The Demon's Librarian

CHAPTER 11

Her knees turned to water. She slumped against the wall, staring at the young man who had just appeared. He was slim, Vietnamese, and no taller than her—but then he started to grow.

The horrible stench from the room full of dead people made her want to gag as she watched the human shape at the end of the hall stretch grotesquely, as if he was made out of rubber and was being pulled from both ends. Her jaw went slack, and she wondered when, exactly, her life had gone down the rabbit hole.

There're dead people in there. She'd only looked for a moment, but the sight was seared into the inside of her head. She suspected even a hot shower and scrubbing her eyes with bleach wouldn't make it go away. The horrible throat-cut grin under the slack face, blood spattered in a high arc and soaking into tattered wallpaper, the gassy, terrible smell—

The man at the end of the hall made a low, hoarse sound like a scream of pain. He wore a faded Jericho Warriors sweatshirt that kilted up at the bottom as his lanky frame stretched into something skeletal and hunched, bones cracking as his dark eyes lit with red sparks. His hair, in the layered razor-cut so popular with young men nowadays, fell in his eyes as his shoulders rotated inward, hunching. He looked like a cartoon, except for the claws that sprang loose from his lengthening fingers. The claws looked like bone, and his bony hand jerked out, claws slicing through the faded paint on the walls, dust puffing down.

Ryan moved forward, his shoulders almost seeming to fill up the hall. “Just a spider,” he said, the razor edge of contempt slicing the air. “An Inkani spider. Used to hunt during the day. A filthy maggot with the worm inside him."

That doesn't make any sense. “Um,” Chess managed through the pinhole her throat had become.

"Left here to provide a little surprise, eh? Only you wandered from your post, slave."

The boy snarled back at him, a thin thread of sound that ended on a yip. Chess wished she could stuff her fingers in her mouth to bite down and push back the scream trying to work its way free.

Then the bone-clawed boy yanked his fingers free of the wall and leapt forward, claws outstretched. He didn't aim for Ryan, who was definitely in his way, seeming to take up most of the space; instead, his red-flecked eyes fixed on Chess and his hands outstretched. He even foamed at the mouth, champing like a horse with the bit in his teeth.

Oh, Christ. Oh God. She stood frozen in place, staring as Ryan reached out with one hand and backhanded the boy.

"No!” Chess yelled.

The boy went flying, smashed into the wall. More dust flew. He shook his head and scrambled to his feet, but Ryan was on him, moving with a spooky blurring speed, inhumanly fluid and graceful. His fingers sank into the boy's throat as the thing writhed and cackled, its claws tearing and beating at the air. Ryan's free hand caught the boy's right wrist and twisted, the sickening crack of bone breaking echoed in the hallway.

"NO!” Chess screamed. Ryan didn't pause, his own fingers turning into hooks and sinking into the boy's throat. One quick twist, another horrible sickening crack, and the body slumped uselessly on the floor.

Oh, my God. He just killed him. All the air left her lungs in a walloping rush.

It was all very well to kill demons. But this was a person. Ryan had just committed murder.

What kind of person goes around with claws? the particularly jolly voice of horror caroled through Chess's head. She smelled it again, the ripe gassy scent rising thickly to clog her nostrils and choke her. She hated that smell, hated it; it reminded her of a crooked alley and seeing a little human shape lying broken under an octopus demon's maw, and the sound of wet crunching as the skornac fed.

Ryan stood with another fluid movement, brushing his hands together as if ridding them of dust or dirt. “God grant you peace,” he said harshly. “Chess?"

She pressed her fist against her lips. No. God, no.

"You all right?” He glanced back over his shoulder, black eyes burning.

No, I don't think I'm ever going to be all right again. I think I'm going to throw up. Then scream. Then repeat as necessary. Then I'm going to go home, bury my face in a pillow, and forget all about demons. I don't want this. I never wanted this. She took a deep, endless breath, the scream rising in her throat.

Footsteps, coming from the stairs. Ryan tilted his head, his face suddenly easing. “Finally, some good luck. Come on."

Chess shook her head, beyond words. To go that way she would have to walk past the slumped, inhumanly-thin body on the floor; the hall was narrow and she might even have to touch it. Her gorge rose at the thought. I'm rough, and I'm tough, and I can kill demons… but no way am I walking past that. No way. Uh-unh. No way.

"Chess?” He was right next to her, his hand closing around her upper arm again. Chess flinched. She stared up at his now familiar face, his dark eyes horribly human. She'd just seen him kill someone with his bare hands, and he only looked faintly worried. “We've got to go, sweetheart."

