“And who has spoken?” Petru cracked his knuckles. Always one for theatrics. “I remember no announcements. She wears no male’s jewelry.”
“I have spoken.”
The words fell between them, Petru’s grin vanishing. “That’s impossible. You’re—”
“Not related at all.” Malin’s teeth ground. He was tired of reminding people of that fact.
“I was going to say defective,” Petru said, look withering. “Fine. We fight, then.”
Nikolau, who’d been silent until then, stepped forward, voice sharp. “First blood, not death. We don’t kill each other over a female.” He glanced at Malin, eyes warning. “Any female.”
“Agreed,” Malin said, and Petru echoed, and launched into the sky.
Malin had expected that tactic. His wings unfurled with a snap and he was in the air, jaw locked against the pain, his internal clock now ticking. He knew he had a certain amount of time before his body would begin to fail him. No amount of strength training, conditioning or swordwork could combat the disease. He looked the picture of a warrior in his prime–but it was only a picture. Another year, two at the most, and he would be fully human.
So he reveled in this fight and not just because of his anger over Petru’s presumption. But because now, in the sky with the moon brilliant overhead, locked in combat with another warrior, he felt alive. Himself.
No one would draw a blade–that would ensure that a small, civilized fight to the blood over the right to court a female would turn into something more deadly. They wrestled in the air, Petru a slippery fucker. Faster than Malin remembered–he must have spent the years training, rather than sitting around getting fat like Geza.
Fangs snapped in his face, a fist like stone smashing against his cheekbone. He snapped his head back in time to avoid the blow connecting with his nose—and drawing first blood. Flapping backward, he tumbled towards the roof, mimicking the appearance of disorientation, as if he was about to crumble mid-flight. Petru dove, a fierce grin on his face. Malin turned up at the last moment and swiped left, his claws raking rivulets along leathery wings. Petru howled in rage and broke away.
Malin landed on his feet, carefully folding his wings to disguise the tremble and stood, still. The others landed one by one, seeing the main fight was over.
“This isn’t over,” Petru snapped, then heaved himself into the air.
Malin watched, grim but satisfied. It would buy him a few weeks before Petru decided he’d left Surah alone long enough.
“You almost didn’t make it at the end,” Kausar said, voice quiet.
Malin glanced over. Nikolau was staring at him, face impassive. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” the male said. “The others don’t know what you are really like in flight–they wouldn’t notice. I do.” Niko paused. “Can she really cure you?”
“She believes she can.”
“Then she deserves to be yours, human blood or not. But make her cure you.”
6
Surah renewed her focus on the research over the next two weeks, taking over Cole’s notes, and in general, making herself rabidly unpleasant to work for. Too many times she’d promised Malin an answer only to face the quickly hidden disappointment when it turned out to not be quite enough. On her way to the lab, a call came through.
“Yo, boss lady,” Cole’s voice blared through the piece, excited face filling the small screen on her wrist.
Surah winced. “I can hear you.”
“I think I’ve got it. The cultures–you’ve gotta get here now. I need an assistant.”
The irony. “Isn’t Mab-”
“Dissertation. Just get here, yo?”
Surah picked up her pace, nearly running to get to her garage. For the hundredth time she cursed her lackadaisical approach to condo hunting. She could have afforded something with an attached garage, but at the time she hadn’t really cared–proximity to campus was the most important thing.
A sense honed by years of Kausar’s training alerted Surah early enough that she was prepared when she saw two males step from behind an antique truck, the kind with manual doors–broke grad student transport. They were gargoyles, recognizable by the square line of shoulders and jaw, the olive-gold skin and slanted dark eyes. The way they moved, as if always ready to launch themselves into the sky, though the sun mostly trapped them in human form. Still dangerous, though. A half-strength gargoyle on foot was still far deadlier than a human, even armed.
Surah stopped far enough away for conversation, tugging at her braid with an irritated sigh. “So to what do I owe the non-pleasure? I paid my taxes. And I don’t owe Geza any money. I won that bet fair and square.”
