'
Alban stepped forward, leaning on the laminate table. It creaked beneath his weight, as if he wore his gargoyle form. 'My bargain was made three and a half centuries ago. Let. Her. Go.'
