"Don't be silly." Rebecca Knight sounded amused, her voice entirely at odds with the elegant linen-and-gold costume she wore. Margrit thought Egyptian queens would envy her mother, and that pharaohs would find themselves lacking next to her broad-shouldered father, whose skin gleamed with gold dust. "No one here is the least bit superior to you."

"Maybe not superior, but they're all a lot richer! I mean, just look down there!" Cameron gestured, laughing at both the excess and her own awe of it.

The Daisani ballroom spread out below them, a broad oval between two sweeping staircases. Their little group stood on a landing, with glitter and crystalline light bouncing all around them. Beyond the dance floor itself lay secondary rooms, walls peeled back to make one enormous functional area lined with buffet tables, bars, and scattered seating. Between shards of crystal-born rainbows the lighting was golden, radiating from globes whose brightness mimicked the sun without hurting the eyes. Marble dance floors were covered with hundreds of guests, most in formal wear and wearing simple masks, but with a weighty contingent in costume, or bearing masks of delicate and exquisite creation.

"I can't believe who's here," Cole admitted. "I see these people in tabloids."

"I see them in entertainment magazines." Cam nodded toward a young Marie Antoinette whose powdered wig added two feet to her height. "I think that's actually one of the costumes from the movie she starred in. Come on, let's go down."

"Go on, all of you," Margrit said. "I want to watch you make your entrance. You all look incredible."

"So do you, sweetheart." Rebecca kissed her cheek, then went down the stairs, arm in arm with her husband.

Cameron beamed at Margrit. "You're going to have to introduce us to Mr. Daisani, so we can thank him."

"I will." Margrit smiled and waved her friends off, watching them with pride and pleasure. They made a desperately striking couple on the stairs. Cameron, taller than Cole in any case, wore heels that put her several inches above him in height, which seemed to bother him not at all. Her blond hair fell in thick, styled waves over a crimson satin gown, folds of fabric creating a low scoop neck and falling beyond the dimple of her back. The skirt's train was long enough to require carrying on the steps, and had a delicate loop fashioned into it for just such occasions. Long gloves played up the strong lean muscles in her arms as she clung to Cole's elbow. He wore a charcoal-gray zoot suit, pinstripes and shirt the same scarlet as Cameron's dress. Their masks were painted on, an idea Cole had objected to until he'd seen the effect beneath the long-feathered fedora the tailor had set on his head, and then he'd acquiesced so quickly Cameron had teased him.

"They're quite extraordinary." Daisani spoke from Margrit's side before she realized he'd joined her. She turned and he took her in with a glance, putting a hand over his heart before he bowed. "As are you, my dear. Would you care to join me on the dance floor?" He offered an arm, but Margrit hesitated, still looking over his outfit.

"I expected you to come as the Phantom," she confessed. "This is better. You look like Professor Moriarty."

Outrageous delight sparkled behind the monocle Daisani sported, its presence his only nod toward a mask. He wore a top hat and a fingertip-length black cloak lined in red silk that lent bulk to his slight form. Beneath it was a suit cut in a fashion over a century old. Margrit saw clearly that the finely cared-for fabric was aged, worn to a lighter shade of black at the seams, and that it looked soft with wear.

"The Phantom." His eyebrows rose, shifting his monocle so it caught the light and glittered. "Why did you think that?"

"I don't know." She found herself smiling. "Because what better costume to make it clear that this is your party, and that you're in control?"

Daisani turned to the ballroom below, his cape swishing with the motion. A ripple ran across the dance floor, voices stilling and bodies pivoting toward him, heads tilted upward. He turned back to Margrit almost instantly, and the flicker of attention faded, leaving no doubt that he'd commanded it. "Do you really think I need the Phantom's extravagance to dominate this dance hall, Miss Knight?"

"Evidently not." His smile stayed in place, though sorrow crept through her as she studied the vampire. On impulse she asked, "You wore this the night you met Vanessa, didn't you?"