"Ryan? Orion?" Someone shouting on the stairs. Ryan dragged Chess forward. She struggled, but he was too strong, it was no use. He did grab her waist and lift her over the tangled stick-thin legs braced across the hallway. Her stomach gave an amazing cramp. “Christ! Orion!"

"Make up your mind,” Ryan answered, low and fierce, reaching the arch that gave way to the stairs. “Paul? Quiet down."

"Up,” the other voice said, and Chess's heart gave a huge leap. It was the tweedy hunk who had asked her about Delmonico's book.

Then who was dead in the room there?

He arrived in the doorway, looking a little worse for wear—his sport jacket was torn and charred in places, his short sandy hair disarranged, and with a shiner puffing up around his left eye. He was also limping. His jeans were tattered too, and he had a red bandanna tied around his left calf—no, it had been white once, it was just soaked with blood. Chess's jaw dropped.

"Go up, there's Inkani dogs on the street in broad daylight. They're goddamn seri—” The man's eyes flicked past Ryan to her, and widened. He didn't look happy. “What the hell are you doing with her?"

Ryan let out a short, sharp curse. Then he moved forward, pushing Chess in front of him, shoving her up the first two stairs. “She's a Golden, Paul. Or at least a potential. You were too distracted by the fucking sheela to notice. Come on, if they're on the low road we'll take the high road. How fast can you move?"

Wait a second, I don't want to go anywhere with you, leave me alone, go away, what's going on? Her feet slipped on the cheap carpet, and she almost fell. Ryan set her on her feet again, absently. Gee, thanks. Oh, my God.

"Fast enough.” Paul tipped her a mocking salute. His cheeks were rough with stubble, and she smelled a faint, horrible scent that wasn't like the gassy odor of death. Demon, she thought. He's been close to demons. “How are you, Ms. Barnes?"

She managed to find her voice as Ryan shoved her out onto the stairs and started pushing her up them. “No. Stop it. Let go of me. Ouch!"

"You've had your hands full,” Paul said from behind them.

"You have no idea,” Ryan replied dryly. He sounded amused. “Chess, you okay?"

Why do you keep asking me? No, I'm not okay. I'm not. “Who—the room, who—"

"They rented the room right out from under me, some businessman. I've been waiting for you to come back. She's the potential?” Paul spoke right over the top of her words as Ryan kept pushing. Chess stumbled, Ryan set her on her feet again as if she weighed less than nothing. Her arm hurt where he'd grabbed her, she could feel the bruise rising up underneath the skin. “Ah, shit."

"You're never going to live this down.” Ryan sounded a lot happier. Well, he's got his partner back. I suppose that would make him happy. Now all I have to do is go home and bury my head in my pillow. I'll call Charlie and have her bring over a chick flick or two. We'll eat popcorn and giggle. Yeah, that's it. That will be good.

Her throat seemed to closed, her heart hammering, a funny roaring sound filling her ears. I'm dealing really well with this. I just saw him kill someone and I'm not screaming. Right? I'm not screaming. Doing good.

"Hey, I never mistrust what a woman tells me—at least not at first. Besides, the sheela is an Other; I've never seen a potential."

There was a low, harsh growl like broken glass scraping her ears, and Chess flinched. Wet meaty thuds began from below, and she wondered with a fainting sort of horror what was going to happen next. Ryan let go of her arm. “Take her. Keep going up.” He sounded deadly, and her heart began to pound. The stairs seemed to stretch up forever, like a rickety staircase in a Looney Tunes cartoon. What's up, Doc? Nothin, just being chased by demons. Expanding demons. K-k-killing p-people… “Don't let anything happen to her."

Wait a second—

"I'll look after her. Be careful.” Somehow Paul was right next to her, Chess craned to look back over her shoulder as Ryan turned back. She heard the faint double click as he pulled the hammers back on two guns.

"Careful as I can be. Spiders out in broad daylight. What next?” Then he was gone, moving down the stairs so silently he seemed to vanish.

"Ryan—” she whispered. “Ryan."

"He'll be okay.” The Malik pushed her up the stairs. His hands weren't as brutally strong as Ryan's, but his thumb ground into a fresh bruise and she bit back a yelp. “He's done this before. One time we were trapped in an abandoned warehouse in London, that was worse than this."

Her brain began to work again. Christ. Jesus Christ. She reached down with her right hand, digging in her bag and trying to shake free of the grasp on her arm, scrambling up stairs that suddenly seemed far too narrow to hold breathable air. “What—those things, what are they?"