The two thugs had no sense of humor, their expressions unchanging. “Councilor Lavinia would like you to reconsider your position regarding the medical research.”
“And if I don’t reconfuckingsider?”
“We are here to make you regret that decision. Permanently.”
“Well, that’s about what I figured.” She’d thought about it two weeks ago when Lavinia made her stance known, anticipating what her reaction would be to refusal. Surah’d discreetly contracted plain-clothes security. She’d already pushed the panic button on her wrist and expected that any moment now—
–yup. A tall, gangly looking fellow in a short-sleeved plain shirt and ripped cargoes walked towards them, a pierced female at his side. They both carried airboards.
“Hey, Suri, what’s doin’?”
“Go away, humans,” one of the gargoyles growled. “We have business with this one that doesn’t involve you.”
The girl scratched her chin, almost apologetic, slanting wicked, black-lined eyes at Surah. “Do you want us to go away? These wankers don’t look so friendly.”
The gargoyle nearest the girl made a move towards her. Surah let go of her braid, wondering if she should dust off her training and help. It had been a long time since she’d been in a melee–because she was a lover, not a fighter. And besides, once she’d gone into medicine, she’d been considered a non-combatant, anyway. Not quite someone entitled to a gargoyle’s protection, but not warrior status either.
Surah learned in the next few minutes that airboards were dangerous weapons. The two wielded them with a deftness that spoke of practice and training. But the warriors had, maybe, centuries of honing on the humans. Surah saw her two bodyguards were being taxed and sighed.
And stepped into the fight.
One of the warriors broke off and engaged Surah, the other struggling with the two humans. Surah registered the crack of a board upside a hard head, but didn’t have time to worry about the others. She took a defensive position with the ease that came from having it forcibly knocked into her by an older Malin, and Malin’s irate weapons master, Kausar.
The male attacked in a flurry of blows. Surah countered, a grin stretching her lips as the familiar moves flowed from her body–creaky at first, which should have gotten her killed, but she was lighter. Faster. And didn’t have the incredible handicap of a warrior’s ego egging her into an offensive position. Surah continued to defend, breaking off and circling to assess her opponent for weakness, and to rest.
Shattering glass, a thump of a body against metal and the blaring of an alarm. A moment later the sound of heels on pavement and an exclaimed sound. Humans.
Engaging again, Surah stifled a curse as a swift blow to her knee collapsed her to the ground. She ignored the pain, the sudden weakness, and rolled fast, avoiding the stomping boots of her assailant. Man, chivalry was dead. She rolled right into the other fight. The human man gave Surah enough cover to scissor to her feet—and she realized with a wince that her knee wouldn’t let her do anything fancier than yell for more help.
Sirens in the background alerted them all. By mutual decision Surah, her guards, and Lavinia’s warriors broke away, eyeing each other from a decent distance. The police didn’t really like open daylight combat in populated areas.
“Well?” She tried to kee
p the pain from her voice. Her knee throbbed, and she was tired. If she were smart, she’d visit Kausar soon–but he’d just tattle to Mali, and then shit would really hit the fan. Damnit.
One of the gargoyles smiled, though it wasn’t friendly, and bowed, mocking. “We’ll catch you later, half-human.”
Everyone cleared the parking lot, disappearing from sight just as a squad drone descended from the sky.
She found Geza in his office staring out of the window, a stack of manila folders vomiting paperwork on his desk. “Hard at work, I see,” Surah said, slamming the door as she limped into the room.
Geza glanced at her, eyebrow rising. “Did you get into a fight?”
She sat in the chair in front of Geza’s desk, folding her arms and giving her dear brother a cold stare. “Lavinia Mogren sent warriors to kill me.”
Geza blinked. “Why are you still alive?”
“You don’t seem too unhappy about that.”
He shrugged. “You’re still alive. Besides, the politics around here have been aggravating lately.”
“Do the politics around here include the Prince failing to react to an open assassination attempt on his own half-sister?”
