"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 camaraderie. 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 semi-familiar 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?"

"Who?"

He gave her a look that said she was smarter than that, and made a short gesture, encompassing the ballroom and, most specifically, Malik, who stood at Kaimana Kaaiai’s side. "Janx, Daisani, all of ’ em, they’ve been rotating by the selkie lord since he arrived. Everyone but Korund, and he’s a fool. The quorum, lawyer. When does it meet?"

"How do you-?"

She earned another flat look from the blunt gargoyle. "There’s not a memory of all of us being in the same place at the same time in five hundred years, lawyer. There’s always a quorum when we all come together, no matter what the reasons or what’s to be discussed. When does it meet?"

"Monday, I think. Three days from agreeing on holding one. I don’t know where."

Biali turned away, apparently satisfied, then looked back, his eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. "Watch yourself, lawyer. Our kind will tear yours apart with the best of intentions."

CHAPTER 25

Biali left her, a bolt of white pushing the crowd aside without effort. Margrit stood where she was, watching him go, and was unsurprised when Alban’s voice sounded beside her. "What was that?"

"I don’t know. Maybe an overture of friendship."

"Friendship is not something Biali has any talent at extending."

"Maybe not, but he’s been almost as isolated as you’ve been, hasn’t he? Janx said you were the only two in New York." Margrit looked over the ballroom, searching for snowy-haired men and women. Those she found had neither a gargoyle’s breadth of shoulder nor the ease of movement that marked the Old Races.

"We are. Our people have never congregated widely in the New World."

"So maybe he’s finally forgiven you."

"Or perhaps you compel us all to actions we barely comprehend."

Margrit glanced back at him with an unladylike snort. "I’m one person, Alban. One person doesn’t change the world."

"Tell that to Mahatma Gandhi."

Margrit put her teeth together, closing off an argument, and stared at the gargoyle. "Interesting choice."

"Would you prefer I’d said Osama bin Laden?"

"Not really."

Alban almost smiled. "One person can change the world. You’ve become a catalyst in ours whether you intended to or not."

"You started it." Margrit pulled a face at her own childishness, and Alban’s near-smile became a full one.

"I did. Perhaps it’s I who’ve changed our world. But it’s you who’s exotic to us, and therefore to be-"

"Blamed?"

Alban fell silent for long seconds. "That wasn’t the word I intended, but now that you’ve said it, I’m hard-pressed to find another."

"Oh, thanks a lot." Margrit wrinkled her nose and looked away. Halfway across the ballroom, Malik still stood with Kaimana, observing the dancers. Tony, taller than either man but less broad than Kaimana, stood a grim watch over them, clearly unhappy with Malik’s presence. "Biali’s right. They’ve been rotating by Kaaiai all evening. Even when he’s meeting with us, one of them has been close enough to overhear."

"Us? We haven’t-"

Margrit flicked her fingers at herself. "As opposed to you." Another dart of her hand encompassed members of the Old Races. "You’re the only one who hasn’t paid court, Alban."

"No. You haven’t, either. Come, Margrit," he said, when she elevated an eyebrow. "There were representatives of six races there last night. You, as much as I, are expected to have a certain stake in the final arrangement of power, but you haven’t danced attendance on Kaaiai, either."

Margrit wet her lips, wishing for the champagne Biali had so handily rid her of. "I think it might be bad for my health to be more associated with your power balance than I already am. Kaimana and I have already discussed what we have in common."

"Secret meetings?" There was a heaviness to the teasing that made Margrit look sharply at her companion.

"De facto, yes, but not by deliberation. Not from you, at least. I’ll tell you after the party, if you want."

"That had the distinct sound of dismissal to it."

Margrit put her hand on Alban’s chest, smiling. "It was. We all know you’re a lousy negotiator, but I think you should go loom next to Kaimana for a little while and make small talk. It’ll make the rest of them feel like you’re playing along. It might even worry some of them. Alban Korund, with an agenda? Surely it’s a sign of the apocalypse."

"You’re a bad woman, Margrit Knight."

"But a very good lawyer," she said cheerfully. "Go on. I have to dance with Janx, so he doesn’t feel left out."

"Are you trying to infuriate me?"