The irrational, absurd urge to protest at the phrase belongs to Daisani bubbled up in Margrit. She did not belong to Daisani. She’d thrown Janx’s possessive touch off and challenged him on that very front more than once, unexpectedly earning his respect by doing so. The idea was offensive on a fundamental level.

Being dead would be much worse. Margrit bit her tongue and fought off hysterical laughter. She still couldn’t uncramp her fingers from the forklift’s controls.

“You took Daisani’s woman from him only a few months ago, yet you live.” The sword-bearing djinn threw the words in Janx’s face. Janx smiled, genuine merriment in his jade eyes.

“Yes, but Eliseo likes me.” Margrit couldn’t tell which of the last two words he put more emphasis on: they were both spoken with precise, delightful clarity that rolled over into unmistakable warning. The sword carrier’s jaw tightened, but his sword wavered, and Margrit found herself suddenly able to open her fingers again.

“I hear sirens.” Her tongue loosened with her hands and Janx turned a cat-eyed look of slow amusement on her.

“Implying that we all must run and hide all evidence connecting us to the scene of the crime. My dear Margrit Knight, how the mighty have fallen.” He offered his hand. “Will you join me? I think we have things to discuss.”

Margrit turned her neck stiffly, looking at the ring of angry djinn and the selkies standing beyond them. Tariq was a shadow at the head of the staircase on the other end of the building, watching with an expression unreadable from that distance.

“Yeah.” Margrit shivered and put her hand in Janx’s, relieved to have an escape from the warehouse’s tense, smoky atmosphere. “Yeah, I will. What about Chelsea?”

Surprise filtered through Janx’s gaze for a second time. “If Chelsea Huo was here, rest assured she has the resources to care for herself and stay out of trouble. We, however, are growing short on time. If you will come?” Pressure on her fingers increased slightly, as if the dragonlord would lift her. Margrit came to her feet clumsily, stepping out of the forklift with Janx’s hand to support her. She still felt thick with fear and the aftermath of disaster, but Janx’s strength was steady and calm.

He led her through flame and smoke, and she couldn’t tell if the flame bent away from him or if heat made it appear to do so. Illusion or not, gratitude rose in her. She wasn’t sure she could have made herself walk through the fire without it. “This way, my dear.” Janx gestured at the ruined, burnt-out wall through which he’d made his entrance. Margrit stumbled once, looking back as she made her way over rubble.

The desert-costumed djinn were gone, leaving only ordinarily dressed men in their place, all of them Old Races, smeared and marked with soot. Police burst into the warehouse, their voices adding to the general clamor of destruction. Even through smoke and fire, one of the cops had a familiar shape. Margrit let go a soft-voice curse and scrambled over debris.

But not before Tony Pulcella saw her go.

Janx’s new quarters were posher by far than the ones destroyed when the House of Cards had fallen. Margrit stopped in the doorway of his chambers, fingers resting on a stack of aged stone that had gone unused in the tunnels’ construction.

Soft carpets, thick and rich red with gold trim, sprawled over the stonework floors. A chaise lounge covered in leather and velvet languished empty beside a teak-and-redwood table; oversized chairs of the same make were drawn up opposite the table. The table itself sported a chess set, pieces carved of obsidian and ivory. Margrit walked forward to pick up the white knight, fingers curling around it as she examined the room.

Warm air blew in from somewhere, stirring tapestries that had been hung over the walls. There were three of them, one dominating the back curve of the room and the others to either side. Abstract patterns of jewel-toned reds and greens seemed to leap from them, muted by unexpectedly subtle dune colors and grays. Electric lights covered with gold glass gave the room a comforting air, utterly at odds with the modern steel and hard edges of Janx’s former lair. There was no hint of attendants, no suggestion that anyone other than himself used the room. Margrit ignored prickles rising on her skin and worked to keep her tone conversational. “Did you go steal all this furniture from the speakeasy? This room looks—”

“Just like it. The windows were copied from these tapestries.” Janx crossed the room stiffly and took up a cane that leaned against the chess table. Stylistically, the cane suited the narrow black lines of the priest-collared shirt and flowing pants he wore, but he made use of it, moving awkwardly where she was accustomed to seeing grace.

Her gaze lingered on the cane’s fist-sized head, daring to study it more than Janx. To her eyes it was glass, but Alban had told her it was clear, unblemished corundum, the same stone as sapphires were made of. Jewel-cut, it would catch light and glitter almost as brilliantly as a diamond, but it was only a smooth ball, twisting light no more dramatically than any sphere. It had belonged to Malik, and its presence in Janx’s hand spoke volumes about his injury and the fate of the djinn who had been his second.

“Alban said transformation heals.” She rushed the words. Janx paused and turned to her, fluidity lacking in the motion.

“Stone heals,” he corrected after a moment. “The gargoyles have an advantage in their sleeping hours that we others don’t share. They’re encased in stillness, and that accelerates their healing. Transformation helps to put things as they were, but you may have noticed I require significant space and no little assurance of discretion to change. So I must go about the day as anyone would, rarely resting as much as I should, and even if I did, a knife to the kidney isn’t quickly recovered from.”

“You’re on your feet. That’s pretty remarkable in itself.”

“There have to be some advantages to being a fairy tale.” Janx’s customary lightness was gone from his voice. Margrit’s heart ached with the lack of it; when it had gone missing in the past, it had done so because he’d been angry with her, rather than the near despondence she heard now. Trying to push sentiment away, she crossed to the tapestries, the ivory knight still clutched in her hand.

“How old are they?” Margrit stopped short of brushing her fingers against the weavings. They looked soft and delicate, and she was afraid touch would prove them as rough as broken glass.

“Old enough that their makers are no longer among us.” Janx joined her, tapestries lending vibrancy to his unusually sallow skin. “Young enough that we could see which of us would linger past our time, but that has been evident for many centuries.” As if challenging Margrit’s reservations, he brushed his knuckles over the closest tapestry, then said, with surprising care, “I didn’t think to see you again, Margrit Knight.”

“Didn’t you?” Genuine sorrow deepened the ache in Margrit’s chest. “I still owe you a favor. I guess I figured there was no escaping it.”

“You ran from our battle at the House of Cards. It was, I think, the one wise thing you’ve done since meeting Alban Korund. I might have even let you go.”

“That’s the knife wound talking,” Margrit said with as much dry humor as she dared. “You’d get over it if some way to use me came along. What happened? You looked fine when you walked into the warehouse.”

Janx’s mouth thinned. “I overestimated my strength.”

“You must really feel like crap to admit that.” Margrit caught her breath to speak again and bit down on it, curiosity drawing her eyebrows together as she studied the dragonlord. He turned to her, expectation written in his gaze. Humor and warmth tangled inside her, pulling a crooked smile to her lips. “Nothing. Nothing important.”