The last place Surah wanted to go was home to be alone with her thoughts. She left the palace, beginning the walk down a tree-lined sidewalk to the airtran, speeding up when she realized the last service was about to run. But her own steps weren’t the only she heard.

Surah whirled around, finger hovering over the panic button on her wrist unit. “Step out,” she said sharply.

Her vision wasn’t quite as good as a full-blooded gargoyle, but she saw the black-on-black movement before a male stepped out of a shadow.

“Nikolau?” She stared at him. A dark t-shirt stretched over broad shoulders, pale eyes bright in the moonlight. His perpetually mocking expression set her teeth on edge, and she wondered why women seemed to think him handsome. He was always sneering, pretty cheekbones or not. Why was he following her? One of Malin’s few friends–mostly by default because he was another who’d grown up with the former Prince, and not shunned him ,once he’d left gargoyle society–he still had never liked her.

“You should be more careful,” the male said, voice laconic. “Petru was following you.”

She stilled. Niko was the better warrior–sneaky and quiet as a rattlesnake. But he didn’t like human women much, so why bother protecting her? “Why?” she asked.

He disappeared back into the shadows, not mistaking her question. “For Malin. He should be protecting you himself if Geza isn’t going to do it. Do us all a favor. If you don’t marry Petru, then just leave here. You’re going to cause bloodshed, for one reason or another. And no gargoyle blood should be spilled over a human.”

* * *

Surah went to the lab. It was late but that hardly mattered. Entering the small building adjacent to the university where Lavinia taught political studies, the first thing she noticed was the lights were still on.

She stopped in the bathroom to clean herself up a bit, pulling out her after-party kit so she could clean her mouth and brush her hair–after dunking her head in a faucet of cold water for a long minute, then stepping in the dry clean unit to disinfect and deodorize. She changed the shift dress she knew reeked of Geza’s preferred fragrant blend of weed, and put on a spare outfit and lab coat, glancing at her wrist unit to check the time. She grimaced. Past two am. What lack-life grad student was still working at this time of night?

“Hey, boss,” Cole looked up as Surah entered. Surah's assistant was a bit of a fashion rebel with his multi-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She sat down at her station, blindly reaching under the counter to open a mini-fridge stocked with all kinds of things, among them–ah. She felt the shape of the tiny bottle in her hand, pulled it out and unscrewed the lid.

“This is unprofessional and will get you fired,” Surah said as she knocked back the shot of honey Jack Daniels.

Cole’s thin, pierced brow rose. “Then why do you do it?”

“It helps me think straight,” she replied without irony. “And it kills a cold before it even starts. Don’t know why people like the taste, though.”

Cole sighed. “Whatever, boss lady.”

Surah rose, wandering to look over Cole's shoulder at his research. “Why are you still at work on a Friday night?”

Cole's expression perked. “One of the trials I ran today looked promising. I wanted to go over the data and isolate different variables, so I could account for the change.”

Hopeful excitement stirred before Surah quashed it under a scientist’s neutrality. “Move over, I’ll take a look. Did you copy your notes?”

Cole went home an hour later, shoved out of the lab by Surah who reminded him that a tired lab assistant would mean faulty research. Sometime later, Surah transferred herself to her office with a pot of coffee and began going through several months’ worth of reports, tracking minute changes in data to figure out if Cole's luck that day was a fluke or if it could be reproduced.

She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew daylight was streaming through the blinds and her body felt a little less strong, a little less... alert. The only indication that as a half-gargoyle she’d shifted from night to day. The only indication she would ever have since she was forever stuck in human form.

* * *

Every cell in his body ached; it hurt to walk. That it didn’t hurt to step out in the full light of the late morning was an even worse sign. There had been a time that, like any gargoyle, he had to wear thick dark shades in order to protect his eyes. The thin sunglasses he now wore were all that was necessary. The skin of his human form was brown from the sun, not the pale olive-gold of his people, when not shifted.

He waited for the sensor to scan his iris, and didn’t have to wait more than three seconds for the door to slide open, the female computer welcoming him to the facility by title; the privilege of his birthright. Especially when a chunk of the funding for this place came from his family’s personal treasury. Walking through the hallways to the medical side of the lab where Surah treated a few select patients, he saw the humans who worked in the lab behind glass walls. Surah employed mainly gifted grad students–she still didn’t know how to play well with equals.

Entering her office, Malin paused. She was asleep at her desk, hair in a messy braid down her back. Malin’s nostrils flared and he grimaced. She smelled as if she’d been at the palace in the company of Geza last night. Studying her, the rise and fall of her slender back, Malin’s hand balled into a fist. How many times had he thought her asleep and reached out to touch, only to have her wake and turn a red, gimlet eye on him?

“Surah,” he said quietly, touching her shoulder.

The shoulder twitched, Malin’s hand tensing to keep from stroking the back of her neck. The dress she wore draped a body honed from years of hard physical training–Surah, even more than Malin, had had something to prove as they all grew up. Geza, once slated to become Prince, was assured of his place in life–he wasn’t half-human like Surah or defective, like Malin. Malin knew it was part of the reason he’d fallen in love with her over the long years of watching her grow from girl to woman–she understood him.

“I’m awake,” a muffled response came from the vicinity of her folded arms. She straightened a moment later, tugging on her braid as if that would help her wake, slanting impassive night-sky eyes at Malin before looking at her watch. “Huh. You’re late.”

“My apologies. How is Geza?”

Surah sniffed. “Our mutual half-brother is himself.”

