She rarely recalled that, toward the end. Sparks of panic rose up with no explanation behind them, making her fear and weariness that much worse. And then new life came forth, screaming, frightened, cold, entering the world with the last of her mother’s strength and all of her mother’s madness.
The memories became Ausra’s own, a solemn child playing before the fireplace. “Tell me about Mama, Papa,” she begged, and Hajnal’s captor smiled tolerantly and told her a story that gave lie to the little girl’s nightmares.
“I thought everyone played all night and turned to stone in the day,” Ausra whispered beneath the rush of memory. “I was seven when I learned otherwise.”
Taunting laughter, edged with fear, and a blue-eyed boy at church hissing “Nightwalker!” to her during the evening service.
“You aren’t like the other children, no,” her father told her later that night. “You’re different, but you’re strong because of those differences. When you’re older, we’ll try to help you seem more like the others, but remember, my girl.” He crouched, smiling at her. Ausra’s reflection shone in his eyes, dark-eyed child looking back with equal parts trust and hope. “Remember your strength.
“It’s dawn,” he murmured to her years later. “Hold yourself, daughter. Face the sunlight. It is in you.”
And Ausra, leaning into the dawn, did. Watched the sun break the horizon, coloring the sky gold and red, its light searing her eyes. She flung her hands up, crying with pain, and stone swept over her.
But the next morning she did it again.
Alban made a strangled noise, stretching out his hands as if he could touch the sunrise himself. “It isn’t possible,” he whispered into memory. Ausra laughed, bitter sharp sound.
“Maybe not for you, but I have strength, Father. More than you. More than my mother.”
Her father, dying, caught her hand, surprising strength in the old man’s hands. “I’ve never known,” he told her, “what your mother was. All I have of hers is her name, and this.” His hands shaking suddenly, he dug out the sapphire stone, dropping it into her hands. “Find your heritage,” he whispered. “Go with a mortal father’s love.”
“I searched,” Ausra said, voice brittle. “I searched for decades, Father, before I learned about the gargoyles.”
“You should have been able to enter the memories,” Alban murmured, sorrow and bewilderment mixed in his voice. Margrit shivered with the sound of it: centuries of regret seemed to wash through his words, as if he yearned to heal the younger gargoyle’s scars any way he could.
“Mother couldn’t. The iron crippled her, and I was born cut off from your precious histories. I was alone until I finally found someone like me. Another gargoyle, who told me my father’s name. Alban Korund, too yellow to face death with my mother, too feeble to protect her.”
“Who?” Alban’s voice was soft with expectation.
Ausra curled a smile and spat the name with cold pride: “Biali. I went with him to the new world, following rumor that said you’d fled there.”
Alban rocked back as if he’d taken a blow, solid stony form suddenly seeming fragile, though no surprise marked his features. “I had not thought he hated me so much. He did you a disservice, my daughter. He should have brought you to our people, where you would have been welcomed.”
Ausra sneered, contorting any trace of beauty out of her face. “He did what I wanted. I’ve been waiting since then. Hunting the women you watched, and waiting.”
“Oh, God.” Margrit’s voice sounded thin and pitiful in the cold air, clutching her arm to her side, memory no longer a distraction from pain. “You killed all those women over the last two hundred years. The ones who’d seen Alban. Jesus. What were you waiting for, if you were already killing them?” Ausra turned and smiled at her.
“On your knees already. I like that. Waiting for you, Margrit. Waiting for Father to risk himself in conversation with a perfectly ordinary woman. He never did that before you. I wanted to make sure he cared before I took it all away. I’ve been very patient,” she said petulantly.
“But why?” Margrit lurched to her feet, gasping for air through spikes of pain in her arm. “What good will it do? There must be easier ways to destroy somebody.”
“Mother died from exposure,” Ausra snarled. “She died from discovery. I would have it the same way for him.”
“Are you crazy? That was two hundred years ago, Ausra! There wasn’t CNN on the spot then! This won’t just ruin him, it’ll destroy all of you!”
“It’s all right,” Alban said quietly.
Margrit’s head snapped around. “What the hell does that mean? Of course it’s not all right!”
“It is. If nothing else, I can do this for my child.”
“What, die for her?”
Alban turned a gentle smile on Margrit, solid determination in his eyes contributing to the fear rising in her. “The sacrifice is more than worthwhile.”
“You’re both nuts!” Margrit shouted. Yelling distracted her from the pain, she realized, so she kept doing it, desperately relieved for anything that pushed the sick throbbing in her arm away. “You really think one dead gargoyle’s going to be the end of it? Know what humans like more than almost anything? Finding stuff out! Whether you’re dead or just exposed, Alban, it’s not going to stop there!”
She whirled on Ausra, eyes crossing as she banged her arm against her torso. “You think destroying him’s the answer to your problems? Chickee, I’d be looking at serious therapy, if I were you! Look at me! Look at me, Ausra!” Margrit thrust her bruised right hand out, unable to move the left to do the same. “Humans are still killing each other over shit like this! Over the color of somebody’s skin! Do you really think we’re just going to shrug and look the other way if a gargoyle turns up in the middle of New York City? You’re committing suicide! Genocide! And I’m not going to let you!”
“How are you going to stop me?”
“You can’t, Margrit.” Alban smiled again, distant and kind. “Ausra doesn’t want all of us, only me, and I’m not one who’ll be missed by our people.” Weariness colored his words, his shoulders dropping, and Margrit barely heard the next words: “And some kind of peace will be welcome. I’ve been alone long enough.” His gaze shifted to Ausra. “What matters is that my daughter will survive.”
“At the cost of your life?” Margrit shouted. “That’s not good enough, Alban!”
“It is.” Alban took a step forward, his wings flexing gracefully. “We breed so rarely, and I have so much to atone for. I’m sorry,” he said to Ausra. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Ausra. I truly believed Hajnal to be dead. I would never have given up hope if I’d known about you. If the price for that failure is to die in your place, then I pay it gladly.”
Margrit jerked herself between the two gargoyles, bellowing at Alban. “Who the hell says that’s the price? One psycho gargoyle chick? I don’t think so. She’s not judge and jury, goddamn it, Alban!”
“She is if I accept her as such.” Alban touched Margrit’s cheek. “It has been an honor to know you, Margrit Knight.” He smiled a little wryly. “I only wish we’d had more time.”
“If you’d stop being such a fucking idiot, we would!”
“No, Margrit,” Ausra said pleasantly, behind her. “You wouldn’t.”
“What!” Margrit whirled around, falling a step to the side. “What?”
“You wouldn’t have more time, even if Father wasn’t throwing himself on his sword.”
“Why the hell not?”
Ausra’s fist slammed out, knuckles cracking against Margrit’s cheekbone. White pain crashed through Margrit’s eyes and she collapsed, trying to catch herself with her left arm. The broken bone gave further under her weight and she screamed, a thick animal sound that turned to choked sickness. Ausra pounced after her, glee written across her delicate features. “Because I’m going to kill you.” She took a fistful of Margrit’s shirt and pulled her up, hand lifted again.