Daisani canted his head in surprise before he gave her a brief, acknowledging bow. He offered his elbow again in an elegant gesture, and Margrit tucked her hand into it. "I would be honored to accept your escort."

Surprise filtered through his expression again, and this time it was he who hesitated. "Are you afraid of nothing, Margrit?"

A genuine smile blossomed. "I'm afraid of lots of things, Eliseo, but not you. Not tonight."

"An unexpected gift." Daisani tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and escorted her down the stairs. People made space and offered greetings as he spun her onto the floor. Skirts swirling, laughter on her lips, Margrit put care and politics aside, and gave herself up to the joy of dancing.

He had only seen her dance once before.

That time had been in a club, the raucous music there nothing like the strains of a string quartet, one of three groups spelling one another in Daisani's ballroom. She had worn less formal clothing then, and had ridden the pulse of music like it was lifeblood, lingering in his arms without a care for her own safety. Taking freedom where the world offered it, just as she demanded it from her nighttime forays into the park.

She wore gold, a color he'd never seen on her. The sheath shimmered with her movements, following her hourglass curves. Thin straps tied at her nape, their length helping to create an illusion of height. A handful of loose curls trickled around her shoulders, high-lights of copper playing up the color of her gown. She wore no mask, only a glittering makeup that brought an exotic touch to her coffee skin tones. Everything about her was warm and full of life, a direct contrast to his own cool silvers and whites.

Tony Pulcella, maskless and clad in a simple black tuxedo, moved through the dancers, disturbing their enjoyment with his purposeful strides. Margrit had yet to notice him, but she was clearly his quarry. Alban fell back a step from the balcony railing, unexpected envy making fists of his hands.

"You can't back out now, Stoneheart." Janx's voice came from behind him, dry sibilance. "You're here and you've been seen, but more important, I'm sure she's expecting you."

Alban scowled over his shoulder. In the ballroom lighting Janx's costume was even more impressive than it had been at the House of Cards, red and gold patterned to subtle scales that gleamed and shimmered like a living thing. The cut was traditional Chinese, though his knee-length coat was built of fluttering layers instead of being fitted and stiff. Even the pants were loose enough to flow, and the turned-up toes of his shoes were bedecked with fanciful claws that matched long, painted nails on his fingertips. His mask was a wisp of dragon whiskers-thin ribbons of blue and silver that floated and tangled in the shock of red hair that fell over his jade eyes. The end effect was subtle and elegant, except to one of the Old Races. To Alban's eyes, Janx's costume was a statement of intent to dominate, such a blatant challenge that even he was inclined to rise to it.

Instead, he shook his head and turned his attention back to the dance floor, quelling jealousy that had no place in his heart as he watched the crowd below.

Tony stalked past Margrit and Daisani, jaw set, with no greeting for either of them. She slowed her movements and Daisani released her hand, an easy action hinting of long rehearsal. Dancers stirred and parted ahead of the detective, then closed ranks again to continue their revelry. Only Margrit and Daisani remained still among the swirl of people, Margrit watching Tony as he disappeared beneath the balcony, and Daisani's gaze on Margrit. A brief patter of applause rippled out across the floor as dancers turned toward the balcony, their attention directed forward, not up.

An arrowhead contingent wedged its way through them, led by Kaimana Kaaiai. His thick dark hair, cropped short, seemed to capture rainbows from the crystal chandeliers, but his masquerade costume was indefinable from above. Tony flanked him on the left, body language stiff as they strode forward. Others followed behind, a stream of selkies and humans. Cara Delaney walked among them, her pale shoulders left bare by a velvet gown as deep and soft a brown as a seal's fur.

