"That's a topic for Eliseo and myself, and none of your concern, kind as you are to show it. Now, if I may continue without further interruption?" His eyebrows, half-hidden by falling locks of hair, arched, and he smiled another serpent's smile when Alban inclined his head. "I'm grateful. That selkie girl came here and now I sense a change in the currents. I would know how many of them are left. Ask the histories."

"Janx." Alban's gaze flickered to Malik, then back to the dragonlord. Janx fluttered a hand in a swirl of smoke, and Malik curled his lip before dissipating. Neither gargoyle nor dragon moved for several seconds, waiting for the djinn's scent to fade, proof that he was truly gone, before Alban said, "It is not my secret I protect by remaining outside of the gestalt."

"Gestalt." Janx laughed, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "What a very human word, Alban. After so little time, she's corrupted you so thoroughly. First in your loyalties, now in your language. Where will it end?"

Alban rumbled, deep sound bordering on a growl even from the lesser breadth of his human chest. Janx's eyes narrowed and he gestured with the cigarette again, following the swirl of smoke with obvious pleasure. "I've learned what I can about the gargoyles' memory-mind. You can enter and extract memories without leaving any of your own. Our old secrets will be safe."

"You've been misinformed." Alban turned away, watching the frantic casino below. "Entering the histories is never a process of only taking. The mental bonds that link gargoyles are fluid. Surface memories, the most recent or the most recently brought up, can be read and made part of the-" He broke off, then repeated, "Gestalt," with a note of defiance. "Willpower alone defines how much is read, and I am badly out of practice. An active seeker might pull more from me than I want shared."

"Are you claiming your will is weak, Stoneheart?" Janx's voice floated on the air, mocking and light. "After your earlier arguments? Do you now say a gargoyle who has held himself deliberately apart from the memories and minds of his people for three centuries is weak-minded? I would think such discipline would take extraordinary willpower, when done by choice instead of force."

"In time, it ceases to matter. I've become unwelcome in our memories, and without a clear show of repentance, an offering of my experiences will likely be driven out. I believe that's why Biali stays in New York," Alban added, more to himself than the dragon. "To enforce an exile I put on myself. He has reason enough to resent me."

"How delightful." Genuine good humor brightened Janx's voice for a moment. "The only two gargoyles on the planet holding a grudge match, and they're both in my employ. I do so love life, don't you? You work for me now, Stoneheart." Humor dropped, leaving heat without anger. "You'll pursue my request, and keep secrets safe at whatever cost. I want to know how many selkies are left, and if possible, what they're doing here. Find out, and tell me."

"Ask properly." Alban lifted his eyebrows in cool challenge as Janx's eyes popped with surprise. "There are rituals, Janx."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I may also refuse." He hadn't required that Margrit follow the rituals, when she'd sent him into memory to see what he could learn about his life mate's death. But Margrit was human, and the laws that governed the Old Races didn't apply to her.

All the more reason to keep away from her, and do what he could to make sure she remained as uninvolved as possible at this late hour. Alban waited on Janx, keeping his expression neutral. Those two things, at least, a gargoyle was good at.

After an exasperated moment Janx blew out a breath and muttered, "I come to the moon-lit memory of our people to seek what we've forgotten beneath the burning sun. I come from fire born of earth and wind born of sky. My name is Janx, and I ask that you share history with me, your brother. Happy now?"

An ache clawed its way through Alban as Janx followed the form, then burst in an unexpected bubble of humor at the dragon's petulant ending. "Yes. Thank you."

Janx huffed another sulky breath and Alban dropped his gaze, half to hide a smile and half in acknowledgment of the loneliness the ritual had awakened. It had been centuries since he'd heard the phrases Janx had spoken. They'd left a hollow place inside him, so empty he hadn't recognized it until it was filled again. The promises he'd made so many years earlier weighed heavily, borne down now by a taste of regret he thought he'd long ago left behind. "I'll return when I have what answers I can bring you."

Wisdom, if it dictated anything, dictated that he retreat to Grace's hideaway and try from there to do as Janx...Alban hesitated over the next word, torn between asked and demanded. Duty and desire warred in him again; duty bound by his word, desire to reject that contract and disregard the dragon's wishes. Duty won, as it must; that was his nature, as profound a part of him as the wings that let him fly unfettered above city lights. Caution, the other god that ruled him, warned again against the poor wisdom of searching the memories beneath the open sky.

