“Look.” Her own voice was too high, and she couldn’t bring it down again. “Look, whoever, whatever you are, I can’t help you. I can’t even believe you exist.”

“Even though you see me standing before you?”

Margrit’s eyes opened involuntarily. “I hit my head,” she said without conviction. “I’m suffering aftereffects.”

“No,” Alban said. “I am a gargoyle, one of the last of the Old Races. And I-”

“Need my help, yeah, I got that part.”

“Please.” He rumbled the word, though the man was smaller than the stone beast, had less breadth of chest to deepen speech. Margrit closed her hand around the balcony railing, inhaling to speak.

The phone rang.

She flinched violently, nearly dropping the device. It shrilled again and she set her jaw, watching Alban, daring him to move as she lifted the phone and thumbed it on.

“I see you,” Tony said.

MARGRIT FOUGHT THE impulse to crouch again, to make herself as small a target as possible, an irrational reaction born of pure fear and guilt. Her whole body wanted to flee, as if the act of being discovered with the gargoyle somehow made her a fugitive, too. She locked her knees, fingers clenched around the phone. “Tony?”

“I can see you,” he repeated. “Two of my men will be at your door in about twenty seconds.”

“Tony, what the hell are you doing here? What-?”

“I was on my way over when somebody called in a tip, saying they’d seen a man meeting your pal’s description in the area.” His tones were a shade too clipped to be conversational. “Imagine my surprise.”

“Margrit?” Alban asked softly.

She shook her head, knotting her fingers around the railing as she peered down at the street. Tony leaned on the hood of his car, phone at his ear, watching her from five stories below.

“Tony, I swear to God this isn’t what it seems. Jesus, I barely even know what it does look like.”

“It looks like you’ve invited a suspected murderer into your house, Grit. Or are you going to tell me he flew onto your balcony?”

Margrit ground her teeth, shooting Alban a black look. He offered her a wan smile in return, more humor infusing it than she thought appropriate. Then, unexpectedly, sympathetic laughter bloomed inside her. “Would you believe me if I did?”

“Oh, I’m all ears, Grit. I’d just love to hear this story. Wait, don’t tell me. You were just about to call me, right?” Tony’s anger took the amusement back out of the situation, and an equally profound sympathy for the cop flooded Margrit.

She cast one more desperate glance at Alban, then shrugged. “He flew onto the balcony. I’d just said I was going to call the cops.” Alban’s eyes widened and Margrit closed hers, shrugging, then moved her thumb over the phone’s mouthpiece so she could speak to the gargoyle. “He’d be more likely to believe space aliens beamed you down than the truth, Alban. It doesn’t matter. I could tell him the truth from now until Judgment Day and it’d fall on deaf ears.”

“You’re very confident,” Alban whispered.

Margrit opened her eyes and flashed him a smile. “Sure. It’s not my life I’m defending.”

Tony swore, loudly enough to echo up from the street below. Margrit flinched, uncovering the receiver again. “You wouldn’t believe me, Tony. Nothing I say is going to help you understand. I’m sorry.” Her knuckles ached, her hand wrapped so tightly around the railing she could feel iron digging marks into her palm.

She flinched again as a solid knock rattled the front door. Alban’s gaze shot upward, examining the four stories to the top of the apartment building. “Margrit, do you trust me?”

“Cole, don’t answer that!” Margrit turned away from the gargoyle to bellow through the door as her roommate yanked it open.

“Grit? What’s wr-Jesus Christ!”

“Cole, this isn’t-this is isn’t what it looks like,” Margrit blurted again. Alban took his eyes from the rooftops and sketched a brief bow in Cole’s direction, elegant formality in the midst of descending chaos. A touch of delight brimmed and burst in Margrit at the gargoyle’s peculiarly consummate grace. The knocking on the front door intensified. Cam ran for the door, calling, “What the hell’s going on?”

“Don’t open the door, Cameron!” Margrit’s shout stopped her in her tracks, and she whipped back around to look at the group on the balcony. Confused astonishment filled her face and she froze for a few precious seconds. “Alban, go. ” Margrit spun to face him, catching surprise brightening his eyes, though he didn’t move. “Go!”

“Margrit,” he breathed.

At the same time Cole was saying, in bewilderment, “I don’t even know what it looks like. That’s the guy-Jesus Christ, Grit, call the cops!”

He snatched the phone from her hand, and Margrit heard Tony say, “They’re already here, Cole.”

Cole stepped onto the balcony between Alban and Margrit. “You’re not going to hurt her,” he growled.

Alban moved back, retreating as far as he could on the tiny balcony. “I have no intention of hurting her.”

“Margrit,” Cole said, “get out of here.”

“Alban, go! ”

“This is the police!” a voice bellowed through the front door “Open up or we’ll break the door!”

“Cam, answer the door! Margrit, you’ve got to-”

“What?” Margrit demanded. “I’ve got to what, Cole? You think I can explain this? You wouldn’t believe me if I tried,” she repeated under her breath.

“Open up!”

“Goddammit, Margrit!”

The pounding on the door receded, leaving only the sound of her heartbeat crashing in her ears. Cameron bolted for the door again. Margrit wet her lips, looking beyond Cole at the tall gargoyle. There was a peculiar mix of hope and determination in his eyes, a look she knew startlingly well. Not because of him, but because of the men and women she’d worked with. It was an expression of desperation, the open, raw acknowledgment that he was playing his last card. If she didn’t take his hand now, he would be lost.

“Do you trust me, Margrit?”

The words echoed in her mind, bringing chills. She hadn’t heard him ask the first time, though now, with them repeated, it was as if they’d been tattooed on her skin, waiting for her to notice their strength. The question cut through the shouting and the too-loud drumming of her heart, making a place of silent stillness inside her, the world around her fading away. Margrit licked her lips again, painfully aware on a courtroom-lawyer level that it was a tell, revealing her fear and uncertainty to anyone who wanted to read it. Alban held himself terribly still, a step beyond Cole, letting her study the fine lines of his human face and the desperate hope in his eyes.

He had let her go, more than once. Had saved her from the speeding car and had let her walk away from him despite her refusal to help. His hands, when they’d danced, had been sensual, not threatening.

And he had watched her for years, maybe keeping her safe. A jolt of curiosity shot through her. Was Alban the reason she felt inexplicably safe in the park every night? She was wary, even frightened, but beneath caution lay a certainty as solid as her heartbeat. Idiot, she thought, but she met Alban’s eyes. “I-”

Cameron yanked the front door open, flinging herself out of the way as two armed police officers crashed through, taking in the narrow hallway and the layout of the apartment with a glance. One of them sighted the trio on the balcony and barked, “This way!”

Cole spun to face the officers, hands lifted, the phone still clasped in one. Margrit heard Tony shout, “Surrender!” both from the phone and in an echo from below.

Alban’s lips curled in a snarl, his humanity suddenly lost. “Tomorrow,” he growled.

The word was almost lost beneath cops shouting, “Put your hands up!” Margrit threw a panicked glance at the police officers and lifted her arms, her gaze snapping back to Alban.