The formation broke as Kaimana stopped to greet Daisani. His escort washed around them, moving forward, smiling, nodding hellos, promising dances. For a few seconds the order on the floor became elegant chaos, dancers no longer making patterns dictated by the music. Once more, the core remained still: Margrit and Daisani, the latter clasping hands with Kaimana as they exchanged pleasantries. Daisani ought to have been overwhelmed by Kaimana's bulk, but the slight vampire exuded confidence that belied his size and let him stand easily with giants.

Margrit watched Tony, vitality drained from her expression and quiet regret left in its place. The detective barely acknowledged her, his gaze skimming the room, so intent on not seeing the woman before him that she, out of all the partygoers, could most easily present danger to the selkie lord.

Kaimana clapped a hand on Daisani's shoulder, chuckling at something, then turned to Margrit, who pulled her attention from Tony to offer a tense smile that blossomed as Kaimana bowed over her hand. Alban, attuned to her voice, heard amusement in it as it broke through the general buzz of revelry: "You're all very good at making a girl feel like she's on a pedestal. It's nice to see you again, Mr. Kaaiai."

Kaimana replied, his deeper tone more difficult to pick out, and Margrit laughed.

Then Daisani, his voice lighter and, like Margrit's, more easily distinguishable, murmured, "I believe we've all arrived now."

Even Tony turned to see where Daisani's gaze had gone to. Alban stepped forward again, even knowing that doing so was foolish. More than foolish: he stood first among the three races on the balcony, taking the position Kaaiai had held among his people. Taking the position that Janx would most naturally fall into, but instead the dragonlord came up on Alban's right, and Malik on his left. Gargoyles did not put themselves into positions of dominance, and yet. And yet.

Tony's expression tightened and turned to displeasure, the glance he cast at Margrit holding betrayal. Alban kept his hands loose on the railing, unable or unwilling to fall back and concede a place of command while the human detective watched.

Janx, at his elbow, murmured, "My, my, my, what have we here," as open an acknowledgment of Alban's stance as might be had. Interest glittered in Daisani's gaze as he took in the trio on the balcony, and Kaimana's eyes lingered curiously on Malik a few long seconds before turning to the gargoyle.

But it was Margrit who moved forward a few inches, Margrit who smiled up at him, Margrit whose attention was drawn away from Tony and fixed on Alban. Stepping forward had been rash behavior, human behavior, but it felt startlingly good, reflected in Margrit's smile and the surprise of those surrounding them.

"My, my, my," Janx murmured again, this time with a note of curiosity. Then light humor filled his voice, playful and mocking as usual. "Come, my friends. It seems we have a party to attend."

TWENTY-FOUR.

IT WAS EASY to see, because she knew to look for it. Janx wore red: dragon colors, with whiskers of blue silk dancing around his face. Malik, on Alban's other side, wore colors of the desert: shimmering soft gold that moved so lightly it seemed like sunlight on sand, and hard pale blue that did incredible things to his long-lashed eyes. He'd set aside his cane, carrying a staff carved from ivory instead. Beautiful was an easy word to describe Alban or Janx, but Malik's nastiness had barred Margrit from using it for him. For a moment, though, removed from his poisonous air, she saw it in the loose-fitting desert clothes and his easy stance, and could admire the costuming that marked him as djinn by those who knew.

Alban, out of all of them, wasn't in costume. There was no pretense or subterfuge to the tuxedo he wore, except it was shot through with silver, catching and reflecting light until even the slightest of his movements looked like liquid metal in motion. He had no mask, only his long hair left loose as he never wore it in his human form. White strands fell forward to frame his face, highlighting the chiseled lines of his features, the cool stoniness of his expression. Standing between Janx and Malik, he seemed as alien and inhuman as they, no more a part of Margrit's world than a fish belonged in a bird's.