But a memory haunted him, the bleakness of mountain peaks and deep valleys that represented the overmind that belonged to all the gargoyle race. It had once been vivacious, a place of life and ever-growing knowledge, but too many had died. Terribly few of the peaks grew now, blunted by time and aging memory. Foothills, the memories of children, were few and far between: all signs of a dying people. Reluctance to enter that dour realm again drove Alban high through the city towers, as if remembering under the stars might help bring life back to what had once been a great repository of memory and legend.

All the history of the Old Races. Not just the remaining five, but innumerable other peoples whose light had faded as humans swept the planet. Exploration and settling was their nature, as much as solitude and contemplation was a gargoyle's. Humans had not meant, in the first many thousand years, to encroach upon habitat used by different peoples than themselves.

It had been far more recently that mankind began to hunt the legends: dragons and sea serpents, closely related but diametrically different. Wild men in the mountains, always few thanks to the harsh climate in which they existed, were hunted to the brink of extinction and beyond, until only tales of Bigfoot remained. Harpies, winged and bitter even before their female-heavy tribes were decimated, and the siryns whose songs were so haunting that sailors spoke of them even still. Vampires, hungry for the very blood that gave humanity life, were feared even more than dragons. Men who destroyed vampires were heroes among mortals.

All of their stories and more lay in the gargoyles' memories, in the minds of the one race bound so tightly to stone that daylight took life from them and left nothing but the protective state that could shield memory against even the ravages of time. That was the purpose of Alban's race, beyond all else: to preserve history.

His people had once gone amongst the others, listening to stories and opening themselves to their memories so histories might be fully recorded. They might be hidden from the world but they would never be forgotten, even as the unadaptable died and were lost to time.

Only the remaining handful had learned the precarious balance between pretending humanity and remaining true to their own natures. Of those, whole tribes of djinn remained in the deserts, riding sandstorms and acting out their hate against humanity in brutal raids that left reporters bewildered and humanitarians horrified. They were the most united, possibly the most populous, of the Old Races, but their ambitions were reined in by desert boundaries, more by choice than necessity. Humans were too many, and the Old Races, even together, far too few.

Gargoyles, after the djinn, still held the most numbers, but even those were countable: fewer than fifteen hundred when Alban had last known. The others diminished far more rapidly, with dragons counting in the tens or dozens, and the selkies thought to be all but gone. The memories carried more sorrow than joy now, their price heavy in emotion and heavier still in cost of daylight hours unshared with the rest of the world.

Alban settled on a building top, reluctance weighing his wings until he could fly no longer. Duty and desire tangled together, becoming more difficult to discern: the last price paid for bearing the memory of the Old Races. A plea for information carried in the gestalt was not to be refused.

He closed his eyes and let memory ride him.

TEN.

SALT TAINTED THE air. Salt and the scent of fish, bound to the incessant roll of water against the shore. Such unfamiliar sounds and tastes verged on unpleasant to a creature born of inland mountains. The craggy peaks Alban was familiar with lay to the east, blue with distance created in his own mind. The landscape of memory could juxtapose unrelated features and moments in time without difficulty, but to navigate them required structure. It had been a relief to leave behind remembrances of the gargoyles themselves, the worn mountain range too much a shadow of what it had once been.

No barrier had risen up to bar his way this time. No challenge from Biali, the gargoyle set to watch over the exile. No dispute over whether Alban had a right to histories. Perhaps it was because he sought memory for another race, rather than for himself. Perhaps it was a sign of forgiveness, though Alban doubted it. Stone did not forgive easily.

He wheeled in the sky, watching a black echo of his own form flash over the village below. Young children ran back and forth at the water's edge, dragging sealskins with them and popping up water-sleek heads when the surf surged. A handful of indulgent older children, not grown enough yet to fish the waters and provide for the village, watched over them without worry; drownings happened, but rarely, amongst a people born to both ocean and earth.

This was their existence for centuries immemorial, a life of hard work and idyllic play. Time passed in a blur, children growing up, hunters lost to the seas mourned; the selkies numbers increasing slowly, but more consistently than other Old Races had. Increasing enough that some of the more daring left their native shores to explore the world beyond.

Memory skittered, pulling Alban far away from the village below, until in the distance of his mind it seemed he hovered above a world pinpointed with water-blue light. Along coastlines where the children of selkie explorers had settled, bright spots gleamed then faded away, legend in the making. Within the bodies of continents another series of sparks lit up, earthier brown, and faded more rapidly.

