“Petru,” she said, stopping.
He was tall–well, they all were–and more serious than most. The seriousness hid a self-indulgent, nastily arrogant attitude she’d seen him use to verbally slice both male and female members of the court who approached him. He chose his lovers, not the other way around.
“I’ve asked Geza for you,” he said.
She appreciated his bluntness, though she often wondered if blunt speech was indicated a lack of complex thinking skills. “Why would you do that?”
He stared at her, brows drawing down. She supposed he was handsome, a striking face and well-toned body. Shorter hair than she liked, and more of a dark ash-brown than the typical gargoyle black. It was probably because there was human in his veins somewhere, though he’d deny it. Vehemently.
Petru was very sensitive about his hair color. So why he’d want her made no sense–she’d just foul his bloodline with human genes.
“You’re the only living Ioveanu princess.”
“What? I’m not Ioveanu. Why do people keep forgetting that?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Not by birth–but by adoption is good enough. Your status will not shame my family.”
“Well, yippee for me. But I’m not in the market, brah. And I don’t like you anyway.”
His stoic expression didn’t change. “You’ll learn to like me–and you must obey Geza. He is happy a warrior of good family has offered to marry you, rather than just take you as a concubine.”
She didn’t have the energy to even get mad. Surah sighed, and walked around him. “Right. Happy, happy.”
Her mother had been one of those girls, a concubine, bearing Surah at the tender age of sixteen. Legal in their culture, but what was legal and what was right were two different things. The former Prince, Ciodaru, father of Geza and Malin, had given Adagia to a human dignitary one night, and Surah had been the result. She didn’t know her father–had never seen him and had no interest in doing so. If she ever saw the man, she might just smash his face in. Surprisingly, when her mother fell pregnant, the Prince allowed Adagia to remain in the palace under his protection, and to raise her half-human daughter alongside her full-blooded gargoyle son born to him two years later–who was now Prince.
Throughout the suite, Geza’s friends and favored warriors cavorted with their picks from the available men and women. Surah refused to deliberate on the nasty quirk of fate that had made Geza Prince instead of his elder half-brother Malin, the son of Ciodaru’s only legal Consort. Refused to dwell on the fact that she’d be better off in her lab, working on the solution to that quirk of fate rather than here, intoxicated and idly watching her brother fuck. Dimly, she realized she was as tainted as he by this court–humans would think them mad, maybe even a little twisted. Surah took another long sip of wine, chest tight. She couldn’t dwell on the feeling. Here, she must always walk a tightrope, and Geza could sense discontent in a watermelon.
“Lady Surah, bring me a bottle,” Prince Geza called, not bothering to push aside the mass of bodies to actually make eye contact.
“Get it yourself,” Surah said, unmoving. “I’m not your handmaid. You have employed servants for that.”
“Disrespectful runt,” one of the warriors muttered. “Like to see that mouth out on the training yard.”
Surah sniffed. As if. She’d trained with Kausar, as a royal child, growing up. She could defend herself just fine. But these days, she was more interested in work and her collection of rare vintages.
She smoothed a hand over her curves. “Does it look like I’m going out on the training yard anytime soon?”
A smatter of laughter. Some at her, some with her. A few at court enjoyed her snark, at ease around a pseudo royal, who didn’t take herself seriously and appeared to have no ambition. They were wrong–she had plenty of ambition. It was just all tied up in getting Malin better. If it weren’t for him, who knew what she might have become? Probably something like Lavinia, twisted with frustrated desires, stymied by being female in an unapologetically patriarchal society.
Geza laughed. Surah knew her brother was drunk enough to find the defiance amusing rather than insulting. If it were the clear light of day, Surah might have had a fight on her hands.
“Maybe I should marry her off, eh?” Geza called. “No unmarried female is manageable. Then her husband could beat her.”
“Why beat a woman when you can fuck her into submission?”
She met Petru’s eyes–he must be pissed off she’d walked away from him to use that kind of language–and lifted her glass in an ironic salute.