Then he smiled and the illusion of remoteness was shattered. He put his weight on one hand against the balcony rail, and with casual disregard for a fifteen-foot drop, vaulted it. The tails of his coat flew upward, blur of silver that whispered of wings, and an instant later he landed among the crowd. Only then did Margrit recognize the sheer number of selkies around her: without looking up, the dancers spun away to leave a space just large enough for Alban to land in. That space rippled toward her, bodies swirling to make a path, so when Alban lifted his gaze, it was to meet Margrit's eyes. Incredulous laughter bubbled up inside her, and satisfaction washed through his expression when she smiled.

He stood, a silver figure towering above the small, dark-haired selkies. The path they'd made closed behind him as he approached Margrit, one hand folded behind his back, the other extended in invitation.

"I seem to have been outdone," Daisani said from her elbow. Margrit startled and he gave a low laugh. "Entirely outdone. I don't know if I should offer congratulations or take insult, Alban. It's not often someone can be made to forget my presence completely. Margrit, do leave me one more space on your dance card tonight."

"I will." She put her hand into Alban's as Daisani faded away. "Look at you," she said. "You look wonderful."

"As do you." Alban curled his fingers under Margrit's chin, smiling. "You're unmasked."

"So are you. Good thing. We might not have recognized each other, otherwise. Especially with you jumping off balconies. That's not your usual style."

"On the contrary." Alban slipped his hand around her waist, drawing her near. "The very first time we danced I spent a good portion of the night leaping off stairs and onto rafters."

Margrit laughed. "That's right, you did. Are you going to do this every time we go out dancing? Someone's going to notice." She glanced around the floor as Alban led her across it in a waltz. "I don't know why they didn't this time."

"Because no one reacted. It's not unlike a child falling. If his parents make a fuss, he thinks he's hurt and cries. If no one notices or reacts, he thinks all is well, and gets up again to play."

"You're saying a ballroom full of humans is like a ballroom full of toddlers?"

Delight sparkled in Alban's glance. "I would never say such a thing. Now that you've mentioned, it, however..." Margrit lifted her hand from his shoulder to threaten him idly, earning a chuckle. "Truthfully, I only dared because so many selkies had come in to greet Kaimana. I wouldn't risk it now." He gestured, indicating the greater blend of humans among the dancers.

"You dared at the Blue Room." Margrit moved forward, hips swaying toward Alban's, playful reminder of the dance they'd shared at a nightclub weeks earlier. His gaze darkened and he pulled her closer, one hand large and certain on her waist.

"The lighting," he murmured, "was far poorer there. What happened to the others?"

Margrit breathed a laugh. "I turn on my best vamp and you want to know where the bad guys went." She tilted her chin up, looking toward the balcony. "They split forces after Janx got his eyebrows down from his hairline. He went left, Malik went right. I thought Malik was his bodyguard."

"Malik is the one being guarded, of late. I would think here, amongst all of us, he would be safe."

"The things you learn." Margrit put her cheek against Alban's chest, feeling as though she flew in his arms. The music changed more than once, both in style and in instruments, songs ending and beginning anew as they danced.

"Margrit." Alban's rumbling voice was lower than usual. She tilted her head up, eyebrows quirked. "May I ask something that's perhaps none of my affair?"

"You may. I may not answer," she warned.

His mouth curved, acknowledging humor without participating in it himself.

"I saw Tony here tonight."

"Ah." Margrit glanced across the room, though she didn't know where the detective had gone. "He's not here for me. He's working security for Kaimana Kaaiai, part of a special detail. That's why he was at the ice rink last night. Kaimana had sent him on my behalf. He thought I might be more comfortable with him around." She sighed, looking back at Alban. "We've broken up."

"I am...sorry." The words seemed to come with difficulty.

Margrit nodded, her emotions torn. "Thank you. Me, too, but I think maybe it's better if it's over. We've done that dance, and it kept ending badly. I don't want to do it anymore."

"Perhaps you'd be willing to do another one." The query came from behind Alban, so unexpected as to stop Margrit in her tracks. Alban swung back from her like a door opening, revealing Malik. He bowed insolently, his gaze on Margrit as he spoke to Alban. "May I cut in?"