"Spiders,” he replied shortly. “Take the next arch on the left. The Inkani put little soldier-demons inside their human servants, they can make drastic short-term changes in the physical structure of the host. Kind of like a disposable assassin; the body back there will rot inside of three hours as the stresses on cellular structure take effect.” He pushed her into the next hall on the left, opening directly off the stairs. The hall receded back into darkness, the light bulbs in the fixtures either dim or burnt-out; Chess's fingers closed around the hilt of her knife. “Secondary exit. Always have a secondary exit.” He didn't sound nearly as arrogant as he had before. “Christ, I hope he's careful. I'd hate to have to pick a new Drakul… here we are.” He yanked her to a stop, then gathered himself and kicked at one of the flimsy doors. A long vertical crack opened alongside the doorknob, one more kick and the door busted open, revealing another dingy room, this one with a window spattered with rain and gray, fading storm light. The storm had broken, and the early winter twilight had begun.

She dragged the knife free as Paul's hand came up, full of a gun. There was a sudden, amazing wall of noise from below, the entire building seeming to groan under a shuddering impact. Squealing groans and a terrible, bloodcurdling screech followed the thump, and the sudden incredible sound of gunfire. Ryan's down there! Oh my God!

Paul swept the room, moving like a cop in a movie, making sure nothing was inside. There was a single bed and a small table with a broken porcelain lamp perched on it; the dun carpet was thin and raspy. He grabbed her arm again. Seemingly not noticing her knife, he dragged her to the window and wrenched it up, letting in a burst of chill, rain-laden air. Lo and behold, there was a fire escape here. The battered man glanced out, blinking painfully against the light, then motioned to her. “Looks clear. Let's go."

"I d-d-d—” Her voice refused to work properly. The knifehilt was solid in her sweating hand. I don't want to go with you. I want to go home.

For Christ's sake, Chess, you took on an octopus-demon in a sewer. Snap the hell out of it! The welcome sharp voice was her mother's, and it spurred Chess to action. She yanked the knife free of its sheath, seeing the hard blue glitter spring into life, jetting against the walls. He ducked out through the open window. He still had his backpack; it was as battered and singed as the rest of him. She glanced back over her shoulder, the awful smell belching and blooming, streaming out the window. Fresh chill air poured inside.

"Come on!” the Malik yelled. “Let's go, he'll catch up!"

Mechanically, Chess climbed out. The fire escape swayed dangerously, rusted and rocking under their weight. “Follow me.” Paul moved cautiously but swiftly, paying attention to each footfall. She edged after him, heard another roaring crescendo of gunfire and a thin chilling deathsqueal. Ryan, she thought, pointlessly.

They made it down, Paul holding the ladder and catching her waist when Chess was three rungs from the ground. She squirmed away from him, landing hard on her feet. You jerk. I can take care of myself. The alley, sheltered from the wind, was still full of rain; the simmering smell of garbage made her stomach rise. I'm spending a lot of time in trash-laden alleys lately. Must be my personality. Become a demon hunter, see the sights, smell all sorts of wonderful new things. Her breath sobbed in her throat. The knife glittered, throwing out hard darts of blue light.

"Christ, what's that?"

She half-spun, but his eyes were on her right hand. He looked shocked, brown eyes wide and the rain starting to plaster his short hair to his skull. “It's my goddamn knife,” she spat. “What do we do now?"

"That's a Fang!” He almost squeaked with surprise. Chess glanced around the alley nervously. The sudden rainy silence, wind moaning at the alley's mouth, made her nervous. “How the hell did you get that?"

"I bought the knife at the Army-Navy surplus store and consecrated it myself.” She tried to look everywhere at once, unsuccessfully. “What do we do now?"

Paul had gone pale. He stared at Chess like she'd grown another appendage, and not a socially-acceptable one either. He simply stood there, eyeing her, and Chess began to get a very bad feeling about all this. Then, of all things, he started to grin, a wide satisfied smile.

The fire escape began to rattle above them. “Move!” Paul barked, as if he hadn't been the one just standing there gawking. “Move, goddammit!"

Where am I supposed to go? But he grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the mouth of the alley, weaving between piles of garbage. Her boots slipped in greasy scudge, and the urge to throw up crested. Oh please don't let me blow chunks here, oh please God, please.

They burst out onto the street, people scattering as gunfire rang out behind them. Screams, produce flying as he hauled her through a sidewalk fruit stand, footsteps thudding. “Run!” he yelled. “Keep running!"

Then his hand left her arm and he spun away from her.

Chess didn't stop to look back. She heard the hoarse cries and cracking that meant more of those stretching-things behind her, and flung herself forward, her boots pounding the pavement as something zinged past her. Someone's shooting at me—maybe because I'm running down a city street carrying a knife?