“Sure, Petru asked me to marry you two,” Geza said. “I don’t think he understands the lifetime sentence that is, but I’m inclined to say yes because it would be funny, at least. His children would likely be shiftless, but he’d be brother to the Prince.”
“An honor,” Petru said. “And she isn’t stupid, or ugly, so there is hope for my children.”
“But would there be hope for mine?” Surah asked, staring into her wineglass, annoyed.
“I think that insult went over his head,” Geza said. “You should take the offer. It’s easier to manage a stupid male, and all he wants is status. He’d never get you if you were actually my father’s daughter. But he’s good enough for a concubine’s offspring.” He nudged one of the naked females lounging near him. “Get a bottle of wine, girl.”
“All of you are pigs,” Surah said, watching as the girl rose to her feet obediently; her long dark hair brushing slender shoulders as she pulled on a silk robe to cover her nudity.
“I didn’t say you could cover yourself,” Geza snapped, pinching a rosy nipple. “Go like this.” Her bottom lip trembled and she lowered her eyes, but she bowed, saying nothing.
As the young woman passed, Surah grabbed her wrist. “Sit down,” she said. “He doesn’t mean it–he’s drunk. I’ll go.”
Geza snorted. “She chose to be here. She knows what that means.”
“She’s a person,” Surah said. “Considering the original status of our mother, I would think you’d have a bit more respect for the one who serves you.”
Geza surged to his feet, shoving people off him. Drunk or not, he was all a Prince should be. Tall and strong, even in human form, years of training with traditional steel weapons and in hand-to-hand combat honing his edge and physique. Though it was night, he wore his human form; the characteristic dark eyes and olive-gold skin of the race. Others in the suite were shifted to gargoyle, silky pearlescent-gray skin over muscles dense enough to feel like stone. Claw-tipped fingers held wineglasses and beer bottles with the grace of practice. The occasional fang flashing in laughter–or a snarl, satin rustle of membranous wings in every shade from pale gray, to night sky blue, to deep black underscoring their otherness.
Geza’s wings unfurled, one of the few who could hold human form and manifest wings at the same time. Gargoyle historians insisted this rare ability was the seed of human belief in angels. Surah’s brother didn’t look very angelic, though, knocking over at least one person near him, skin deepening to gray in his anger.
Surah turned her back and walked away knowing it was beneath her brother’s dignity to attack when her back was turned. Most days, anyway. She corralled a paid servant–that’s what they were for, after all—and then returned to the party, mentally gathering herself to take her leave. She’d come for the wine and to make sure her face was shown around the palace often enough that brother dearest didn’t start to get paranoid about plots and stupidity. Councilor Sajal, a colleague of Lavinia Mogren, was always trying to stir up drama.
“Where’s the wine?” Geza demanded.
Surah sat back down, picking up her abandoned glass, and chugged down the contents. “Unless your servants have some magic I don’t know about, they have to actually walk down to the cellar, pick up the bottle, and walk it back up here. It’s gonna take a few minutes.”
“You need to get laid.”
Surah sniffed. “That’s your
solution to war, famine, and the Black Death. Fucking.”
Geza nudged a young man, who detangled himself from the small group and stalked towards Surah, a sultry light in his dark eyes. He was shirtless, as barefoot as Shoeless Joe Jackson, with the button of his pants undone. Surah eyed him emotionlessly, appreciating the tone of his lean frame and golden-brown hue of his skin. But felt nothing, even when the man dropped to his knees, gaze trained on Surah with a sexy smile curving his mouth.
“I’ve had my eye on you,” the male said, a purr in his throat. “Sister to the Prince–and a doctor. Delicious. I’ve always wanted to play with a doctor’s stethoscope.”
Surah had to keep from laughing at the poor child–but the amusement served a purpose as graceful fingers slid up her inner thigh teasingly. Surah’s head fell back onto the couch, eyes closing. For a moment, she allowed herself to just feel, enjoy the feather light touch of fingers playing with her. And as soon as her mental barriers began to crumble, an image formed behind her eyelids–an image spurred by an unfulfilled longing for someone she couldn’t have. A harsh, chiseled face replaced the young man in front of her, cool almond eyes warming with desire and the half-smile that sometimes peeked out on good days. And the recollection of her other ‘brother’ threw Surah out of the fantasy. She came crashing back to the present time.
