by C. E. Murphy
TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS EASY to see, because she knew to look for it. Janx wore red: dragon colors, with whiskers of blue silk dancing around his face. Malik, on Alban’s other side, wore colors of the desert: shimmering soft gold that moved so lightly it seemed like sunlight on sand, and hard pale blue that did incredible things to his long-lashed eyes. He’d 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, a 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 though 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 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 c
amaraderie. 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 semifamiliar 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 evident impulse to speak. Margrit stepped back cautiously, still uncertain on her feet, and Biali’s expression shifted a second time as he followed the impulse, after all: “When do they meet?”
