“Do what you have to do.” She bit her lip, repeating the international phone number in her brain, a soundless recitation. Janx spoke in the background, then broke into her silent litany.

“Malik will walk you down to the street.”

“I’d rather you did,” Margrit blurted.

Surprise darted across Janx’s face. “Very well,” he said after a moment, and offered his arm. Margrit put the sapphire in her pocket, hissing as she bumped her fingers against the denim seam, then took the dragon’s elbow. “Not many people would prefer my escort to Malik’s,” he murmured as he ushered her down a set of stairs.

“I told you before,” Margrit said. “I trust your honor. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“Djinn are difficult to throw.” Janx smiled. “They tend to dissipate. It’s hard to get momentum from fog.”

“See?” Margrit grimaced at her toes. “Honor among thieves.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not,” Janx said dryly, pushing open an exit. In the alley outside, a PT Cruiser idled, its red paint like drying blood in the darkness. One of the men who’d walked Alban and Margrit into Janx’s office a few nights earlier leaned against the hood like a displaced mountain, arms folded. “Patrick will drive you.”

“I don’t think so,” Margrit said. Janx’s eyebrows lifted.

“You’ll be perfectly safe,” he assured her.

She shook her head. “ I’ll drive me. You can send somebody for the car in the morning.”

“What about honor among thieves, Ms. Knight?”

Margrit shook her head again, looking up with a little smile. “There are limits, Janx. If somebody goes against your orders, it might be bad for him, but it’s going to be a lot worse for me. I’ll drive. Thanks for the car.”

Janx hesitated a moment. “You do know how?”

She snorted and walked around the vehicle, pulling the driver’s door open. “I know how. Just because I’m a New Yorker doesn’t mean I can’t drive.” She ducked inside, watching out of the corner of her eye as Janx and Patrick exchanged glances. Janx nodded almost imperceptibly, and Patrick pushed away from the vehicle.

Margrit let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and drove away.

“Tony, this is Margrit. Dammit, why aren’t you picking up? I’ve got something for you.” Margrit closed her eyes, repeating the European phone number slowly. “I’m pretty sure that’s right. Don’t ask where I got it, but it might help you track down the guy in the security video, the one who killed Vanessa Gray.” Margrit thumped her hand against the inside of the phone booth, swearing when renewed pain flared in her swollen fingers.

“The guy’s a copycat, Tony. Please don’t ask me how I know. I’m calling from a pay phone because my cell phone’s screwed up, so don’t bother trying to call me back. I hope that number’s good, Tony. I hope…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I hope anymore,” she said quietly. “Maybe we’re back where we started, needing to talk. I hope we get a chance to. Bye, Tony.” She hung up, staring blindly through the glass walls. If the number led to Janx’s hired assassin, she’d have done what Daisani wanted.

“If,” she whispered, dropping her hand into her pocket. The sapphire there felt like a dead weight, holding her in place with unanswered questions. She smoothed her thumb over its satin surface, warm now from her body heat, and looked without focus at the PT Cruiser outside the phone booth.

What happened to somebody who disappointed a vampire? Cara’s warning had been vague. Creepy, but vague. Margrit’s laugh sounded brittle within the phone booth walls. She pushed the door open and crawled back into the car, curling her arms around herself for warmth and comfort. Alban would know. Alban would tell her.

If she could find him.

He had to be safe. Almost any building top would have proved a haven against the rising sun. Your kind, she remembered him telling her, don’t see what’s in front of them. A newly arrived gargoyle on a rooftop might go unnoticed. Even if it didn’t, calling someone to remove it would be more than a day’s work. Margrit bit her lower lip, then straightened up. Alban could take care of himself. She had to find Hajnal, prove her theory. Margrit would bring Alban the mate he’d mourned for so long.

A cord of dismay knotted around her heart, creating a cutting sensation she could barely force herself to acknowledge. Finding Hajnal meant losing Alban.

And it was better that way. He wasn’t human, not a man at all, according to his warnings and admonishments. Better to finish this and rebuild her life with Tony, memories of murders and fantastic Old Races left behind.

The idea left a dry and bitter taste in her mouth as she pulled away from the phone booth to find the one person who might know where Hajnal was now.

CHAPTER 25

“BIALI! GODDAMMIT, BIALI, I know you can hear me!”

Margrit knew nothing of the sort, but she stood on her apartment rooftop anyway, bellowing into the wind. “Biali!” She’d gone home hoping Alban would be waiting, and, failing that, hoping that shouting from any rooftop would earn a gargoyle’s attention. So far neither hope had proven true. She folded her arms around herself and stomped in a circle, frustration helping to keep her warm, but not enough. “Biali!” Wind rushed through Margrit’s hair, chilled her face. “Biali, dammit, answer me!”

“Have you lost your little mortal mind?” Biali’s rough voice cut through the wind as he landed on the concrete behind her with a thump. Margrit spun around, hair blowing into her mouth and eyes. She clawed it out of the way, wrapping her hands around it and wincing at how the wind stiffened her injured fingers. Biali crouched before her, already in his human form, weight forward on his toes.

“Do you not like people to see your other face?” Margrit asked without thinking.

Surprise creased the scar that ran across Biali’s right eye. “Insightful little bint, aren’t you? What do you want?”

“Tell me what you know about Hajnal.”

Biali came to his feet in a movement that bespoke anger and grace all at once. “Hajnal’s dead. Has been for centuries. Don’t tell me you’re up here crowing your throat dry to be told that. What are you trying to do, lawyer? Call every Old Race in the city to your doorstep? They’re not all as friendly as I am, and Korund’s not here to watch over you.”

Margrit let go of her hair with one hand, strands of it instantly snapping into her face, and pulled the sapphire out of her pocket, letting it rest in her palm. Biali snarled with recognition, pouncing forward to snatch it from her. Margrit flinched back faster than she thought she could move, closing her fingers around the stone.

“You’ve got no right to that,” Biali growled. “It belonged to Hajnal.”

“I’ve got at least as much right to it as Janx,” Margrit said. “That’s who I got it from. Know where he got it?”

The gargoyle dropped into a crouch. “Tell me.”

“He got it from the latest murder scene, Biali. Now, want to try again? Tell me what you know about Hajnal. I don’t think she’s dead.”

Anger reflected in Biali’s eyes. “Where’s she been for two hundred years, if she’s not dead? You want to know what I know? The women who are dying? They all look like her.”

Margrit took a step back, startled. “They do?”

Biali smirked, dropping his chin. “Korund didn’t tell you, did he. Maybe he doesn’t even realize, though I’d think he would. Two centuries alone with nothing but memories of the one he lost. I’d think he’d recognize her anywhere. She was little, not like most of us, and dark, and that’s really not like us.”

“Dark? They’re all white, the women who’ve been killed.”

Biali snorted. “Dark hair, dark eyes. Some color to her skin.” He looked Margrit over, curling a lip. “Less than a darkie like you, but compared to the rest of us she might’ve been black as midnight.” Faint pleasure creased his face when Margrit tightened her fingers around the sapphire, warmth flushing her cheeks as she fought not to rise to the insult. Satisfied with the barb, Biali went on, flicking a broad hand toward his nearly white hair, close in color to Alban’s. “We mostly come in pale, but her family name was Dunstan for a reason.”