"Oh, give me a break. You’re the one who never saw what Malik was up to. We can fight about it later, unless you want to do it from jail. You-"

He twisted his arms, a violent explosion of motion, and the cafeteria table flipped lengthwise, squealing as the metal legs scraped the floor. It slammed into the windows, shattering cracks in the glass before it bounced away again, a clattering counterpoint to Janx’s roar, "You did this!"

He pounced, a lithe, quick movement transferring great size and weight from one focus point to another. Margrit shrieked, flinging her arms up in useless self-defense. But Alban was there between her and the infuriated dragonlord. Even in his human form, Alban had the breadth of shoulder and a stone-solid ease to his defensive crouch.

"Margrit is not your enemy, Janx." He spoke in a low, steady voice, as if trying to make reason more appealing than battle. "Margrit is not your enemy, and this is not the time or place to argue about it. You don’t share my daylight weakness," the gargoyle admitted with a faint smile, "but I’d rather not see any of us locked away in human jails. Don’t be a fool, dragonlord. Leave the fight for another time."

Janx curled his hands into talons, his mouth twisted in a snarl. He heaved one sharp breath, then dragged himself upright again, his countenance black with anger. "Not until I have dealt with Malik. You, I’ll deal with later."

The air burned out of Margrit’s lungs again as Janx locked his green gaze on her. "Janx, I’m not-"

"Malik!"

Margrit bolted for the door, responding more to the sound of authority than any impulse to find the djinn. Malik coalesced in front of her, smug triumph in his eyes as he focused on Janx. "You called?"

She exhaled and stepped back, putting herself where she could see both dragon and djinn without feeling in danger herself. Janx stood at the windows, his fingertips white against the cracks he’d caused. "Tell me, Malik." His voice was oil-smooth, once more full of light pleasure. "Who did you challenge in your rite of passage?"

The barest smirk shaped Malik’s lips, answer enough. Margrit’s stomach cramped and she took one more step back against the cracked windows. Janx turned his head, the slithering motion of a mongoose watching a snake.

Then he moved, a flowing of action larger than Margrit could take in easily. Malik showed no surprise, simply dissipated where he stood, impossible for even Janx’s quickness to catch. The dragonlord bellowed, too large a sound for a man his size, and whipped around, following Malik’s movement without needing to see where he went. He surged forward again to the sound of the djinn’s laughter, mocking and cold in the steel alcove.

"I can do this forever, Janx." Malik reappeared long enough to speak, his thin face dark with delight. Janx snarled and pounced at him again, Malik holding his ground and brandishing the sapphire-headed cane. Margrit closed her eyes at the sound of a faint click, half afraid Janx wouldn’t stop himself in time. A hiss made her open her eyes again to watch Janx skitter back, silk shirt sliced open, though no trace of blood gleamed red on the blade within Malik’s cane.

"Oh, Malik." Undiluted pleasure rushed through Janx’s voice, and below it Alban rumbled, "Janx," in warning.

Janx slid his hand over the cut in his shirt, then rubbed his fingertips together, as if savoring the near miss. "Oh, Malik," he repeated. "My dear Malik. Are you so confident in yourself as to risk my death? You voted against clemency, djinn. You should not have pushed it so far," he whispered.

"Janx," Alban said again.

The dragon snapped his gaze away from Malik, a snarl contorting his features. "Keep out of it, Stoneheart. This is not your battle." He flowed forward again, transferring his weight, only to come up hard against Alban as the gargoyle put himself between dragon and djinn. Outrage flushed Janx’s skin, and Alban put a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

"You set me to be certain of Malik’s welfare, Janx." Wry regret infused Alban’s voice. "I’m afraid it is my battle."

"I didn’t mean keep him safe from me!"

Margrit clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to silence laughter too late. For an instant the three men focused on her and she pressed herself against the window, wishing she’d kept silent. Then Alban returned his gaze to Janx. "You set a gargoyle to watch over someone’s safety, dragonlord," he said quietly. "It is not a task to be altered at your whim. You knew that well enough when you put it to me the first time, and you know it now."

A ripple went through Janx’s body, a shudder that seemed to begin in the marrow of his bones and work its way out. "Do not test me, Stoneheart."

Alban smiled, an expression unlike anything Margrit had ever seen from him. There was no cruelty in it, but rather anticipation full of sharp edges. "The police are coming. Your House is about to fall. Do you really wish to do this now?"

"Let him." Malik sneered, confident behind the barrier Alban’s body made. "His time is over. The djinn are rising, and the dragons will fall."

Staggering defeat swept Janx’s face, his shoulders dropping and the strength draining out of him. "Perhaps." Even his golden voice was dull, the fight gone from him. He looked up, ruin in his features, first to meet Alban’s eyes, then to look beyond the gargoyle at Malik.

Nothing in his body language gave him away. No tension, no preparation, no coiling for attack. Margrit watched his broken gaze settle on Malik, and nearly laughed again at the outrageous falsity of it all. Everything about him, to Margrit’s eyes, bespoke the skill of a consummate actor drawing in his audience, and she wanted to stand tall and applaud.

But Alban was relaxing, believing Janx’s posture and words. Malik looked triumphant, as if he’d won a battle. The sheer humanity of Janx’s act and the blatant inability of the others to read it, took Margrit by surprise, leaving her unable to speak.

Janx exploded.

The concussive force of his transformation threw Margrit back, his size and shape so much greater than Alban’s that the air around him shattered. Overhead lights exploded, leaving a whiff of burnt ozone and a glow of neon from the casino. Windows, already weakened, blew outward. Margrit was saved from a plummet by a steel bar catching her shoulders, she slid down the metal, barely hearing her own terrified scream, and came to her knees on the cold floor, staring at the elegantly defined chaos before her.

Alban had transformed as well, stony form lit with garish colors in the ruined alcove. Margrit couldn’t put a size to Janx’s dragon form, other than big, too big to be possible. Sinuous and slender, he twisted himself around Alban, scales gleaming through the darkest shades of red. Silver lined the undersides where Margrit could see them bending, making the length of him glitter and shine. Fine, delicate-looking wings ran two-thirds of his body length, each rapid clap breaking the air and making Margrit dizzy with force. His long, narrow muzzle streamed blue smoke as he squeezed Alban.

The gargoyle bellowed, a sound of irritation rather than injury, and dug both hands around the edge of a scale, ripping back with all his force.

The scale tore free to Janx’s shriek of pain, and his coils loosened enough for Alban to leap away. The gargoyle’s wings flared, catching a draft of air, and he landed a few yards away, hands curled around the scale he’d pulled from Janx’s hide. Blood spattered his arms, lurid in the neon light from the casino. Everything about him was alien, from the power surging through heavy, thick muscles to the battle lust rising in his eyes. All the familiarity Margrit had come to recognize, all the humanity, was drowned. He flung the scale away, sending it skittering toward Margrit’s feet.

She picked it up, hands instantly sticky with Janx’s blood and dented her palms with even an ordinary grip against the scale’s edge. Then, deliberately, she pushed her hand against its edge, feeling her skin slice open and blood flow. It hurt, but distantly, as if she’d seen the injury happen to someone else. Turning her palm up to watch the cut heal reminded her of the gift she, too, carried, but even its impossibility faded before the simple fact that Alban had been absolutely unharmed by the scale’s deadly edges.