When they entered a four person aerial transport, the windows dimmed to black and Uthman put the computer on silent. It lifted off and joined traffic, the flight smooth—and giving Surah no clue where they were going. She couldn’t judge speed, so the forty minute trip could have taken her ten miles away or two hundred.

“What’s the logic behind this kidnapping?” she asked Uthman. “You can marry me against my will–but Malin will follow you and make me a widow. So…I don’t get the strategy.”

“Malin won’t be following,” Uthman said. “And when he’s dead, Prince Geza will have no choice but to recognize our marriage or brace himself for war over your hand, and control of the Heir.”

She didn’t bother suppressing a pained grimace. It was so clichéd. And there were any number of holes in his plan–which seemed to hinge on his belief that whatever attack he was planning on Malin would succeed. Of course, it could. So she spent the trip tense, worried. She wasn’t afraid of rape–Uthman wouldn’t touch a half-human with a pole, in that he was similar to Niko. Though at least Niko was a bit more graceful about his prejudice.

They finally set down, and when the doors slid open, all she saw was the bare walls of a large garage. She was escorted into a house, up a flight of stairs, and placed into a room with a door that locked on the outside.

“There’s food and a toilet in the suite,” Uthman said shortly. “Figure it all out.”

So much for gargoyle guesting customs. She explored, more to understand the layout of her prison than from curiosity. There were no windows, of course, but there was a wall screen she could program to reflect an outdoor scene or stream live entertainment. Evidently, Uthman wanted his future wife imprisoned in comfort. There was nothing she could do, so she ordered a meal from the digital menu, changed into a nondescript set of clothing left for her in the drawers, and settled on the bed to wait.

* * *

His comm beeped just as he was leaving his office. Malin checked the screen to see if it was his errant betrothed, a little irritated she hadn’t returned his message yet.

“Nikolau,” he said, deciding at the last moment to accept the communication. His friend rarely called before sundown; something must be wrong.

“Is Surah with you?” Niko asked, voice edged.

“No—”

“Alert her security. The Mogrens are going to try and take her.”

“One moment.” He tried to connect to Surah’s security, and when he couldn’t get through, issued a panic order. Every gargoyle loyal to him and every employee on staff as security would be alerted, and follow already established protocol.

“Who is your source?” Malin asked, voice cool. He transferred Niko to his wrist unit and left the office, heading to the rooftop, where his daytime air transport was stationed.

“Petru. He was approached. The Mogrens are fools. They think anyone with ambition can be bought.”

Petru had honor. Though he wanted Surah, he’d never take part in a plot to take her from Malin the coward’s way. Malin controlled his rage, promising himself that when the time was right, blood would be spilled. He was able to keep calm because he knew Uthman’s goal would not be served by harming Surah. She would be safe in the short term. He clung to the thought while he issued a second command to lock down his home, with orders for Sililu and Adagia to remain inside. When the women spoke to him, veiled panic on their faces, telling him what they’d overheard in the dressmaker’s shop…Malin’s blood boiled.

“Malin, I'll be there in five minutes. Don’t do anything yet.” Niko disconnected. He must have moved to the city, to be so close.

Malin entered the small, private bedroom off his office and approached a far wall. On display was one of his family swords. Double edged, utilitarian. He hefted the weight, retrieving the sheath and belt and adjusting it around his waist before leaving. If he was right, Uthman’s next move would have to be to kill Malin. He had to know that the scheme he’d concocted would fail if Malin was alive to hunt him down. On high alert, he took the elevator to the rooftop and stepped out.

His instincts were always right.

* * *

The remnants of a small meal were on the bed, and she’d been able to doze for a few minutes. She didn’t feel pregnant other than the incessant morning sickness, but her feelings didn’t really matter. She might not be hungry, but the baby needed nutrients. So she’d made herself eat a little, also because she’d be next to useless weak from hunger, once Malin finally found her. For the first time she wished she’d taken up an old high school friend who’d once offered to teach her what he knew about hacking computers—her mother had insisted Surah attend a mixed species school her last two years, for ‘culture’. There was likely some way to use the household computer to contact her fiancé.

The door to her room opened. Surah looked up as Uthman entered, a female at his side. It was night—she'd felt the shift as the moon replaced the sun in the sky's affections. Her shoulders blades tingled, the pads of her nails itching as if claws wanted to burst free. For a moment it was as if a sheen of pearl-gray coated her skin and then it was gone. She faced the moment of instinctive heartbreak and keening sorrow with her usual stoniness, and then that, too was gone.

Uthman and the woman were in full gargoyle form. Clawed hands and feet, broad shoulders and hard, chiseled faces. Uthman smiled at her, self-satisfied, and his fangs peek out from his lips.

“I’d say here comes the bride, but you're already here," he said. “Go put the dress back on. It’s decent enough for a wedding, though I don’t know what natural female would want a dress the color of dried blood to wed in.”

She curled a lip, not bothering to move. "You can go through this farce all you want. It means nothing."

"On the contrary, girl, it means everything."

Surah's heart stopped, and she forced her face to remain contemptuous. She couldn’t control the spike in her heart rate and everyone would hear it–but her body didn’t rule her.

Lavinia Mogren stepped around the other woman, and entered the room. She shimmered, and after a moment Surah realized Lavinia was a projection. So they managed to sneak telecomm equipment into the room–or Geza had caved and allowed it–but Lavinia hadn't escaped.

"Getting plenty of beauty rest while you await trial?" Surah asked, smiling sweetly. "I heard Malin's lawyers asked for a stay–for a year. So you'll be locked up awaiting trial, away from the moon, oh gosh...that’s just terrible."

Lavinia stopped at the edge of the bed, glancing over her shoulder at her nephew. "Get on with this, boy."

