And yet it was better than the truth. "Cole, don’t say anything to Tony, okay? I need to talk to him myself."

"You mistake me for a busybody. That’s Cameron." Cole jerked his chin toward the meal she’d abandoned. "Eat your dinner. Talk to your parents and Russell and Tony and get things figured out. And if you decide to go work for the richest man on the East Coast, when you get the Upper East Side penthouse apartment Cam and I are totally moving in with you."

Margrit laughed, surprise washing away some of her gloom. "But no pressure, right?"

"Absolutely none at all." Cole winked and turned back to the dishes, leaving Margrit to finish her dinner with thoughts of surviving the Old Races swirling in her mind.

"What do the gargoyles know of the selkies, Stoneheart?"

Janx asked the question without preamble, dancing a cigarette through long fingers and watching the casino below through the windows. Malik had appeared in the shadows, a smear against burnished walls. His glower and the throttlehold he had on his cane were more damning than words could be, making it clear that he resented Alban’s presence. Alban, no happier about it, doubted the djinn would appreciate their solidarity.

He shifted his shoulders, making the hem of his coat swing. "I know as little as you do. They bred themselves out, disappeared into humanity. If there are full-blooded selkies left they’re well-hidden and deeply secretive. Cara Delaney is the only one I’ve seen or heard of in decades." Though Margrit had mentioned a selkie, Alban recalled with a jolt. He hadn’t thought to ask if it had been Cara, though using the phrase "accosted by" in reference to the slight girl seemed overblown.

"I didn’t ask what you knew." Janx came to his feet and stalked to the windows, his impatience drawing Alban away from his thoughts. "I asked what the gargoyles know. Lore keepers, living memory, history-makers."

"Recorders," Alban objected. "Not makers. Even when I last joined the memory, the selkies were a dying race. You know that, Janx."

"I know that’s what we believe. But that selkie girl came into my territory-"

"Yours?"

Janx shifted his attention from the casino to Alban, weight of his gaze enough to give even a gargoyle pause as the air went still and hot around him. "Mine," Janx said in a low, even voice. "Do you contest my ownership, Stoneheart?"

"I only thought Eliseo might object," Alban said mildly, not intending it for an apology. Jade glittered bright in Janx’s eyes before his lashes tangled, shuttering emotion. When he looked up again it was with the long-toothed smile that so often graced his face, and the heavy pressure in the room lightened.

"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.