above the law, but caught in the tempo of the dance, there was only room for ruthless acknowledgment of that fact. Shame, if it came at all, would come later.
The music slowed, leaving breath for speech. Malik curled a sneer, clearly displeased with what he intended to say, just as clearly determined to say it. 'Sands are shifting faster than we can see, and it’s thanks to you.' He drew her back, three quick steps and one to the side, and Margrit followed his lead like water through the easiest channel.
No. Like wind through hollowed stone. Margrit half smiled and Malik took it as encouragement. 'Daisani acts on your behalf. Korund, who has been his own master for centuries, now bends to your whim. Janx makes bargains with you, and the selkies call you friend. I would not have thought you could be a dangerous enemy, but when all of our races parlay with you there’s no gain in loathing you.' The tension was back, singing like a bow line. The thought that Malik feared her struck Margrit and nearly made her laugh. The only thing that stopped her was a suspicion that the djinn would drop her on the dance floor if she dared.
Something in her expression must have warned him of her thoughts, because for an instant Margrit felt him slip away into mist, stealing her air. Then he was back, a solid form again, and she used her next indrawn breath to ask, 'What about Russell?'
Malik’s face contorted with irritation. 'You and Korund. Didn’t your pet gargoyle tell you? If I’d been going to take a life that night it would have been your own.'
Disbelief surged in Margrit as the music stepped up in tempo and volume. 'You mean Janx didn’t send you after him?'
'Do you think I’m fool enough to take his breath when I’d done the same to you hours earlier? Janx did not send me after Russell Lomax, and if he had, I’d have chosen another method.'
Surprise stiffened Margrit’s body as Malik pulled her up again, both of them ignoring the music as they stood nose to nose. Unexpectedly, she believed him, more because he seemed more likely to claim credit for things he hadn’t done than disavow things he had. 'Then who…?'
Malik shrugged, making it part of the dance as he moved again with the beat. 'It’s not my concern, and not what I want of you. Whatever comes of the quorum, you’ll be part of it. Support me as the winds change, and I will give you whatever I can of the Old Races.'
There was no more subtlety in his negotiation or offer than in the dance itself. The blatant self-interest provided its own sort of appeal, but before Margrit could speak the music ended, abrupt and shocking. Her weight leaned into Malik’s, bodies pressed together less erotically than challengingly, and their noses so close that even she expected, for a brief and unsettling moment, the kiss that the pose demanded.
Then applause broke out around them and she pulled her gaze from Malik’s to discover a circle had opened up, giving them space to dance, and the room’s attention was entirely on them. The selkies ringing them still provided protection, but beyond them delighted humans clapped and cheered.
At the edges of the ballroom, two or three steps higher than the dance floor itself, stood the scattered leaders and representatives of the Old Races. Tony, his expression sour, stood just behind Kaaiai, whose placid, pleasant face was filled with curious amusement that only played up Tony’s distaste all the more. Janx and Daisani stood near one another, far enough apart to be separate, but close enough to offer solidarity. Both watched Margrit with a vulture’s eyes, gauging the dance and what it meant.
Margrit shifted her weight to her own feet, helped by Malik, and finally found Alban, far across the room, but watchful. Out of all of them, his gaze asked the least of her, though after a moment a wry smile curled his mouth and he lifted a glass in acknowledgment of her seeking him out.
Margrit brought her gaze back to Malik’s, his eyes so close that focusing was hard. 'Thank you,' she breathed. 'But I have everything I want of the Old Races.'
Malik’s face went white, sensuality draining from his body to leave only the threats that she’d known from him before. A warning stirred through the gathered selkies, and he smiled thinly, taking Margrit’s hand to turn and bow to the watchers. Seconds later he stalked off the floor, grace marred by the limp that had been nowhere in evidence as they’d danced. Margrit exhaled heavily and worked her own way off the floor, smiling away invitations to dance.
Only after downing two glasses of water did she dare taste the champagne that a server offered, holding the flute as if it were her last link with the ordinary world. Alban was out of sight, and Janx and Daisani had separated, the latter now speaking with Kaaiai. Cole whisked Cameron by, both of them waving frantically between the beats of a polka that looked equal parts ridiculous and fun. A slight, familiar female slipped through the crowd gathered beneath the balcony, and Margrit started forward with pleasure.
'Hello, lawyer.'
Margrit tightened her fingers around her champagne flute, distracted from her intention to seek out Chelsea Huo. Steadying her breathing, she turned to find Biali a few feet away. A mocking smile carved the ruin of his face, no mask hiding the shattered socket and scarred left eye. He wore white as unrelieved as his hair, the harsh color and cut of his tuxedo making him look even broader and huskier than he normally did. His champagne flute seemed in danger of shattering in his hand, though he turned to set it aside on a passing waiter’s tray with the consummate grace of all the Old Races. 'We’re putting our best foot forward tonight, aren’t we? Making like civilized human beings, right down to hiding our faces from the world.'
'Not all of us.' A thread of admiration cut through the contraction in her belly as Margrit made a small gesture toward his scars. 'I didn’t expect you to be here.'
'And if you had, you’d figure on me wearing a mask.' Biali stepped forward to dangle his fingertips above the lip of Margrit’s glass, his voice dropping so low as to hover on threatening. 'Gargoyles don’t wear masks.' An instant later his voice returned to its normal depth and volume as he asked abruptly, 'Dance with me, lawyer?'
Margrit huffed with startled laughter. 'For any reason other than to upset Alban?'
'Stoneheart,' the other gargoyle said. 'Nothing upsets him.'
'We both know better than that.'
'Then because you had the stomach to fly with me,' Biali said. 'Because you’re probably the only mortal to have flown with two of us in a century. Dance with me,' he said one more time, and then in a concession, added, 'Knight.'
Margrit tilted her head, enough agreement for Biali to finally take her drink, handing it off as easily as he had his own.
There was nothing of Alban’s ease or Malik’s confidence in the way he danced with her, no comfort in being on the floor, certainly no camaraderie. They danced without speaking, and he released her as the music ended, his mouth a tight line of bitterness.
'Biali.' Margrit caught his elbow, waiting for him to turn his sighted eye to her. 'Why did you ask me to dance?'
A semi-familiar jolt caught her off guard, a wash of images that belonged to someone else. Biali’s memories, blue with twilight, provided a backdrop for a woman much younger than Margrit’s own memories, taken from Alban, remembered her as being. 'Hajnal.' She spoke the name in Biali’s voice, his memories answering Margrit’s question.
Hajnal was petite for a gargoyle, a loamy creaminess to her skin. Obsidian ringlets spilled down her back over wings folded in contentment. In her natural form and among her own people, she wore no clothing, her body all clean curves and angles of sculpted stone. She stirred desire in Margrit’s loins, unexpected enough to evoke a blush, but lust was only part of a love as certain and strong as the bedrock of the earth. The smile she offered made Margrit catch her breath, and brought with it understanding.
Biali’s offer to dance hadn’t been to anger Alban, or even challenge him. Not to threaten Margrit, or claim her, but to reclaim for himself a piece of memory, lost when a dark-haired female gargoyle had chosen the heir to the Korund clan over him. Only to remember, as he had, briefly and painfully, when he’d carried Margrit above the cityscape, that there were other paths he might have taken. Might still take.
The world shifted and plummeted in Margrit’s vision, as if she fell through mountain ranges toward a narrow canyon. Biali steadied her, his good eye bleak and without remorse. 'You’re all right, for what you are.'
'You’re not bad yourself.'
He held her arm an instant longer, making sure of her balance, then inhaled before curling his lip against an