Mutual, because Geza was a link between them. Malin shared a father with Geza, as Geza shared a mother with Surah. Malin’s mother, Ciodaru’s only legal wife and Consort, had tolerated Adagia, but never liked her. And despised Surah for her human father, though she had never abused the girl. That would have been showing far too much emotion. However, people sometimes forgot Malin and Surah shared no blood as they’d all, more or less, been raised as siblings in the court. Something Malin rebelled against as he grew older and realized the love he felt for Surah was far from brotherly. The love he sometimes imagined the reticent doctor returned.

But as a Prince, by birth if not by function, he wasn’t given to foolishness or self-delusion. So he said nothing, did nothing, when otherwise he might have spoken. Because the threat of rejection still far outweighed the possibility of acceptance. What could he offer her in their world? He was a grounded gargoyle, a former Prince stricken from his throne. And despite her work, she’d shown no interest in existing among humans, which might have given him a chance. But she was young, and beautiful, and intelligent. Wealthy and still royal, despite her human blood. Eventually, Geza would contract an advantageous marriage for her. That was the right thing. The best thing for her, despite what Kausar said. Malin told himself this all the time—and even began to believe the lie.

“Sit down,” Surah said shortly, rising from her desk, the previous night’s dissolution manifesting itself in her habitually short temper. When the woman was sober, she had the easy countenance of an angel–although mischievous. But she was rarely sober these days. Malin noticed a slight tremble in Surah’s hands as she opened the cabinet in the corner, withdrawing a tiny, sealed bottle and packaged needles.

“Do you need more tablets?” she asked.

“Yes.” Malin didn’t explain why he’d already run out, and Surah didn’t ask. She didn’t have to.

Malin sat down on the paper covered examination table, watching with some amusement as Surah sprayed her hands with a protective sealant. Force of habit, since it wasn’t necessary. Not with a gargoyle’s superior immunity–and since they were friends, it was doubly unnecessary.

Pulling up his sleeve, Malin eyed Surah dubiously, but said nothing about the tremble as the doctor prepped his arm, then slipped the tiny needle into his flesh, injecting him with the serum that was a stopgap measure to halt the symptoms of his degenerative disease. A stopgap that was increasingly ineffective. The tablets addressed the seizures, and those were beginning to fail. Malin knew he didn’t have long left before the inevitable; before the night skies were taken away from him forever.

Malin touched the back of Surah's hand, meeting her eyes. Surah's gaze flicked away for a moment, then looked back on his, seeming almost reluctant. “Have you thought about what I said the other day?”

Surah grimaced. “This seems to be my week for people telling me I have a drinking problem.” She pulled away, presenting her back to Malin as she busied herself cleaning up supplies. “I don’t have a problem. I’m not an alcoholic.”

Malin didn’t say anything. Sometimes it was better to let a person’s conscience do the talking. Malin knew Surah's self-accusing spirit wasn’t dead, just buried under a brick load of pain.

They all had pain.

“I have a question,” Surah said.

Malin stilled, the tone of her voice alerting him. “Yes?”

Surah turned, locking eyes on him. “When I find the cure for this–when you’re completely healed, what are your plans?”

Malin blinked. “What do you mean?”

Surah stared at him, inscrutable, a hand resting on the counter. “What are you going to do with your life? You have a successful corporation with the humans. You’ve built a life for yourself. What’s next? A mate, garlings?Will you let Geza find you a wife?”

Malin laughed, harshly. “Never.”

Surah hesitated, looked down. “I think that would be a shame.”

His brow arched. “You want to see me married?”

She looked over Malin’s shoulder, fingers tapping on the counter. “No. But…I would like to have your sons. I mean, see your sons.”

He wondered about the slip of the tongue, especially as it was accompanied by a faint tinge of color on her cheekbones. Malin slid off the table, instincts alerted, closing the distance between them in one languid step. They were almost of a height, though Malin had always been the taller by a few hairs.

“I won’t take a wife of my brother’s choosing,” Malin said, watching Surah carefully. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t continue my father’s line.” He paused, lowered his voice. “I would need a partner to help raise them.”

Surah's gaze returned, unreadable. Not for the first time the female’s beauty struck Malin. Surah's mother had been famed for her angelic features, wings with the sheen of a black pearl, face and form so perfectly symmetrical, she may well have been one of the statues humans liked to say they were. Not to their faces, of course. Though diluted by her human father, Surah's face still echoed her mother’s—and she didn’t even know it.

When the doctor didn’t respond, Malin sighed internally, and continued the conversation. “Why, Surah? You’ve never asked me about this aspect of my life before.” Malin watched her eyes flicker in thought as she chose a response.

“Lavinia asked me to stop the research.”

“What?”

A male with less control would have put a fist through the wall. Malin’s shoulders swelled, fangs itching to burst from his mouth. It pained him doubly because it was daytime. Hopefully the serum would kick in soon. Surah didn’t move, unaffected by Malin’s temper. She’d grown up with it, after all.

“She thinks you’ll kill Geza and take the throne.”

Malin stumbled back a step. “That bitch.” He’d practically raised that boy, being well into early adulthood when the garling prince was born. In fact, he still remembered that day; a solemn, round-faced Surah, with messy braids, staring down at the bundle in her mother’s arms as the woman looked at Malin, formally applying to him for protection of her son. Ciodaru had been wild by then, his mind nearly gone from the ravages of the disease.

“And what do you think, Surah?”

“I think you have honor,” Surah said softly. “I think you’ll keep your promise to my mother.”

After a moment, Malin looked away. “Don’t place me on a pedestal, Surah. You’ll be disappointed.”

“You haven’t yet.” She paused, looked away. “Disappointed me.”

Malin’s knuckle brushed Surah's cheek. “You look like your mother. I’ve…tried not to fail her. It would be hard for me to fail you as well.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment a strange, thrumming tension arched between them. Then Surah shifted and it was over, leaving Malin to wonder if he had imagined the flare of connection.