She tore around the corner at Harkness and Thirty-Eighth, stuffing the knife back in her bag. Rain splashed down, and she heard distant sirens. Keep running. Sure. I can do that. A stitch grabbed her side, her breathing echoed, and she realized what she was making for just in time: the Thirty-Eighth and Strange street subway station.

Chess put her head down and bolted, running for her life.

Charlie's office was on the edge of downtown, in the plush Graber building. It was early on a Friday evening, and the secretary nodded as Chess walked in, damp and trying not to look like she'd just been chased through garbage-laden alleys and witnessed a young Vietnamese boy growing bone claws. “Hi, Lucy.” She tried her brightest smile and wished she'd worn something other than a sweatshirt jacket and jeans. I probably smell like garbage. God. “Is Charlie in?"

Lucy nodded. “She just finished with her last client. Go on back. Heard you got food poisoning.” Lucy's blond hair was a helmet of marcel waves, a close-fitting cap that added to her cherry-red lips and pale cheeks to make her seem like a 1920s flapper trapped in chic, tasteful business wear. She would look right at home on the running board of a Model T in a beaded dress and cloche hat, hanging onto a dapper swell's arm. Right now she was shuffling papers together into a file folder. Her purse was on her desk. It looked like quitting time.

"I'm still feeling urpy,” Chess replied, which was the truth. The subway's rollicking motion hadn't helped, and she'd had to take three trains to get here since she'd flung herself into the Piers Express on the platform, not caring that it would take her out of her way, caring only that the train had been at the platform and she could get away. Her heart was still going a mile a minute and she was sure her hands, stuffed in her pockets, were shaking. She'd gotten a couple of strange looks on the subway.

At least nobody tried to mug me. “Thanks, Luce.” She walked, deliberately slowly, past Lucy's desk, through the door, and into the expensive offices of Graber, Fawkes, Linton, and Barnes.

Charlie's office was a corner suite. Her secretary Phil—short for Philomela—wasn't at her desk so Chess just walked past. Phil had probably already gone home for the day. Francesca, Charlotte, and Philomela, she thought with a ghost of amusement, taking a deep breath. No wonder we like our nicknames better. We sound like the Three Stooges. Only maybe not quite as funny. A jagged laugh escaped her, and she knocked on Charlie's door and walked right in.

Sleek, tall, slim, and auburn-haired, her older sister looked up from behind the large cherry desk. She'd done her office in cream and blue, soothing colors; the view of the misty, rainy city below immediately cheered Chess up, as usual. Wooden barrister file cabinets in cherrywood, a fishtank on top of one with brightly-colored tropical fins waving gently, and a soft deep couch just right for corporate clients, as well as a tasteful glass coffee table and two more plush chairs set just subtly too far from Charlie's desk. The framed print on the wall was a Thompson, showing a ballet dancer en pointe on a lasso of stiff rope floating in empty space, watched by a tiger that might or might not be a sculpture. It was a beautiful print, even if slightly disturbing.

"Chess!” Charlie, in a couth gray suit, jacket and skirt and softly feminine blouse, almost leapt to her feet. “Mom said you were out with food poison…” Her hazel eyes—more green than Chess's, just like her hair had more red—widened, and she took in Chess from scalp to toes with a look that was very much like Mom's. She leaned over, scooped up the phone, and punched something in. “Lucy? Please call Zoftow, get his secretary to reschedule him for tomorrow. Thanks, sweetie. You're a doll.” She dropped the phone and crossed the room, in long swinging strides, her tortoise heels sinking into the thick cream carpet. One quick flick of her fingers locked her office door. Then she turned around, her back to the door, and folded her arms. “Well? What's going on?"

A profound swell of relief swelled through Chess's chest. God bless you, Charlie. I can always count on you. “You're going to think I'm crazy,” she rasped. She coughed, felt her stomach rise again, pushed it down. “You're going to think I'm fucking crazy."

Outside the office, the last shreds of day faded and rain tapped and fingered at the window. Charlie shrugged. “I know what you make a year. You're already crazy.” She lifted one manicured eyebrow. “And you dated Tommy Dalton. What kind of crazy are we talking?"

Oh, Lord. I can't believe I'm about to do this. “Charlie, do you believe in demons?” Chess's voice broke on the last word. I can't believe I'm doing this.

Her sister stared at her for twenty of the longest seconds of Chess's life. Then she unfolded her arms and stalked across the room to the antique teak sideboard that held a small tasteful collection of antique teacups. She opened the bottom right door and snagged a bottle of Scotch, two glasses, and poured them each a healthy dollop. She capped the Scotch deftly, set it back on the sideboard, then turned around with a drink in either hand. “You want one of these?” she asked. “Or do you want to go straight for the bottle? Sit down on the couch, and tell me everything."