Then bloodred tinged the whole of the world and Alban's focus was drawn down to a single representative village again. The waters turned brown with pollution, waste from human settlements. Human towns and villages encroached on selkie territory, driving them farther into the sea, farther from fishing areas, farther from sustainable life, until the soul of what they'd once been was diminished to little more than stories carried on the waves. Sorrow colored the telling of memory, one death after another, until a single old man stood alone on a windswept beach. Alban alighted beside him, settling into the comfortable crouch that was a gargoyle's hallmark, and waited.

"Thank you for coming. I know it's been a long journey, and now I have so little time before dawn." He gestured toward the east, where the sky already brightened with the first promise of sunrise.

"You've aged." The voice was not Alban's, the scrape of granite on granite, but something smoother: stone so hot it flowed, warmth emanating from every deep word. Confusion laced that comforting warmth now. "We do not age, my friend. The Old Races do not age."

"My mother was human, Eldred." The old man turned from watching the horizon and encroaching dawn to smile unhappily at the expression of shocked revulsion Alban felt shape his face. "I have stayed behind to tell you this. We are dying." He looked eastward again, shaking his head. "All of us are, we Old Races, but perhaps we selkies fastest of all. Is it so terrible?" He put his hands out, studying lines of age and thickened veins. "Is it so terrible to do what is necessary to ensure survival?"

"Humans." Disapproval roiled in Eldred's liquid voice. "Humans weaken what we are."

"And yet you never suspected." Glendyr lifted a still-strong chin, gentle defiance in the action. "Centuries of friendship and you've never imagined me to be anything less than one of our peoples. I prefer to let history judge us, rather than the passion of new knowledge. We're dying," he repeated. "With sunrise I go into the sea to join my family. We will not return. The selkies will live or die apart from the other Old Races, so that we might honor our living and our dead without censure from all. But history should know. Remember us, Eldred. Remember my people."

Glendyr bowed, fluid movement of a creature born to water's weightless environment. His smile, as he straightened, was a thing of regret and love. Alban lowered his gaze, undone by the selkie man's grace, and Glendyr put a hand on his shoulder, brief easy touch. "Goodbye, Eldred."

He stepped back, scooping a seal fur from the sand and swirling it around his shoulders as he strode into the sea. Gray predawn gave him soft shadows as water drank his calves, his thighs, and then he dived forward into the small waves. A seal's head popped up in the first colored rays of morning, never looking back as Alban curled a hand against his thigh, last motion before sunrise swept over him. His words lingered on the gold-drenched sea, and he hoped that Glendyr heard him before the waters closed over his head forever.

"Goodbye, my friend."

With the whisper, memory shifted again. In the two centuries hence no gargoyle had more than glimpsed a half-blood selkie, nor did any other of the Old Races come bearing tales of selkie survivors. Their desperate, hateful attempt to save themselves had wiped them out as surely as straightforward slaughter. Better to have died cleanly, lay the undercurrent of thought within the memories. Better to have gone the way they all would, with pride of people if not, in the end, the length of years.

Alban exhaled, eyes closed heavily as memory sloughed away. Dawn was dangerously close, the excursion into the whole of a race's history more time-consuming and draining than he'd feared. Too late by far to return to Janx; the story of selkie ruin could wait until evening. Even Grace's hideaway was too far to reach safely before sunrise took him.

Twice. Twice in a quarter year he'd been caught outside at daybreak, when for centuries past he'd hidden away safe from discovery during daylight hours. There was no blaming Margrit this time, but Alban lifted his eyes to the horizon with a smile regardless. The human woman was a bad influence, driving him to impetuosity that was wholly against his nature. He must relearn caution, or pay its price. And he would.

Later.

Stone took him.

Discussing the possibility of a job change with anyone, even Russell, was premature until she'd made sure the offer still stood. Margrit hadn't slept well, most of the night spent staring at the ceiling in the darkness, looking for a way around allying herself with Eliseo Daisani. Morning had come with only one other answer: Kaimana Kaaiai.

That thought still nagged at her as she pressed the button for the elevator she'd always taken up to Daisani's offices. It chimed pleasantly, but the doors didn't open. Margrit made a fist and thudded it against the seam with great care, as if she might discover an inhuman strength within herself if she let go of caution.

The fact that she stood in Daisani's building and not Kaaiai's hotel told her she'd made her choice even if her thoughts still ran in circles. Kaaiai had offered her more freedom within the context of her position amongst the Old Races than anyone else, but he'd also drawn Tony into their world, even if only superficially. Margrit had no doubt that Daisani would use her friends to manipulate her if he found it necessary, but so far he'd played a more honest hand than that.