“That’s enough,” she said, though gently. No reason to hurt the male’s pride. “I’ve had too much wine tonight. What’s your name?”
“Austin,” the male replied. The exotic youth pulled away, hesitating for a moment. His hand brushed Surah’s knee. “You drink too much, you know. I’ve watched you.”
Surah wasn’t the kind to get angry over truth. “Yeah, I know. Now, scat.” She softened the rejection, reaching out to touch a lock of mussed hair.
Austin grinned at her but rose to his feet obediently and left her alone. Surah put herself back together–and just in time. The last three people who she wanted to see her relaxed and vulnerable walked in bare moments later–three of Geza’s advisors, family heads with more decades of life under their belt than Surah and Geza combined. Their looks of disapproval were familiar.
“Prince,” Lavinia said. “Your meeting to finalize your nuptial contract is in the morning. It would offend your bride if you arrived late–or inebriated. Her father has already won concessions from us we didn’t want to give. You can’t be late.”
The only reason Lavinia got away with saying ‘can’t’ to Geza’s inflated ego was because she’d practically raised him–and she was heir of one of the more powerful families. She waded through the groups of revelers, once again pulling aside the cloth of her long skirt to avoid touching anyone, or anything. Surah wondered what poor staffer had spent the day ironing the dozens of perfectly crisped narrow pleats.
One of the males, nostrils flared in distaste, glanced at Surah. “I should have known you would be here, human.”
Surah rose, leaving the empty wineglass on the floor. “Half,” she corrected him as she walked towards the door.
“A pity the gargoyle half isn’t the stronger,” Sajal said, grey eyes as narrow as his thinned lips. The eldest of Geza’s advisors, he refused to wear his human form at night, when gargoyles ruled the skies. “As Geza’s only sister, you should set an example of modesty and grace. You shame him, the same as—”
“You can insult me all you want,” Surah said. “But don’t open your mouth to speak against Malin. I may deserve your ire. He doesn’t.”
Sajal turned his shoulder in open contempt. “Ciodaru didn’t produce even one worthy heir.”
“Don’t bait the girl,” Lavinia said, returning. “She has nothing to do with ‘Daru’s failures.”
Surah stomached the anger, swallowing emotion as she had her entire life, presenting only a blank, bored face to the outside world.
“Malin—”
“I know,” Lavinia interrupted, touching Surah’s shoulder briefly. “It’s not Malin’s fault he was born as he was. But the monarchy—as antiquated as it may seem to you young people—requires a ruler without blemish.” She sighed, looking around. “It’s hard to argue that Malin wouldn’t have been the better Prince, defect or no.”
“Geza just needs to grow up,” Surah said tightly, wanting to call the woman on her double talk. In private, Lavinia wanted democracy—in public she was a supporter of crown rule. But Surah had never been one to repeat private conversations—and the councilor knew it. “Our mother spoils him, and his father tried to push him to be something he isn’t—a leader.”
“Sometimes we have to be what we don’t want to be for the good of the people,” Sajal said. “If you weren’t so focused on chasing down a dream in that lab-”
“That dream may one day eradicate the defective gene in the Princes’ bloodline.” Surah retorted. “Why fund it if you think it’s such a waste?”
“We all have hope. And your medical training brings honor to the line. We must be seen by the world as more than warriors—thugs with wings.” Lavinia smiled briefly. “Go home, Surah. You’ve been drinking, and you have to work in the morning, like the rest of us.” Her eyes slanted towards Geza. “Some don’t.”
3
The last place Surah wanted to go was home to be alone with her thoughts. She left the palace, beginning the walk down a tree-lined sidewalk to the airtran, speeding up when she realized the last service was about to run. But her own steps weren’t the only she heard.
Surah whirled around, finger hovering over the panic button on her wrist unit. “Step out,” she said sharply.