The crowd around them surged closer, a few dancers almost brushing Margrit's skin. Cara Delaney spun by, a smile in place through her eyes were serious and calm as she scattered her attention to the figures around them. Margrit followed that look, relaxing as she saw the reassurance Cara offered.

Dozens of nearby dancers met her eye with dark liquid gazes: selkie eyes. Selkies and djinns were natural enemies, creatures of salt water anathema to the desert dwellers. A peculiar note of respect for Malik rose up in Margrit, carrying curiosity with it. She put her hand on Alban's arm. "It's okay. I'll see you in a bit."

It took another instant to steady her nerves and offer that same hand to Malik. He'd abandoned his staff, the one weapon he might have carried, and a slight limp marred his step forward. They stood uncomfortably still on the dance floor, hands barely touching, until Alban, glowering, took himself away through the crowd. Margrit heard herself say, "I wouldn't have taken you for a dancer," in a high, light voice, and a smirk came into Malik's blue eyes.

"Who do you think inspired the Eastern sword and belly dancers?" His grip on her fingers became more certain as the music changed again.

Margrit laughed in protest, shaking her head as a tango beat slid over the floor. "No. Oh, no." Even as she objected, Malik pulled her closer and she responded, heartbeat quickening in anticipation. Better-or worse-than running in the park was the challenge inherent in the dance. Sensuality, sexuality, sheer abandonment: Margrit's skirt whipped out in a twirl and wrapped around her legs as Malik brought her back in again, a firm certain hand on her waist keeping her from toppling with the momentum. Under cover of the music, in that abrupt moment of stillness, Margrit demanded, "What do you want, Malik?"

"Support." He snapped the word out as quickly as he spun her into another turn, keeping his eyes on her. Margrit felt she couldn't afford the luxury of a lifted eyebrow or a startled laugh, concentrating instead on keeping her feet. The djinn was by far the superior dancer, and only the absolute certainty of his lead allowed her to keep up with him.

"And you're asking me? Why the hell would you do that? Are you out of your mind?" Her questions came breathlessly, tangling with her hair as it loosened from its pins, curls lashing around her face.

Malik pulled her close again, lowering her in a slow dip, and for all the fluidity of his motions, she suddenly saw tension in him, knotted in the muscle of his jaw and making a sharp line of his shoulders. The alien idea that the djinn was afraid struck her, and then they were in motion again, music pulling them along.

Margrit's thoughts sparked with chaos, ungraspable in the heat of the dance. Laughter burned through her, intellect drowned beneath the pure joy of outrageous behavior. Even Alban, who understood her need to run through the park, was too reserved to dance with her so aggressively.

The Old Races, it came to her in a burst of clarity, together, as a whole, the Old Races offered her the world she desperately wanted to live in. It wasn't bound by human conventions, though it went through those paces. Margrit waited for the sting of shame that she, a lawyer by trade and by choice, wanted to play the part of the king above the law, but caught in the tempo of the dance, there was only room for ruthless acknowledgment of that fact. Shame, if it came at all, would come later.

The music slowed, leaving breath for speech. Malik curled a sneer, clearly displeased with what he intended to say, just as clearly determined to say it. "Sands are shifting faster than we can see, and it's thanks to you." He drew her back, three quick steps and one to the side, and Margrit followed his lead like water through the easiest channel.

No. Like wind through hollowed stone. Margrit half smiled and Malik took it as encouragement. "Daisani acts on your behalf. Korund, who has been his own master for centuries, now bends to your whim. Janx makes bargains with you, and the selkies call you friend. I would not have thought you could be a dangerous enemy, but when all of our races parlay with you there's no gain in loathing you." The tension was back, singing like a bow line. The thought that Malik feared her struck Margrit and nearly made her laugh. The only thing that stopped her was a suspicion that the djinn would drop her on the dance floor if she dared.