The regards he'd passed on to her mother more than once suddenly struck her. He'd made no attempt to use that connection to encourage Margrit to work for him. She bounced her palm off the elevator doors more forcefully, then pulled her phone out of her purse to dial the vampire's number. "Your elevator won't let me in," she said irritably when he answered. A surprised silence follwed by, "Do forgive me. I'll have security override the lock," greeted her.

A moment later the doors opened and Margrit took the lift up to Daisani's offices, where he met her with an expression of restrained interest. "Miss Knight."

"Mr. Daisani. I never needed a security override before."

"I've expected you in the past, or have had an assistant between myself and the public. May I take your coat?" Daisani slipped it onto a hanger, settling it in a discreet closet before turning to examine her. "You look nearly as fine as you did at the reception. For me?"

"I'm in court forty minutes from now."

"Really," he said, clearly surprised. "I thought under the circumstances you might not be prepared for court."

Margrit glanced down at herself, taking in the trumpet skirt whose slender lines helped lend the illusion of height and femininity, and the cream silk blouse that played up her cafe-latte skin tones. Dangling earrings swung at the corners of her vision, though no corkscrew curls came loose from the low chignon she wore. "Circumstances? If you mean my clothes..." She sighed. "You're right. I'll be changing into something more formidable. Yes, for you."

Daisani's eyes lit with curiosity and he crossed to lean against his desk, arms folded across his chest as he studied her without speaking. Uncomfortable, Margrit returned the regard, then examined his office. Morning sunlight colored the sky behind him, glowing through floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the room. Heavy red velvet curtains, fully open, hung from automated tracks at each end. Daisani's desk sat off center, making room-as if the enormous office might be cluttered otherwise-for a set of soft and comfortable couches facing the windows. Bookcases lay just beyond the seating area, arranged with hundreds of volumes and a handful of extraordinary knickknacks. Margrit's gaze slid to where a pair of selkie skins had been briefly pinned, glad to see an empty spot there. A bronze-cast bronco rider on the shelves caught her attention before she looked back at Daisani. "You've replaced the Rodin."

"Vanessa had chosen it. I have enough reminders, day to day, of her absence. You didn't come here to discuss the artistic decisions for my office, Miss Knight. I'm frankly bewildered as to why you are here, this morning of all mornings."

Margrit curled her water glass toward herself. "I need to know something that you're probably not going to tell me."

"A good lawyer should know better than to lead her witness that way, Margrit. Or are you hoping I'll succumb to a fit of contrariness?" Wariness encountered Daisani's tone, a caution Margrit was unaccustomed to hearing from him.

"Something like that. We're off the record, Mr. Daisani. You know Janx is losing his seconds-in-command left and right."

"Careless of him," the vampire murmured, his eyes shuttering before he peeked up to judge Margrit's reaction to his teasing. Then his mouth twisted at the unamused expression she felt on her own features, an apology. "Not a morning for humor. Of course not. Forgive me. Yes, I'm aware."

"Off the record," Margrit repeated. "Is it you?"

Daisani stepped back, pure surprise turning him briefly vulnerable. "You came here today to ask me that? Oh," he added instantly. "Yes. Of course. I see why you would, under the circumstances. No, Miss Knight, it's not me. I can't say that I'm in the slightest bit dismayed-I may offer a reward to those persons responsible-but it's not me."

Margrit's fingers tightened around her water glass as she absorbed his response. After a moment she heard herself say, "Fuck," with quiet, precise clarity before she turned away from the vampire to find a seat. "Fuck. I believe you. I didn't think I would."

"Then why did you come here?"

Margrit breathed a laugh as she sat down. "So when you lied to me I would have a degree of moral high ground to stand on when I offered up a trade."

Daisani came to sit beside her, deliberately moving with human slowness. "A trade, Miss Knight?"

"Sure." She stared out at city rooftops. "It was going to be a very good trade. You were going to lie to me about being behind Janx's murders and I was going to accept your job offer in exchange for you sparing Malik's life."

From the corner of her eye she saw Daisani's jaw actually fall open a few centimeters. She glanced toward him as he pulled himself together, his spine straightening. "You've surprised me, Miss Knight," he said after a few long seconds. "I would never have imagined you to be so opportunistic, especially with the body still cooling. I'm caught between utter admiration and being completely appalled."

