set Alban on that path, but because they were so few, and forgiveness, surely, could come with time.
It was not exile, then, that drove him from his mountain home, but a hope of understanding humanity; of finding a way for his people to live amongst them in safety. Hajnal joined him and they left the mountains, left the valleys, left the landmass humans called Europe, and on the continent’s western archipelago they found friends, both mortal and not, whose secrets would change Alban’s life forever.
Arguments, fresh and sharp, rose up through memory: Hajnal’s distress at Alban’s choice to step outside the gargoyle collective in order to protect a child born out of species. She knew, of course; had known Sarah Hopkins, as she had known the fiery-haired dragonlord and the smooth, dark vampire. But it was Alban who had linked to their minds, Alban who had become so intimate with them, and Alban whose memories would condemn them if they were exposed to the depths of history. Hajnal’s, riding closer to the surface, carried far less weight, and could be kept from the gargoyle memories with a modicum of effort. She didn’t have to—didn’t choose to— exile herself from their people in the way he had. But as long as she remained with him, he wasn’t alone.
Hajnal’s death ricocheted through that, tearing chunks of Alban’s heart away and leaving emptiness in their place. Biali, as deeply wounded by it, had never, would never, forgive the lost battle that had paired Alban and Hajnal for life. That had, in his mind, set Hajnal on the road that led to her death.
Exquisite, the memory of that death. It was made of icy razors, cutting apart Alban’s every heartbeat as he roared her name helplessly. As she told him to leave her, and, most terribly of all, as he did, and in doing so, condemned her.
Generation after generation of humans passed while he stood apart, the scant handful he dared watch over always dying violently, until Margrit.
The bright memory of her presence in his life seared through him, hotter than even the ice. Something cracked within him, vast shattering like stone too long under duress. A terrible shout broke free, the clap of stone breaking apart, and ice released him.
Alban collapsed forward, trembling with exhaustion and the weight of too many memories. Every part of his body ached, as though he’d been splintered and put back together again by some rough stonemason with Pygmalion dreams. Stone did not weep easily; not often; not at all; and he could reach no further than a wish for that release. Not sobs; that was beyond him, but the weary slow slide of tears down granite features would be a relief, if only he could find his way there.
Instead he pushed up to hands and knees, then shoved back into a crouch, one hand planted against the floor to balance the empty shell his body felt like it had become. That was all: he could do nothing more. To have done that much seemed a triumph. His chin rested against his chest, eyes too heavy to open. Rest would come with dawn, no sooner. Iron bound him to his waking form, forbidding him the release of silent stone. He held on to that thought, concentrating on it beyond fatigue that came from his very bones.
Grace moved from behind him, soft brush of leather and silent breath of air. “Korund.”
“Leave me.” It took effort to form the words. Too much effort to open his eyes and meet her gaze. “I only wish for solitude, Grace. I have nothing left to spend.”
“Alban.” She moved again, her scent coming closer, leather creaking with action. “Open your eyes, gargoyle. Let’s have a look at you now.”
Weary beyond words, Alban forced heavy lids to part, and stared without comprehension at the long links of iron chain in Grace’s hands.
CHAPTER 13
“Don’t ask,” Grace murmured, long before Alban had the presence of mind to do so. Only when she spoke did he lift a hand to his neck, mind still empty of understanding.
No thickness of chain distorted the flesh there. Aches faded from his body, no more distant song of iron knotted in stone. Alban shifted to his human form, muscles clenched in anticipation of pain forbidding the transformation, and instead Grace squinted at the soft implosion of air as his mass changed. She looked drawn and haggard, fine lines he’d never noticed before standing out around her eyes and mouth. “You freed me.”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it?” Grace stood, all languid poise, and Alban came to his feet to catch her elbow as she swayed. She said, “Thanks” without a hint of grudgery, while Alban gazed down at her, trying to remember if he’d ever heard that word pass her lips before. She smiled faintly and made as if to shake him off, though she didn’t protest when he maintained his careful grip on her arm. “I wouldn’t want to do that every day.”
“Grace, what did you—”
“I said don’t ask, didn’t I?” The vigilante woman pulled away, more awkward than he’d ever seen her. “We all have our secrets, Korund. Let me keep mine.”
Alban let his hand fall. Grace stopped on the far side of the room, arms folded beneath her breasts as she turned back with challenge in her gaze. “Margrit asked what you were,” he said softly. “The first time we met, under my Trinity chambers. I said you were human. I wasn’t wrong.” The last words formed a question, though the inflection supported Alban’s confidence in Grace’s answer.
She shook her head, one sharp motion, and after a moment, Alban nodded. It took longer to quell curiosity and bow to her wishes rather than ask more questions. Margrit would be proud of him for at least wondering. The thought brought a brief smile to the fore as he spoke. “Very well. I’ll only thank you, then, not press you.” He folded a hand at the back of his neck, massaging muscle that still held strain from captivity. “But perhaps I’m coming to learn that some burdens are easier borne when shared.”
“Ah, and don’t I know it. But you’re not the one for Grace to make her confessions to, gargoyle. Someday, maybe, you’ll hear it all.”
“Until then I am in your debt.”
Grace tweaked a smile that did away with some of the fatigue written on her face. “Now that’s a thing I like the sound of, Alban Korund. Pity there’ll be no collecting that debt in the ways that would be most fun.”
“You are incorrigible, Grace.”
“A girl’s got to have her fun somehow.” Grace flashed a brighter smile, clearly recovering from whatever she’d done to free him, and just as clearly relieved Alban had agreed not to pursue it. He thought she would have to find some kind of answer to offer the tribunal, as a woman with the ability to break a captive gargoyle free would be of interest to all of them, but he, at least, could respect her wishes.
“Are you ready?”
“No.” Alban exhaled, then shook off his human form for the gargoyle. “No, not at all, but it seems I have very little choice. So be it. Take me to my leaders.”
Grace was still chortling over that as she led him into the trial chamber, the same room he and Margrit had been brought to a few months earlier when Grace had first apprehended them in her tunnels. Now, though, there were no human children littered about, but, rather, more denizens of the Old Races than Alban had seen in one place in centuries, save the selkie show of strength a few weeks earlier.
Six gargoyles presided, none of them friends. Amongst them, dividing them, sat Chelsea Huo, her apple- wizened face calm and her nut-brown eyes dark with sorrow.
Janx and Daisani sat together, an unusual show of camaraderie for two ancient rivals. The gesture filled Alban with pleased bemusement; he had hardly expected to see either of them, much less presenting a front. Both inclined their heads in acknowledgment as Alban entered; it was more than the tribunal itself had done.
Opposite them, on the other end of the gargoyle arc, stood a scattered handful of djinn and selkies. Alban knew none of them, save one: the amber-eyed male who had recently held Rebecca Knight’s heart in his hand, and who had only been stopped from doing murder by a vampire’s blood. That he was there; that anyone beyond the gargoyle tribunal was there, sent a warning through Alban. There was more at stake than just his exile.
Grace was the only human in the room. Regret seized Alban’s heart and held it a long beat, then slipped away in a moment of clarity. It was better, perhaps, for Margrit to not attend. She would only be frustrated with his course of action, and he had no real wish for her to see him condemned. That he stood so bore less shame than watching her as his people made it moot.
A shift signaled the last arrival’s entrance. Alban followed a dozen people’s attention as it turned to the other door in the room, knowing who he would see. He stood, in part to lord his height over Biali, and in part to
