“It’s far more difficult to resist replying to that line with the appropriate response,” Daisani informed her dryly. “Yet somehow I can never quite let myself do so. It seems like such a cheap shot.”

“It is, but sometimes they’re worth it. Did you call to discuss vampire movies with me?”

“I did not. I called to ask if you were aware that Alban’s trial is tonight.”

Margrit’s throat constricted around her previous good nature. She dropped her running tights and sat on the bed, staring across the room. “Tonight? They got here that fast? It’s only been one night.”

“The nearest and largest enclave that I’m aware of is in Boston, which is hardly an insurmountable flight.”

“But somebody would’ve had to go tell—” Margrit stopped her own protest, seeing its flaws. “Alban carries a cell phone. I suppose they all might.”

“And if not, they have more esoteric ways of communicating.”

“Not Alban. Iron stops the link to the memories. Someone else would have had to have called, or gone to get them. The sun hasn’t set yet. How do you know they’re here?”

Daisani’s pause was interested. “It breaks the link? Are you certain?”

“Forget I said that. Are you sure they’re here?” Margrit switched the phone to speaker and got up to pull regular clothes out of the closet, wiggling into jeans and a light sweater.

“Chelsea Huo just called to inform me, so yes, I am.”

Margrit stopped with one sock on. “Chelsea?”

“She suggests that we make haste.”

“We?” Margrit pulled her other sock on and found a pair of boots as she eyed the phone.

“Alban Korund is an old friend of mine, Margrit. You don’t expect me to stand by and let his trial go unattended, do you?”

“Somehow I doubt you’re volunteering out of the goodness of your heart. What interests are you protecting?”

Caution clamped her lips together as memories of Sarah Hopkins surfaced again. She and her child were the secret Alban bore for Janx and Daisani, and she would be the reason Daisani was concerned with Alban’s trial. Hidden stories could too easily be revealed in the midst of such proceedings.

But Daisani dismissed her suppositions with a soft answer of, “Nothing that has any importance any longer. The best and only reason I have for attending Alban Korund’s trial is friendship. Once upon a time, and not so long ago, that might have been different, but you’ve changed our world so much. Give me some credit, Margrit. Time makes relationships complicated, but we rarely forget where we began. Now,” he said after a moment’s silence, “shall I come around to pick you up?”

“Please.” Margrit’s voice scratched, throat too tight for words. It was too easy to forget the Old Races weren’t human, at least for brief spaces of time. They moved too fluidly, but the eye became accustomed to that, and in their human forms, that was the only thing to truly mark them apart. The only thing, at least, until age and regret and pain showed in a vampire’s gaze, undoing all his humanity with a glance. Daisani had cut her open with honesty more than once, and Margrit doubted she would ever learn to stand against the inhuman depth he could show. “Please,” she whispered again. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“Not at all. We should be there in good time for the awakening.”

Sunset, once a moment of freedom, was now only an awakening to a new, more dreadful prison than the one that kept him safe in daylight hours. Alban clamped down on a roar, wrapped up the impulse to reach out for comfort and clawed his hands against chains as he panted for breath. Iron did more than bind him: it seemed to weight him, making air harder to draw in, as if his lungs were full of cold metal. It denied him the simple ability to touch another gargoyle mind with his own, and for all that he’d given up that intimacy centuries earlier, being unable was a far worse fate than being unwilling.

Not that there was anyone beyond Biali for him to contact, and Alban had been barely more than a child when he and Biali had last been friends. Head lowered, hair falling in white waves around his cheeks, Alban dug taloned toes into stone and willed himself to stop trying to transform; to stop trying to escape thrums of pain. It was unnatural for a gargoyle to resist so much. Stone endured. Elements could leave their mark, but throughout time stone sat and waited, embodiment of patience.

A laugh he barely recognized as his own grated Alban’s throat. In the brief span of time since Margrit Knight had come into his life, she’d infected him with human impatience, a desire to see things done, and done now. His sympathy for that plight spiked. Once freed of restraints and set on his own lonely path, he would have to try a little harder to live his life at her speed.

At least he knew she would still have him. The frustration that had built in her at his adamant stance against speaking for himself pinched him as thoroughly as the chains did. She’d forgiven him even through the midst of her irritation, proving yet again that humans adapted quickly, even to the impossible. The weight of regret bowed his shoulders, and for a few seconds he ceased struggling against his chains, consumed by worry for mistakes made.

The door opened, bringing Grace in on a breath of cooler air. “Better today, love? You’re not fighting so hard.”

“Perhaps I’ve nothing to fight for.” Alban lifted his gaze but remained in his crouch, his eyes at the level of her ribs as she paced the room. “You’re agitated.”

“I am.” She came to a stop in front of him, then crouched, as well, making herself diminutive in comparison. “Grace might be able to get you free of those chains, Korund. But it’ll hurt like hell if it works.” Her eyebrows shot up. “It’ll hurt like hell if it doesn’t.”

“You think Biali won’t free me when the tribunal meets?”

“I think he wants to see you enter in chains, already condemned. He’s brutal, not stupid. First impressions count. He’ll want them to see you as a prisoner.”

“I am a prisoner, and rightfully condemned.”

Grace sighed in exasperation. “You’re easy on the eyes, but I don’t envy Margrit in dealing with you. Not all of your people are martyrs. Why are you?”

“Believing in our traditions doesn’t make me a martyr.” Alban tried without success to keep offense from his voice.

Grace, pacing again, spat a sound of disbelief. “You tell me, then. Are you so eager to walk in chains that I won’t try, or will we see what I can do?”

“My damaged pride would like to see Biali’s face when he discovers his trap didn’t work,” Alban muttered. “But if you can do this, why did you wait until now to offer?”

“Because Grace has secrets to keep, too.” The blond woman’s answer was hardly louder than his own. “You’ll close your eyes, gargoyle, and keep them closed. It’ll hurt.”

“Closing my eyes will hurt?” Alban asked lightly, then glanced over his shoulder at Grace, whose lovely features were drawn tight with anticipation. He murmured, “Forgive me,” then settled back into place. “They are closed.”

“Try to not lash out, then, love, and we’ll see what Grace can do.” Grace put her hands on his shoulders as if in warning. Alban grunted, tension rising even as he tried to stop it, but he nodded agreement.

Where Grace touched him turned to ice, burning cold that sank through him like a stone in water. It drew a gasp: gargoyles were not especially susceptible to temperature. To feel such chill with no warning or transition was as shocking as the cold itself. Grace, sharply, said, “Hold that,” and Alban inhaled again, breath catching in his lungs and holding there.

Cold flowed through him, worse than ice water in his veins; that, at least, would follow the pulse and beat of blood. This frozen touch sank in through muscle, through blood and bone, moving against nature and spreading as it moved. It clawed at his throat, digging into the iron that had become a part of him, and the iron turned to links of frigid crystal.