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."