The Prince sighed, reaching for the comm on his desk. “I really am sick of this shit.” He stabbed the speaker icon viciously. A female voice answered briskly. “Tell Mogren to get her skinny ass in here now,” Geza snapped.
“Yes, Highness.”
“Were you going to give her a lecture, Geza? Maybe send her to bed without supper?” Surah leaned forward, glaring. “That bitch tried to kill me. And you know why?! Because I refused to stop the research on the degenerative gene!”
Geza’s eyes narrowed, fingers tapping his desk. “She told me. She told me that it would be in my interest if a cure was never found.”
Surah stared at her brother, stunned. “You mean you knew?”
He rolled his eyes. “Not that she was going to try to kill you. I didn’t tell her to do that–it’s a little extreme. But she made some good points about why the research should stop. I thought she was just going to hound the assembly into canceling your funding.”
Surah twisted to see if the giant knife sticking out of her back was visible.
“What are you doing?” Geza asked.
“Trying to find the sword sticking out of my back.” Her arms twisted behind her, patting her own back rapidly. “It has to be here somewhere.”
Geza laughed. Surah wanted to leap across the desk and strangle him. Was aware that any attempt to do so would have the guards, hovering outside the window, crashing through glass to eliminate her immediately, and ask questions later. Royal warriors didn’t approve of sibling spats.
Lavinia entered the office after knocking, stopped short when she saw Surah. “I see,” she said.
Surah surged to her feet, ignoring the lessening pain in her knee. “I see? I see!” She strode toward the gargoyle, fully intent on murder, Lavinia staring at her coolly, when Geza barked, “Surah, stop! That’s an order.”
“You can arrest me because this bitch is going to die.”
Brown-black wings unfurled with a magnificent snap. The high ceilings of the chamber allowed for a gargoyle to unleash their full six-foot-wide, six-foot-tall wingspan and even take off in a powerful vertical leap to hover almost two stories in the air above. Lavinia evaded her easily, the gust of air from her takeoff causing Surah to stumble back several feet.
“Now, that was stupid,” Geza said. “Did you think she was going to just stand there? Lavinia, you can’t go around trying to kill my siblings. This is the last time I’m going to allow you to get away with these queer ideas you have. The human college has rattled your brains. You should quit your job and retreat to your family estates until you’re feeling better.”
“My faculties are fully intact,” she called down from the ceiling, hovering with strong flaps of her wings.
Geza looked down at his desk, staring at every single piece of paper that was now scattered on the floor. “You’re going to clean this shit up,” he said. “Your fucking public service funding proposal was in there, too–I think that’s gonna wind up getting shoved to the bottom of the pile.”
“Sire.”
Geza walked to the balcony doors and opened them. Lavinia swept out with the grace of a giant, gray, murderous, fanged butterfly. Surah was so angry she felt nascent tingling where fangs would have been, were she full-blooded. Even the pads of her fingernails hurt, phantom claws seeking to burst free and rend her prey.
“That’s it? She tries to kill me and you—” she failed to finish the sentence, at a loss for words.
Geza dropped back into his seat, slumping on his desk and looking around at the mess with an irritated scowl. “I’m going to handle it my way, Surah. Look, if she really wanted you dead–you would be dead. She’s actually the sanest one of that whole damn clan—and I don’t want to be the target of a Mogren assassination attempt. They don’t fail. So don’t get your wings in a twist.” Geza smirked. Probably thought he was funny.
“Are you really that stupid?” Surah asked him, covering her face with her hands. “She wants to eliminate the entire monarchy, Geza. She wants things to be like this idealized world she teaches about in her political studies classes. I actually sat in on one of those things once. It was nauseating. I might as well have been in a class on worldbuilding for fantasy writers.”
Geza snorted. “Told you those humans were rattling her brains. I should just tell her father on her. Can’t he control one female? She’s his only daughter. He has no excuses.”
7
Because Geza wouldn’t take the threat seriously, Surah had no choice.
