set aside his cane, carrying a staff carved from ivory instead. Beautiful was an easy word to describe Alban or Janx, but Malik’s nastiness had barred Margrit from using it for him. For a moment, though, removed from his poisonous air, she saw it in the loose-fitting desert clothes and his easy stance, and could admire the costuming that marked him as djinn by those who knew.
Alban, out of all of them, wasn’t in costume. There was no pretense or subterfuge to the tuxedo he wore, except it was shot through with silver, catching and reflecting light until even the slightest of his movements looked like liquid metal in motion. He had no mask, only his long hair left loose as he never wore it in his human form. White strands fell forward to frame his face, highlighting the chiseled lines of his features, the cool stoniness of his expression. Standing between Janx and Malik, he seemed as alien and inhuman as they, no more a part of Margrit’s world than a fish belonged in a bird’s.
Then he smiled and the illusion of remoteness was shattered. He put his weight on one hand against the balcony rail, and with casual disregard for a fifteen-foot drop, vaulted it. The tails of his coat flew upward, blur of silver that whispered of wings, and an instant later he landed among the crowd. Only then did Margrit recognize the sheer number of selkies around her: without looking up, the dancers spun away to leave a space just large enough for Alban to land in. That space rippled toward her, bodies swirling to make a path, so when Alban lifted his gaze, it was to meet Margrit’s eyes. Incredulous laughter bubbled up inside her, and satisfaction washed through his expression when she smiled.
He stood, a silver figure towering above the small, dark-haired selkies. The path they’d made closed behind him as he approached Margrit, one hand folded behind his back, the other extended in invitation.
'I seem to have been outdone,' Daisani said from her elbow. Margrit startled and he gave a low laugh. 'Entirely outdone. I don’t know if I should offer congratulations or take insult, Alban. It’s not often someone can be made to forget my presence completely. Margrit, do leave me one more space on your dance card tonight.'
'I will.' She put her hand into Alban’s as Daisani faded away. 'Look at you,' she said. 'You look wonderful.'
'As do you.' Alban curled his fingers under Margrit’s chin, smiling. 'You’re unmasked.'
'So are you. Good thing. We might not have recognized each other, otherwise. Especially with you jumping off balconies. That’s not your usual style.'
'On the contrary.' Alban slipped his hand around her waist, drawing her near. 'The very first time we danced I spent a good portion of the night leaping off stairs and onto rafters.'
Margrit laughed. 'That’s right, you did. Are you going to do this every time we go out dancing? Someone’s going to notice.' She glanced around the floor as Alban led her across it in a waltz. 'I don’t know why they didn’t this time.'
'Because no one reacted. It’s not unlike a child falling. If his parents make a fuss, he thinks he’s hurt and cries. If no one notices or reacts, he thinks all is well, and gets up again to play.'
'You’re saying a ballroom full of humans is like a ballroom full of toddlers?'
Delight sparkled in Alban’s glance. 'I would never say such a thing. Now that you’ve mentioned, it, however…' Margrit lifted her hand from his shoulder to threaten him idly, earning a chuckle. 'Truthfully, I only dared because so many selkies had come in to greet Kaimana. I wouldn’t risk it now.' He gestured, indicating the greater blend of humans among the dancers.
'You dared at the Blue Room.' Margrit moved forward, hips swaying toward Alban’s, playful reminder of the dance they’d shared at a nightclub weeks earlier. His gaze darkened and he pulled her closer, one hand large and certain on her waist.
'The lighting,' he murmured, 'was far poorer there. What happened to the others?'
Margrit breathed a laugh. 'I turn on my best vamp and you want to know where the bad guys went.' She tilted her chin up, looking toward the balcony. 'They split forces after Janx got his eyebrows down from his hairline. He went left, Malik went right. I thought Malik was his bodyguard.'
'Malik is the one being guarded, of late. I would think here, amongst all of us, he would be safe.'
'The things you learn.' Margrit put her cheek against Alban’s chest, feeling as though she flew in his arms. The music changed more than once, both in style and in instruments, songs ending and beginning anew as they danced.
