"But the Old Races don’t have the luxury of numbers. Most of even our smallest ethnic groups have at least hundreds of potential mates to choose from. Those kinds of numbers can obviously be wiped out, but there’s a fighting chance of survival within the group. When you’re talking about mere dozens…"

"Then you may be talking about desperate pride that would prefer to die its slow death than contaminate its few survivors with alien blood."

"What would you do?"

Janx smiled. "I would choose to survive, Margrit. I would choose to live. And I know you, my dear lady Knight. You won’t condemn my people to death. Not when you find such joy in discovering magic in the world." His smile turned serpentine and deadly. "Not when you share the nighttime sky with a gargoyle lover. You’ll give us the keys to the kingdom and change all our people forever."

More than anything else, it was Tony Pulcella who stopped Alban from addressing Kaaiai. The human male watched over the selkie lord as though ferocity of expression might keep danger away. Despite recognizing its absurdity, Alban respected the detective. Being involved with the Old Races wasn’t easy, especially when their bewildering lives went unexplained. Bad enough for Margrit, whom he’d given no choice, and who had grown to understand and accept what she’d become entangled in. Far worse for someone like Tony, whose nature was as protective as Alban’s own, but who was purposefully excluded from comprehension. Approaching Kaimana seemed too much like flaunting the breach between where Tony stood and where Alban had brought Margrit. Too much like flaunting the woman he’d unintentionally won, for all that she wasn’t now at his side.

As if Alban’s thought brought Margrit to Tony’s mind, the detective looked beyond him, to where she danced with Janx. Alban glanced that way, then drew his attention back to Tony, watching difficult emotions change the other man’s expression. Uncertainty, anger, envy; at least two of those were familiar to Alban when it came to dealing with Margrit Knight, most particularly when she flirted with Janx. Worse for the human male, though, for Janx was a criminal in his world, and for Tony to watch his newly lost lover amuse herself in Janx’s arms no doubt cut deeper than Alban’s own foolish fears. For a moment an ironic camaraderie seemed to join them.

With that sour thought in mind, Alban slipped through the crowd to approach the selkie lord and his human security agent. Tony’s jaw set, though he deliberately looked beyond Alban, his focus roving over the gathering.

"Korund." Kaimana offered his hand, his voice jovial in greeting. "That was quite a show you put on earlier. Not like the man I’ve heard stories of."

"It appears none of us are quite what we seem anymore. Margrit tells me I should come pay court to you and make the others wonder what my agenda is." Alban hesitated over the last words, uncomfortable with them.

Kaimana chuckled and folded his hands behind his back in a relaxed, broad stance. "And what is your agenda?"

Alban fell silent, chiding himself for not anticipating the question, then lifted a shoulder and let it fall in a heavy shrug. "To find out what secrets you and Margrit have shared behind closed doors, I suppose. To wonder how those secrets affect the rest of us." He spoke carefully, too aware of Detective Pulcella within easy earshot, though they did nothing to indicate he was listening in.

Kaimana pushed his lips into a thick purse. "You know we’re looking for legitimacy. She supports us."

"She would." Humor tinged Alban’s answer. "She’s drawn to those who need a champion."

"Just as well for you, I understand."

He nodded without speaking. Kaaiai waited a moment, then went on. "And what about you? You’ve needed a champion. Are you willing to be one now?"

"Alban is more of a watchdog, I should think." Daisani came through the crowd, taking up a position in front of them. Alban glanced over his shoulder to gauge Tony’s reaction, unsurprised to find the detective had subtly tensed. "Safeguarding the old ways from new-fangled corruption."

Alban murmured, "Someone must," and Kaaiai stiffened as slightly as Tony had. Ruefulness almost sent Alban back a step or two. Negotiating was not, as Margrit gladly pointed out, a gift of his, and it was easier to draw lines in stone than he meant for it to be.

Amusement flashed over Daisani’s face and he turned to examine the ballroom. "We’re all here," he said. "Alban, have you decided to stand for your…family?"

Alban opened his hand and closed it again in a wordless agreement. Daisani nodded and drew himself up, full of purposeful, commanding attention despite his slight form. Halfway across the room, Janx glanced toward them, then stepped gracefully off the dance floor, Margrit’s hand captured in his own. She lifted an eyebrow curiously, looking where he had, then fell into step as though they’d walked together a thousand times.

Alban’s shoulders tightened and he refused to allow himself another glance toward Tony. Neither of them had a rival in Janx, but Alban doubted the detective could make himself fully believe that any more than he could himself.

Malik brushed past Tony and stepped up between Kaimana and Alban, their heights making the djinn seem petite. "What’s happening?"

At the sound of his voice, Daisani relaxed marginally, letting go the commanding air that had drawn Old Races eyes to him. When Margrit and Janx joined them he said, "We are all here, with no plans to replace anyone. Why wait three days, when we can have this game done with tonight?" His focus sharpened on Janx, whose expression changed to a snarl and relaxed again so quickly Alban was half unsure he’d seen it happen.

"To whose end?" Janx hissed. Margrit, to Alban’s shock, put a hand on the dragonlord’s arm, as if staying him. Daisani saw it as well, his eyebrows shooting up.

"To all of ours, I should think. Chaos surrounds us at every side. We would all be better pleased with order restored. Am I wrong?" The last words were cut from ice, falling amongst the gathered group in frozen shards. Tony Pulcella shifted forward, hands knotted into fists. Alban caught a glimpse of agonized sympathy on Margrit’s face as she saw him move.

"Whether we have it done or not, this isn’t the place to discuss it." Her voice was inexpressibly soft, drawing the attention of six men, all but one of whom understood her point. "Gentlemen, I believe we should retire upstairs. We can come back to the party when this is settled." She made a small gesture toward the ballroom stairs, and to Alban’s astonishment, the motley quorum moved at her command.

So did Tony Pulcella. Margrit touched his arm, drawing him aside, and seeking out Alban’s gaze as she did. Alban paused, and she gave the tiniest shake of her head and an even briefer smile that sent reassurance burning through him. He nodded, then turned to follow the other representatives of the Old Races to the balcony above. Without, this time, showing off; like the others, he took the stairs, and found a faint thrill of amusement that he even considered doing anything else.

"It was Daisani, wasn’t it." Tony turned on Margrit and spoke through his teeth. "Your link between Russell Lomax and Janx was Daisani. Lomax was in his pocket. What’re they doing together here? Why’d you lie to me, Grit? What the hell’s going on? Why didn’t you call me?"

"You have no idea how much I wish I could tell you." Margrit felt as though the fight had drained out of her. "It’s business. I did think Daisani was the link, yeah. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t call because it didn’t pan out. Janx said he didn’t have anything to do with Russell’s death, and I believe him."

"I don’t. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with you, Grit, but whatever it is, you need to get out of it fast. Those guys are dangerous. Janx, Malik-shit, Daisani, too, for that matter. People with that kind of money just fuck you over, and I don’t want to see you go down for whatever they’re mixed up with." Concern warred with anger in Tony’s voice and face. "Whatever’s going on, you can’t go up there with them."