She went and told Malin…again. But she would be more careful with her words this time.
To be fair, Malin was the eldest, their patriarch. Technically, he should have ruled if not for the manifestation of Ciodaru’s defective gene. So his anger, his counsel, still held weight. Maybe he could get Geza to see some sense. Besides, she’d run to him too many times growing up to just eliminate the habit in adulthood. Sometimes before a fight, sometimes after.
Malin’s tastes were far less egalitarian than Surah’s. She took the airtran to his neighborhood, where he lived in a three-story restored graystone mansion in the heart of the city, surrounded by other residences of equally wealthy individuals. The streets were the kind lined with centuries-old trees and silent except for the occasional bark of a dog being walked by a liveried servant. Tall, wrought iron gates swung open to allow Surah access as she approached, walking down a red brick, winding path to the front of the ‘house.’
Malin waited for her outside, expression a mixture of pain and curiosity. Surah frowned, falling into doctor mode. “When was the last time you took a tablet?”
Malin grimaced, turning away. “Don’t plague me with that.”
Surah inhaled, controlling the urge to insist Malin come into the office. The tablets should be working to minimize pain–if her stubborn patient bothered to take them. “They won’t work if you don’t take them.”
They entered the house, Malin’s shoes–he abhorred sneakers–clicking on the polished tiles. Genuine candles gleamed in a theater-sized chandelier set high in the ceiling, proof Malin had at least one gargoyle on his payroll. But then, many of the family retainers had chosen to serve their original Prince.
“They make me sleep,” Malin said.
“Is that so bad? You keep a human schedule anyway. Humans sleep at night.”
Malin glanced at her, inscrutable and reached out, brushing her cheek with a finger. “I’m not human, sweet. Neither are you–not really.”
Malin’s personal quarters, including a den the servants were barred from entering, were located on the third floor. They entered, Malin walking straight to the balcony doors to set them open. A need of his, Surah knew, to always feel the night breeze against his skin. And if Surah closed her eyes, sometimes she could feel the rush of wind through her nonexistent
wings. She mentally distanced herself from the yearning this evening, already dealing with more emotion than she was comfortable handling.
Wandering over to the corner bar, Surah perused the offerings available and was pleased to see a slightly salty Californian red she was fond of among bottles of sweet whites. She poured herself a generous glass, looking up to see Malin watching her, slanted eyes cool. But he said nothing.
Surah held up the glass in a one-sided toast. Downed the contents and poured another, this time to savor. The first glass was medicinal, this second for pleasure. “After the day I’ve had, even you wouldn’t blame me.”
He paused before replying. “I noticed you are favoring your knee.”
“Lavinia sent warriors to have me killed. Well, maybe she was just—”
Malin’s glass shattered. Membranous black wings dotted with flecks of silver like a night time sky burst from Malin’s back. He doubled over, body twisting as his anger spurred him into a change made painful by his disease.
“Malin! Calm down!” She rushed towards, him, grabbing the remnants of the wineglass from Malin’s hand, not thinking, then backed up rapidly.
Surah could only watch as the Prince’s gargoyle form straightened slowly, with the care of an old man. Taller by several inches, his shoulders carved from mountains, pearl gray skin gleamed in the soft lamp light. Dark waves brushed below his shoulders, untamed, framing a face as beautiful as it was savage, frightening with gleaming white fangs peeking from under his sensual mouth. She watched carefully as he flexed claws, rustled his wings to check their strength.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, anger in her quiet statement.
“You’re bleeding,” Malin replied, low voice guttural from the shift.
Surah cursed and shook her hand, dropping the glass like trash, droplets of red wine and blood perfuming the air. Malin was there, drawing a square, white napkin from a drawer and taking Surah’s injured hand in his own. He wrapped the cloth around the hand, pressing it between his two, slightly larger, definitely more callused palms. Inhaling, she struggled to control the expression on her face. Tried to tug away, closing her eyes, but Malin held her fast.
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