Something in her expression must have warned him of her thoughts, because for an instant Margrit felt him slip away into mist, stealing her air. Then he was back, a solid form again, and she used her next indrawn breath to ask, "What about Russell?"

Malik's face contorted with irritation. "You and Korund. Didn't your pet gargoyle tell you? If I'd been going to take a life that night it would have been your own."

Disbelief surged in Margrit as the music stepped up in tempo and volume. "You mean Janx didn't send you after him?"

"Do you think I'm fool enough to take his breath when I'd done the same to you hours earlier? Janx did not send me after Russell Lomax, and if he had, I'd have chosen another method."

Surprise stiffened Margrit's body as Malik pulled her up again, both of them ignoring the music as they stood nose to nose. Unexpectedly, she believed him, more because he seemed more likely to claim credit for things he hadn't done than disavow things he had. "Then who...?"

Malik shrugged, making it part of the dance as he moved again with the beat. "It's not my concern, and not what I want of you. Whatever comes of the quorum, you'll be part of it. Support me as the winds change, and I will give you whatever I can of the Old Races."

There was no more subtlety in his negotiation or offer than in the dance itself. The blatant self-interest provided its own sort of appeal, but before Margrit could speak the music ended, abrupt and shocking. Her weight leaned into Malik's, bodies pressed together less erotically than challengingly, and their noses so close that even she expected, for a brief and unsettling moment, the kiss that the pose demanded.

Then applause broke out around them and she pulled her gaze from Malik's to discover a circle had opened up, giving them space to dance, and the room's attention was entirely on them. The selkies ringing them still provided protection, but beyond them delighted humans clapped and cheered.

At the edges of the ballroom, two or three steps higher than the dance floor itself, stood the scattered leaders and representatives of the Old Races. Tony, his expression sour, stood just behind Kaaiai, whose placid, pleasant face was filled with curious amusement that only played up Tony's distaste all the more. Janx and Daisani stood near one another, far enough apart to be separate, but close enough to offer solidarity. Both watched Margrit with a vulture's eyes, gauging the dance and what it meant.

Margrit shifted her weight to her own feet, helped by Malik, and finally found Alban, far across the room, but watchful. Out of all of them, his gaze asked the least of her, though after a moment a wry smile curled his mouth and he lifted a glass in acknowledgment of her seeking him out.

Margrit brought her gaze back to Malik's, his eyes so close that focusing was hard. "Thank you," she breathed. "But I have everything I want of the Old Races."

Malik's face went white, sensuality draining from his body to leave only the threats that she'd known from him before. A warning stirred through the gathered selkies, and he smiled thinly, taking Margrit's hand to turn and bow to the watchers. Seconds later he stalked off the floor, grace marred by the limp that had been nowhere in evidence as they'd danced. Margrit exhaled heavily and worked her own way off the floor, smiling away invitations to dance.

Only after downing two glasses of water did she dare taste the champagne that a server offered, holding the flute as if it were her last link with the ordinary world. Alban was out of sight, and Janx and Daisani had separated, the latter now speaking with Kaaiai. Cole whisked Cameron by, both of them waving frantically between the beats of a polka that looked equal parts ridiculous and fun. A slight, familiar female slipped through the crowd gathered beneath the balcony, and Margrit started forward with pleasure.

"Hello, lawyer."

Margrit tightened her fingers around her champagne flute, distracted from her intention to seek out Chelsea Huo. Steadying her breathing, she turned to find Biali a few feet away. A mocking smile carved the ruin of his face, no mask hiding the shattered socket and scarred left eye. He wore white as unrelieved as his hair, the harsh color and cut of his tuxedo making him look even broader and huskier than he normally did. His champagne flute seemed in danger of shattering in his hand, though he turned to set it aside on a passing waiter's tray with the consummate grace of all the Old Races. "We're putting our best foot forward tonight, aren't we? Making like civilized human beings, right down to hiding our faces from the world."

"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."