'Margrit.' Alban’s rumbling voice was lower than usual. She tilted her head up, eyebrows quirked. 'May I ask something that’s perhaps none of my affair?'
'You may. I may not answer,' she warned.
His mouth curved, acknowledging humor without participating in it himself.
'I saw Tony here tonight.'
'Ah.' Margrit glanced across the room, though she didn’t know where the detective had gone. 'He’s not here for me. He’s working security for Kaimana Kaaiai, part of a special detail. That’s why he was at the ice rink last night. Kaimana had sent him on my behalf. He thought I might be more comfortable with him around.' She sighed, looking back at Alban. 'We’ve broken up.'
'I am…sorry.' The words seemed to come with difficulty.
Margrit nodded, her emotions torn. 'Thank you. Me, too, but I think maybe it’s better if it’s over. We’ve done that dance, and it kept ending badly. I don’t want to do it anymore.'
'Perhaps you’d be willing to do another one.' The query came from behind Alban, so unexpected as to stop Margrit in her tracks. Alban swung back from her like a door opening, revealing Malik. He bowed insolently, his gaze on Margrit as he spoke to Alban. 'May I cut in?'
The crowd around them surged closer, a few dancers almost brushing Margrit’s skin. Cara Delaney spun by, a smile in place through her eyes were serious and calm as she scattered her attention to the figures around them. Margrit followed that look, relaxing as she saw the reassurance Cara offered.
Dozens of nearby dancers met her eye with dark liquid gazes: selkie eyes. Selkies and djinns were natural enemies, creatures of salt water anathema to the desert dwellers. A peculiar note of respect for Malik rose up in Margrit, carrying curiosity with it. She put her hand on Alban’s arm. 'It’s okay. I’ll see you in a bit.'
It took another instant to steady her nerves and offer that same hand to Malik. He’d abandoned his staff, the one weapon he might have carried, and a slight limp marred his step forward. They stood uncomfortably still on the dance floor, hands barely touching, until Alban, glowering, took himself away through the crowd. Margrit heard herself say, 'I wouldn’t have taken you for a dancer,' in a high, light voice, and a smirk came into Malik’s blue eyes.
'Who do you think inspired the Eastern sword and belly dancers?' His grip on her fingers became more certain as the music changed again.
Margrit laughed in protest, shaking her head as a tango beat slid over the floor. 'No. Oh, no.' Even as she objected, Malik pulled her closer and she responded, heartbeat quickening in anticipation. Better-or worse-than running in the park was the challenge inherent in the dance. Sensuality, sexuality, sheer abandonment: Margrit’s skirt whipped out in a twirl and wrapped around her legs as Malik brought her back in again, a firm certain hand on her waist keeping her from toppling with the momentum. Under cover of the music, in that abrupt moment of stillness, Margrit demanded, 'What do you want, Malik?'
'Support.' He snapped the word out as quickly as he spun her into another turn, keeping his eyes on her. Margrit felt she couldn’t afford the luxury of a lifted eyebrow or a startled laugh, concentrating instead on keeping her feet. The djinn was by far the superior dancer, and only the absolute certainty of his lead allowed her to keep up with him.
'And you’re asking me? Why the hell would you do that? Are you out of your mind?' Her questions came breathlessly, tangling with her hair as it loosened from its pins, curls lashing around her face.
Malik pulled her close again, lowering her in a slow dip, and for all the fluidity of his motions, she suddenly saw tension in him, knotted in the muscle of his jaw and making a sharp line of his shoulders. The alien idea that the djinn was afraid struck her, and then they were in motion again, music pulling them along.
Margrit’s thoughts sparked with chaos, ungraspable in the heat of the dance. Laughter burned through her, intellect drowned beneath the pure joy of outrageous behavior. Even Alban, who understood her need to run through the park, was too reserved to dance with her so aggressively.
The Old Races, it came to her in a burst of clarity, together, as a whole, the Old Races offered her the world she desperately wanted to live in. It wasn’t bound by human conventions, though it went through those paces. Margrit waited for the sting of shame that she, a lawyer by trade and by choice, wanted to play the part of the king