Her vision wasn’t quite as good as a full-blooded gargoyle, but she saw the black-on-black movement before a male stepped out of a shadow.
“Nikolau?” She stared at him. A dark t-shirt stretched over broad shoulders, pale eyes bright in the moonlight. His perpetually mocking expression set her teeth on edge, and she wondered why women seemed to think him handsome. He was always sneering, pretty cheekbones or not. Why was he following her? One of Malin’s few friends–mostly by default because he was another who’d grown up with the former Prince, and not shunned him ,once he’d left gargoyle society–he still had never liked her.
“You should be more careful,” the male said, voice laconic. “Petru was following you.”
She stilled. Niko was the better warrior–sneaky and quiet as a rattlesnake. But he didn’t like human women much, so why bother protecting her? “Why?” she asked.
He disappeared back into the shadows, not mistaking her question. “For Malin. He should be protecting you himself if Geza isn’t going to do it. Do us all a favor. If you don’t marry Petru, then just leave here. You’re going to cause bloodshed, for one reason or another. And no gargoyle blood should be spilled over a human.”
Surah went to the lab. It was late but that hardly mattered. Entering the small building adjacent to the university where Lavinia taught political studies, the first thing she noticed was the lights were still on.
She stopped in the bathroom to clean herself up a bit, pulling out her after-party kit so she could clean her mouth and brush her hair–after dunking her head in a faucet of cold water for a long minute, then stepping in the dry clean unit to disinfect and deodorize. She changed the shift dress she knew reeked of Geza’s preferred fragrant blend of weed, and put on a spare outfit and lab coat, glancing at her wrist unit to check the time. She grimaced. Past two am. What lack-life grad student was still working at this time of night?
“Hey, boss,” Cole looked up as Surah entered. Surah’s assistant was a bit of a fashion rebel with his multicolored hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She sat down at her station, blindly reaching under the counter to open a mini-fridge stocked with all kinds of things, among them–ah. She felt the shape of the tiny bottle in her hand, pulled it out and unscrewed the lid.
“This is unprofessional and will get you fired,” Surah said as she knocked back the shot of honey Jack Daniels.
Cole’s thin, pierced brow rose. “Then why d
o you do it?”
“It helps me think straight,” she replied without irony. “And it kills a cold before it even starts. Don’t know why people like the taste, though.”
Cole sighed. “Whatever, boss lady.”
Surah rose, wandering to look over Cole’s shoulder at his research. “Why are you still at work on a Friday night?”
Cole’s expression perked. “One of the trials I ran today looked promising. I wanted to go over the data and isolate different variables, so I could account for the change.”
Hopeful excitement stirred before Surah quashed it under a scientist’s neutrality. “Move over, I’ll take a look. Did you copy your notes?”
Cole went home an hour later, shoved out of the lab by Surah who reminded him that a tired lab assistant would mean faulty research. Sometime later, Surah transferred herself to her office with a pot of coffee and began going through several months’ worth of reports, tracking minute changes in data to figure out if Cole’s luck that day was a fluke or if it could be reproduced.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew daylight was streaming through the blinds and her body felt a little less strong, a little less… alert. The only indication that as a half-gargoyle she’d shifted from night to day. The only indication she would ever have since she was forever stuck in human form.
Every cell in his body ached; it hurt to walk. That it didn’t hurt to step out in the full light of the late morning was an even worse sign. There had been a time that, like any gargoyle, he had to wear thick dark shades in order to protect his eyes. The thin sunglasses he now wore were all that was necessary. The skin of his human form was brown from the sun, not the pale olive-gold of his people, when not shifted.
He waited for the sensor to scan his iris, and didn’t have to wait more than three seconds for the door to slide open, the female computer welcoming him to the facility by title; the privilege of his birthright. Especially when a chunk of the funding for this place came from his family’s personal treasury. Walking through the hallways to the medical side of the lab where Surah treated a few select patients, he saw the humans who worked in the lab behind glass walls. Surah employed mainly gifted grad students–she still didn’t know how to play well with equals.
Summer Shifter Nights Page 9
