“But you never asked.” Margrit’s voice sounded muzzy to her own ears as she shook off the weight of memory. Some of her headache cleared with it, blessed relief. “You never asked which one of them was the father.”
Alban looked down at her, solemnity marred by a spark in his gaze. “It must be something about women. Hajnal was always annoyed that I hadn’t asked, too. How does one ask such a thing delicately, Margrit? I could never decide.”
“You say, ‘So who’s the father?’”
“That is not delicate.”
“You’ve obviously never heard girlfriends go out for drinks without the men in their lives. Women can be just awful. You should’ve made Hajnal ask.”
“Hajnal and Sarah weren’t friends,” Alban said thoughtfully. “I never fully understood why.”
“Aside from the fact that all of you men doted on her?”
Alban looked affronted. “I did not.”
“Alban, you snuck out in the middle of a raging fire to fly her to safety, and let her lovers believe she’d died to protect her. It’s the stuff of fairy tales. Everybody gets a little jealous when someone else gets to be the princess.”
“We shared memories,” Alban said, still offended. “She knew she had no cause for envy. I liked Sarah, but I loved Hajnal.”
“You’re right.” Margrit smiled up at him. “You’ll never understand. Well, we’re going to have to find them, so maybe I’ll get a chance to ask.”
“We have to what?”
Margrit rolled back on her heels, eyebrows lifting. “You don’t really think Janx and Daisani are going to let this lie, do you? They have children, Alban, maybe grandchildren or more out there, or at least one of them does. There’s no way either of them is going to let that go. Look at it from their perspectives. For one thing, it’s a link back to a long-lost love. For another, one of them has descendants. One of them’s going to want to use those descendants against the other, and the other’s going to want to protect them. For a third, half-blood children have just been legitimized. They could have potential dynasties out there, waiting to be exploited.”
“That hardly encourages me to reveal them.”
“Then they need to be protected.” Margrit folded her arms in triumph. “One way or another, we have to find them.”
“Fortunately,” Alban said with a sigh, “they’re in New York.”
CHAPTER 21
Margrit let astonishment out in a sharp laugh. “They are? And Daisani and Janx don’t know?”
“How could they? More than a century passed between Sarah’s death in London and the girls’ arrival here. They’ve lived quiet lives, moving from district to district, sometimes out of the city and back again. I’ve kept watch over them, sent money to bring them to America after I left France. We see each other often enough to know we’re well, and little more than that. Janx and Eliseo have been interested in my actions for too long, and I’ve never wanted to risk exposing the girls.”
“Well, come on! Let’s go see them!”
“At this hour?” Alban’s heavy eyebrows rose in gentle teasing. “Even if they’re awake—”
“Do they sleep? Janx and Daisani don’t seem to.” Margrit put the heel of one hand against an eye, adding, “Neither do I, lately. I thought Daisani said the healing blood wouldn’t negate my need for sleep. Maybe that’s why my head hurts. What day is it, anyway?”
“Friday,” Alban replied equitably. “The early hours, but Friday. When did you last sleep?”
“I napped before coming to the trial. Besides that, not since before Biali snagged you.” Margrit shook herself, drawing a deep breath that seemed to loosen some of the static in her mind. “Never mind, I’m okay. Do they sleep?”
“They did as children. I assume they still do. It may be, Margrit, that this particular venture should be yours alone.”
New astonishment swept her. “Why?”
“Because the sun will rise in a few hours, and it may be more important to warn them than for me to make proper introductions. It’s hard to imagine how they might find them, but even crippled, Janx has resources, and Eliseo…”
“Is Eliseo Daisani. All right.” Margrit shrugged, small, helpless movement. “I’ll go as soon as it’s light. Or—Ah, hell. There’s no way I’m going to work, is there. Dammit. Cara was right.”
“About?”
“Managing the Old Races is my job. It’s more important to me than the one I’m doing at Legal Aid. I really never imagined that could happen.” She pulled away, searching the empty chamber for water bottles and finding none. Daisani’s posh office would have them, but the idea lost its irritable edge as she realized its absurdity. Grace’s underground hideaway was a far more likely location for midnight tribunals than the business mogul’s penthouse work space. “Janx says I’m not really committed to the Old Races yet. What more does it take?”
“Sarah Hopkins bore children to the Old Races and still walked away. The measures that hold you to us are many, but they’re not impossible to break, Margrit. Janx might not let go of the third favor you owe him, and until that bond is completed, it might be more difficult to leave us. But if you truly want to sever all ties with us, it’s within your capability. I’ve told you that since the beginning.”
“And I’ve never wanted to.” Margrit turned back to him. “Part of me is sick at the idea that I’m this ready to choose your people and your problems over the career I’ve been working toward my whole life. The rest of me still says that if I want to make a difference in the world, being your advocate is the most profound thing I can do. Nobody will ever know, but…”
“You’ll know. Perhaps that’s enough.”
“Maybe.” Margrit drew a deep breath, feeling her heartbeat flutter with nerves. “Before I go see the girls, Alban, I need to ask you a favor.”
“You should know by now that I’ll refuse you nothing.”
It was true: he would refuse her nothing. But for one brief moment, Alban wished that he might have refused this.
He held himself deliberately still on the rooftop of Margrit’s apartment building. She’d gone in to rouse her housemates, grim with a promise made to the male of the couple. Cole had glimpsed Alban’s true form and had been both frightened and angered by what he’d seen, but Margrit was right in one thing: it would not do to ask Cole to bear that secret when his lifemate was kept in the dark. Margrit’s own relationship with a human detective had fallen to pieces in part because Margrit was willing to keep Alban’s secret. Tony Pulcella had lost faith in her, and rather than restore it, Margrit had chosen to protect the Old Races over her own ease. Asking Cole to do the same was beyond reason. Alban understood that.
Comprehension did nothing to slow the unusual rapid beat of his heart, or the grinding worry in his belly. He’d shown himself to Margrit out of necessity and an irrational belief that she, who ran through the park fearlessly at night, would somehow be able to understand and accept him. There was no such hope with Cole or Cameron.
So he held himself still in order to not betray nerves, wishing he still wore his gargoyle form so that he might wrap wings around himself and feel protected from exposure. He’d agreed it was easier and safer to present him in human form first, but he felt vulnerable.
The rooftop door opened with a whine, Margrit’s quiet “Alban?” carried on the wind. He stepped away from the edge he’d sentried himself at, hands deliberately loose in his pockets as he came to meet Margrit and her housemates.
Cole, dark-haired and handsome, radiated distrust and fear. He held Cameron’s hand too hard, adding to her frown. She was taller than he by some inches and held her long, blond hair in a fist over her shoulder, trying to keep the wind from lashing it into her face. Both were dressed and bundled in warm jackets, though Cameron’s tennis shoes were untied and she looked bemused. “I know you don’t come out in the day, Alban, but couldn’t you have come by in the evening? 5:30 a.m. isn’t exactly visiting hours.” She leaned her head against Cole’s shoulder, a few strands of hair escaping to plaster themselves across Cole’s face. “What’s going on?”