Daisani waggled a finger. "Don't be absurd, Miss Knight. There-are only one or two of us who aren't human."

"It's enough. Mr. Daisani." Margrit made his name into hard sounds, stopping him when he would have gone on. "Mr. Daisani," she repeated more quietly. "I owe a dragonlord two favors, and the gargoyle who got me into this mess won't talk to me."Surprise flickered across Daisani's face and Margrit cursed herself for letting go a piece of information he'd lacked. "I'm not foolish enough to think the Old Races are done with me. Alban thought he could get you and Janx off my back-"

Another hint of surprised interest crossed Daisani's face, and Margrit broke off, setting her front teeth together and pulling her lips back in sheer frustration. Laughter suddenly danced in Daisani's eyes and he clucked his tongue. "Humans are the only species on this planet who have forgotten that baring teeth is a sign of aggression." He stepped forward, raising a hand so quickly she barely saw the movement, only became aware that he'd brushed her jaw when she felt the resulting warmth. Conflicting impulses froze her in place, outrage that he should feel free to touch her, coupled with white fear at how fast he'd moved. "Let me remind you of what I am, Miss Knight. Let me warn you that one of my kind might see such a raw expression as an invitation to courtship."

Her fear dissolved, washed away by a sense of the absurd. Margrit lifted a hand slowly, and put it against the inside of Daisani's wrist. His pulse was desperately fast beneath her fingertips, the beat of a small frightened mammal, not an adult human. But then, he wasn't human. She pushed his hand away with gentle determination, her jaw set. "One of your kind knows better than that how to read human expressions, Mr. Daisani. Don't touch me again."

Astonishment splashed over Daisani's face, brightening it until his smile was wide and genuine, showing flat, human teeth that seemed at odds with every story Margrit had ever read about vampires. "Bravo! Bravo, Miss Knight! Without a hint of fear! Bravo! How do you do it?"

"That would be telling." The moment of conflict was gone, and Margrit's heart started to accelerate, her body reacting too late to the stance her intellect had taken. She could answer his question- had answered it, when a green-eyed dragon had put it to her, but Janx had taken it as part of a favor owed. Margrit wasn't going to make that bargain again.

"Mr. Daisani, I don't want to work for you. Right now I don't owe you anything, and you're not going to talk me or coerce me into quitting my job. If that's all you had to discuss with me, I think you're wrong. I don't have a problem. You do. It's been very nice to see you again, sir. Good day." She inclined her head and turned toward the elevator. "Miss Knight."

Margrit stopped with her hand over the button, waiting. "Alban Korund has made no effort at all to get me off your back, as you so eloquently put it. You may wish to reconsider where you place your faith, young lady. Unlikely as it may seem, there are worse choices than Eliseo Daisani."

She nodded non-committally, pressing the elevator call button. A moment later the door chimed and opened and she stepped in, not yet willing to draw a breath of relief.

A breeze stirred the elevator's still air, and Daisani stood beside her, smiling. "By the way, Margrit, do give your mother my regards. A remarkable woman. Remarkable, indeed."

Then he was gone and the door closed, leaving Margrit to stare, wide-eyed and silent, at her reflection in the polished brass.

CHAPTER 3

More than one speculating glance followed her when she arrived at the Legal Aid offices. Whispered conversations broke off until she'd passed, leaving little doubt that Daisani's arrangement with Russell Lomax had slipped out. Knowing any response would be protesting too much, Margrit nodded greetings and made her way to her desk. She had a trial to prepare for, defense for a rapist who claimed his innocence with sneering mockery. Evidence, to her private relief, was on the prosecution's side, but her job was to defend, not judge. She flipped the case file open, skimming through material she'd long since memorized in search of any errors she might've made that could lead to appeal. There were none; she knew it as well as she knew her own reflection. It was habit, the ritual she went through the day before a trial. "Ms. Knight?"

"Grit." Margrit looked up to find a youthful receptionist leaning over the edge of her cubicle. "You can call me Grit. Or Margrit," she added, at the look of bewilderment on the young man's face. "If Grit's too weird. What's your name?"

"Sam." He stepped around the cubicle, an envelope in one hand and the other extended for Margrit to shake. "I never heard Grit as a nickname for Margrit. You really know Eliseo Daisani?"

Margrit sighed and closed her case file as they shook hands. "We've met several times, yes."

"What's he like?"

"Short, and accustomed to getting his own way."

Sam grinned. "You don't think much of him, huh?"

"I'd never be impolitic enough to say that."

"There's a betting pool on how long it'll take you to go to work for him."

Margrit laughed. "Really? What's the buy-in?"

"Ten bucks. A couple people've got you pegged for handing in your resignation as soon as the Newcomb trial is over."

Margrit reached for her purse. "Come on, I'm made of sterner stuff than that. I give me at least four months. Just don't tell anybody else I'm betting on me."

"Four months?" Sam looked dismayed. "And I'd already signed in for five." He took the ten she handed him anyway, stuffing the cash in his pocket. "Oh! This is yours. A courier brought it by before you came in." He offered the envelope, marked with a NYPD stamp across the seal. "They say you're going places. That you've got a lot of friends in the police department, and that the mayor knows your name, too."

"'They'? What am I, notorious?" Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse, lifting her chin to dismiss Sam, though she added, "Four months. Don't forget," as he waved and disappeared down the corridor. Margrit smiled, tilting her phone up to check the incoming call.

A knot of tension she didn't know she'd been carrying came undone at the name on the screen and she answered with a smile. "Tony. Thank God. Somebody I want to talk to." Wanting to talk to the police detective was a good sign, though a flash of guilt sizzled through her. Tony Pulcella represented the ordinary world, separate from the one she'd been immersed in since Alban's reappearance the night before. For a moment she wasn't certain if it was Tony she was glad to hear from, or if it was simply a reminder of reality that was calming.

"It's only twenty after nine, Grit. It's that bad already?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." She slid down in her chair, head against the padded rest. "It's good to hear your voice, but aren't you supposed to be out catching bad guys? Is something wrong? Are we off for dinner tonight?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, answer enough. Margrit's smile fell away. She had no name for what their relationship had become over the last months: more than friends, but no longer lovers, with a weighty question mark hanging over whether they would be again. Innumerable things had changed the shape of their romance, most of all the pale-haired gargoyle who'd haunted Margrit's dreams the night before.

Alban's image lingered in her mind as she brought her attention back to the phone call. "I'm sorry. What did you just say? I wasn't listening."

An edge of concern came into Tony's voice. "You okay, Grit?"

"I'm fine." She straightened in her seat, deliberately shaking off the gloom that had settled over her. "Say that again. Something about a party?"