Uthman took a step toward her, expression menacing. “Go put the fucking dress on.”

She sniffed, rising, hiding her broiling rage under an insouciant swing of her hips, and changed in the attached bath, emerging a few minutes later.

A few more of Uthman's men entered–witnesses. Unease pricked. Consummation was no longer required to formalize a marriage—and certainly public consummation had been done away with centuries ago–but she wouldn’t put it past Uthman to force himself to get over his distaste in order to make sure the marriage was legal.

Surah glanced at the only other woman physically in the room. She wore the long black robe of a cleric, her hair drawn up and hidden carefully under a hood.

“I want on your record that I was kidnapped and this marriage is against my will.”

It wouldn't stop the proceedings–with highborn women consent wasn’t required by law. But it would be part of the formal record, and once she was married, she was allowed to sue for divorce–on almost any grounds. It was a stupid, contradictory law. Men had created it.

And Surah had a sudden, blinding wtf moment of clarity. She was half-human, a Princess by decree of law, and now by blood since she was mother to the Heir, wealthy in her own right. She was nearly a certified genius in the arena of science, so she didn’t have the excuse of a lack of natural intelligence. She'd spent so many years obsessed with her own form of service to the Ioveanu's–out of love, but service was service. They weren’t the worst dynasty to rule, but they weren’t the best. Geza sometimes listened to her and Malin...she could likely talk Malin into anything that was reasonable.

But she'd done nothing to use the power she had to change how female gargoyles were treated, especially those of higher rank. She'd encountered the problem first hand with Sililu, who'd rather become a handmaid to the Princes' cast off half-sister than remain under the control of her family. When she got out of this, things would have to change. She would have to change. She couldn’t be obsessed with her own personal problems anymore, not when that meant standing by passively as women were used as pawns.

"Please rise," the officiant asked softly.

Surah assessed her situation. She was alone, and pregnant, and a passable warrior but in closed quarters with three to one odds? No. Logic did not compute. She could put up a fight, but that would end with her possibly injured, restrained, and give an unhappy Uthman an excuse to punish her. And, while the law didn’t allow spousal abuse, the law sucked in the first place, anyway.

So Surah rose, cradling her anger and terrible helplessness close to her chest, knowing that her cooperation was at this time, the best strategy. It was just a ceremony. Just a paper. When the time was right, she would eat that paper and then shit it out and flush it down the toilet.

* * *

They'd made a mistake by not somehow luring him into an ambush in full daylight. That, and the fact he'd been hiding just how effective Surah's latest serum was–even from her. Especially from her. Instinct had told him that to win the war he knew was coming, his enemies–the ones out in front and the ones still hiding behind the face of neutrality or friendship–would need to think he was weak. And he was–but not quite as weak as he'd been.

He held the shift close to the surface and when he stepped out into the fading sunlight, knew he had the advantage. A gargoyle at full strength could change forms at this time, but it would be painful. Because of his disease, he straddled the moonlight and sunlight worlds. The moment of pain was gone and it was as if he was in full moonlight.

When they attacked, they attacked a warrior who was not flinching from the remnants of the sun, as they were.

Six winged warriors, all with shades on their eyes and blades, attacked. Malin waited until their dive took them within a few feet and then his wings snapped to their full width and he drew his sword in one smooth, blindingly fast motion, and leaped into the air.

“To the death, is it?” he shouted. “Ioveanu!”

He battled. Several new war cries filled the air moments later as Kausar, Niko, and Kausar's students arrived.

“Why bring newbies?” Malin shouted.

“Training exercise,” Kausar roared. “These traitors aren’t enough meat for real warriors.”

His words enflamed the traitors, and they renewed their attack with venomous eyes. Strength filled Malin's veins, the fully emerged moon sending a rush of power through him that increased his speed, hardened his blows. He dispatched one, and then two opponents to the ground, hacking off wings with contempt, but leaving them alive. One did not kill soldiers for obeying orders, but decommissioning them for a long time was a wise move.

When the enemy was littered on the ground, the stronger of them silent and watchful, waiting on Malin’s final move, and the weaker…Malin curled his lip.

“Stop the shrieking,” he said to a male who curled in a pool of his own blood. The wounds would congeal rapidly, he wouldn’t die. And while it was painful, did the warrior have no dignity? “You will live. With dishonor, until your wings grow back, but maybe some quiet time in the mountains will do you good.”

“Yes,” the male agreed, voice faint. He knew a thinly veiled threat when he heard one, evidently.

Nikolau landed at his side. “The training has been piss poor since Kausar retired.”

Malin glanced up. His old teacher and weapons master surveyed the roof with contempt, blade dripping blood. “We have to go after Surah.”

Niko nodded, and they launched into the air. Security would clean up the mess they’d made later.

* * *

“Go away,” Uthman said, after the officiant declared them husband and wife. Surah’s signature wasn’t necessary on the paperwork, and no one had asked her anyway.

She stood, watching as everyone filed out, abdomen tense. He turned toward her when the door shut and grabbed her around the waist, tossing her onto the bed.

Surah scrambled to her knees, hissing, but he just stood in the middle of the room, staring at her. “Lavinia told me to fuck you,” he said. “But bestiality isn’t my thing. Still….”

“I’ll gut you, you pig.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think I'll have to go get drunk first. Don’t go anywhere.”

He laughed and left the room, obviously taken with his joke. Surah took a deep breath, released it. And shredded the bedspread with her nails. She stared down at the rents in the cloth, stunned, then smiled. He might rape her, but she would make sure the act cost him. Dearly.

And when Malin came and she was back in her lab, she’d do blood work on herself to find out why all of a sudden, she could partially shift her human nails to gargoyle claws.