Margrit's stomach lurched and she came to her feet, cold sweat standing out all over. "Body? What-Malik can't be dead." Her heartbeat was suddenly loud and fragile in her ears. If the djinn was dead, those beats were numbered, and she had a frantic desire to count them, acknowledging each last one.

"Malik? No. My God. You don't know." Daisani stood as well, reaching for her elbow. "No, as far as I know, Malik is alive and well. It's Russell Lomax, Margrit. He was found dead this morning at the Legal Aid offices, less than an hour ago."

ELEVEN.

MARGRIT LOST HER case, and lost it badly. The judge asked twice if she was interested in the proceedings, and Jacob Mills gave her more than one concerned glance across the aisle. She rallied a little for the closing arguments, but Jacob's obliterated hers. As she watched her client being led away, she only hoped she hadn't done so badly as to earn an appeal.

Tony met her just outside the courtroom doors. She stopped dead, taking in his drawn expression and the lack of color in his usually ruddy skin. "So they're investigating it as a homicide."

Dread washed out of Tony's features, replaced by dismayed relief. Margrit squeezed her eyes shut, unable to blame him for not wanting to be the one bearing bad news, and equally sympathetic to his sorrow that she'd already learned what he'd come to tell her. "Are they investigating it as a homicide? Or are you just here because I need you?"

"Both." Tony's voice cracked on the word and Margrit moved forward, walking blindly into him. He caught her and she knotted her arms around his ribs, trembling with the effort of holding on. People brushed by them, reporters and lawyers, witnesses and victims. A camera flashed and the weight of Tony's arms lessened as he reached out. Margrit caught a glimpse of him putting his hand over the lens. The photographer swore, but backed off, and Tony tugged Margrit a step or two away. "C'mon. Let's get somewhere more private."

She nodded, letting him lead her from the bustle. Her heels clacked and echoed as they stepped out of the main hall into a quieter passageway. Tony turned to her then, expression still serious. "We don't know anything yet. We've been reviewing security tapes, but we haven't seen anyone unusual entering or exiting the building, at least not this morning. It happened early enough that we're pretty sure we've already talked to everyone who did enter the building through normal channels. We've started going through last night's tapes, and we've got somebody working on his case files."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Margrit's voice sounded thick to her own ears.

Tony put his hands on her shoulders in gentle concern. "Probably not. Most of your office has taken the day off, Grit. Maybe you should, too. We just have to do our job."

"I could-" She swallowed. "I'd feel better if I could do something, even if it's trivial. Maybe I could...help go through case files."

"Margrit." Tony squeezed her shoulders carefully. "It's our job, not yours. I'll keep you as informed as I can, okay?"

"Yeah." She closed her eyes, then opened them again hastily, the tiny weakness too clearly a prelude to tears. "Thank you."

"No problem." He frowned until it looked like it hurt. Margrit reached up to run a thumb over his forehead, smoothing wrinkles, and his scowl turned to a weak, concerned smile. "You okay?"

"No." Margrit smiled just as weakly. "No, I'm really not, but I can't fall apart yet. Not here."

Regret spasmed over Tony's face. "I wish I could bring you home and take care of you for a while."

"It's okay." She summoned a better smile into place and squeezed his arm. "I'll be all right, really. I'll take a cab home and go to pieces on Cameron or Cole."

"Yeah. It's just, you know. I'd kinda like to be the one you go to pieces on."

"I know." Margrit stepped into his arms to hold on to him again for a long moment. "I know. But you've got to go to work and find out what son of a bitch did this. Be careful, Tony, okay? For me?"

"I'm always careful." Tony stole a kiss, then brushed his fingers over her cheek. "You be careful, too, okay? I'll let you know everything I can, as soon as I can. Walk you out?"

"Yeah." Margrit held still, though, making Tony turn back to her. "How did he-how...?" She took a breath as reluctance darkened Tony's eyes. "It's going to be in the papers anyway. I'd rather you told me."

"Yeah." Tony thinned his lips, then sighed. "He was suffocated. They don't even know with what yet."

Margrit lifted a hand to her throat, coloring with the recollection of struggling for air, and shuddered. "Okay. Thank you."

Tony frowned again, taking her hand and pulling her into another hug. "We'll get him, Grit. Whoever it is, we'll get him. C'mon. Let's get you in a cab to go home. I'll come by tonight if I can, all right?"

"That'd be good." Weary emotion knocked at Margrit's heart, a brief wish that it might be Alban who'd see her that evening, but the gargoyle had made it more than clear that she was no longer his concern. Living in both worlds was impossible.