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.

“Be still,” he commanded.

The royal line was weakening, no doubt. The entire race was weakening. Many magics they’d once mastered were long lost to them, and the remaining few greatly diminished until all that was really left was the ability to shift, and fly. Only centuries of obsession with species purity allowed even that. Many saw Ciodaru’s weakness as an indictment on the entire species. Regardless, though Malin was not the sorcerer he might have been were he born a thousand years ago, he could still, in bursts of unrestrained anger, manifest a kind of telekinesis that could momentarily discomfit an enemy. Or a friend.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, tugging. Malin’s eyes clashed with her own, a mental tug of war Surah had a feeling she would lose. Because if she were honest with herself, she craved Malin’s touch. Was glad for an opportunity to even hold his hand without having to explain herself. But it was too much.

“Malin, let me go.”

“What is wrong with you? You’re injured.”

“Are you nuts? If we were on a training field, you’d have yelled at me for stopping over a scratch.”

Malin dropped Surah's hand and took a step back. “My apologies. I didn’t know my touch was so abhorrent to you.”

Surah's heart stopped. “No! That’s not what I meant.” She took a deep breath. “Look—”

Malin turned away, slashing a hand in the air. “No matter. Why did she try to kill you?” He paused, glanced back at Surah. “Or frighten you, rather. Mogrens don’t miss.”

It was Surah's turn to grimace. “That’s what Geza said,” she replied without thinking.

Malin’s eyes widened in outrage. “You told Geza? If he had responded appropriately, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Geza said he’d have to deal with it his own way. I think he’s afraid of the Mogrens.”

“There is no fear in Ioveanu’s sons,” Malin said. “This was just a warning. If she sent two, in plain sight, it was an opening feint. The Mogrens are, in their way, honorable.” He glanced at Surah. “Forgive my temper.”

“You shouldn’t let Geza upset you, though.”

Malin, on the other side of the room, turned on his heels and walked straight towards her, a light in his eyes that warned the Surah not to move a single step back. The anger she saw echoed her own–only Malin had the claws and fangs to do something about it.

“Why are you so angry, Malin?”

He stopped in front of her, jaw tight. “You really don’t know?”

Oh, the irritation. “If I knew I wouldn’t ask.” Wasn’t that how questions worked?

“You are mine. Under my protection–the protection of a true Ioveanu Prince. If anyone gets to murder you, it will be me.”

Surah ran her tongue around her teeth, changing her napkin, though the blood had mostly clotted by now. “Gee, I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

“You know what I feel about you,” Malin said, stony. “You don’t know how to handle it yet. Or me.”

Their eyes locked. But this time–this time Surah stepped forward rather than retreating. She could tell herself the wine made her reckless–the heightened emotions swirling about the room clouding her judgment. She could lie like that, and get away with it.

“I’ve known you since we were children.”

Malin smiled, cold and proud. “I was not a child when you were birthed. You did not know me when we were children.”

Maybe not, according to gargoyle customs. But humans considered sixteen underage, no matter how well one could swing a sword or swive a servant.

“Then say, I’ve known you longer than anyone else save your mother.” Surah's voice lowered. “We’re... courting.”

The smile faded, turning impassive. “We are.”

Surah's eyes closed. “I’ll have to tell Geza. What do I tell him? But if we don’t mate then all this drama will be for nothing. Your anger with him, with Petru. I know about your fight, by the way.”

The Prince’s expression didn’t shift. “Good.”

“What do I tell Geza so he will understand?”

“What do you think you should tell him?”

“You have the formula, Malin. I only have its parts.”

Malin grimaced faintly. “Scientist metaphors, Surah. I only speak one human language.”

Discarding the napkin, Surah looked around for a small hand broom and dustpan, stalling. She knew her heart beat in her throat, her breath came a little quicker, and blood roared in her ears, alerting her that she was preparing to say something she hadn’t intended to say. Ever. She swept glass from the counter, crouched to herd shards from the floor into the dustpan. She felt, rather than saw, Malin lean over the counter to watch.

“What are you doing, Surah? I have servants for that.”

She stood, shrugging. Emptied the pan into the wastebasket and put the cleaning tools away. “I don’t have glass in my hair do I?”

“I should check.”

Surah stood absolutely still, back to Malin as the male stepped around the counter behind her. Felt the heat of the Prince’s body. Hair on Surah's back rose as her skin pimpled. The backs of her thighs and buttocks tensed from the tingling. Malin stood not even the width of a hand behind her and Surah knew if she shifted, just a little, she could press herself against the stone hard body and hope the arms would wrap around her.

Surah saw from her peripheral vision hands hovering on either side of her head. Felt the pads of Malin’s fingers sweep slowly through long strands of her hair. She suppressed a tiny shudder as a callused fingertip brushed the edge of her earlobe. Her ears were doubly sensitive.

Malin lowered his head, breath warm on Surah's neck. “I don’t see any glass,” the gargoyle said quietly. “We’re courting. You said a long time ago it doesn’t go against your oath as a doctor.”

“No.”

Malin’s hands left Surah's hair, hovering in the air on either side of the doctor’s shoulders. Cupped, as if the palms were filled with flesh.

“Then as we are courting, do you think I don’t have a right to be angry someone tried to take you away from me?”

“I understand anger. Just not the violent temper.”

Malin laughed softly. “Surah. That was not violence, or temper. When I go to Geza, to teach him how a Prince should respond to a threat to his bloodlines, that will be temper. Violence.”

Surah turned, almost in Malin’s arms. “Do you love me?”

Malin froze, a split second where some unnamed emotion flashed in his eyes. Then he relaxed again. “Of course.”

“Then don’t confront Geza,” Surah said. “That is likely what Lavinia wants. For you to prove how unstable you are, and maybe as a bonus, kill each other. He is my brother. You—” Surah paused. “I don’t want either of your deaths.”

“You don’t have any right to ask that of me.”

“I do.” Surah held Malin’s eyes. “I haven’t given you the right to avenge me.”

The Prince’s haughty smile was both sad and bitter. “And if I take the right? What then, my love?”

Surah stepped away from him, those two words snatching her breath. He said them so easily. “I won’t play games with you. Please don’t start a war with Geza.”

Malin was silent several moments, but in the end, he agreed. He would not fight his brother. He would not weaken their bloodline, or the seat of the Prince. But he would confront Lavinia—and Surah was fine with that. In a fight between the two of them, her money was on Malin. Who, astonishingly, wanted Surah to remain behind.

“I’m not a child.” Surah said, eyes wide in outrage. “I’m coming with you.”