The Demon's Librarian

CHAPTER 17

Chess didn't bother to leave her bedroom, simply took a long, hot shower and collapsed in bed, unwilling to let the day get any more complicated. If the world wanted to go on, that was fine—but it would have to go on without her. Besides, she was bone-deep exhausted. Pulling a pillow over her head to shut out her problems sounded like a damn good idea, better even than eating.

She woke out of a sound sleep when Ryan's hand closed over her mouth; his other hand touched her shoulder, shook her. Gently, but she wasn't fooled. He could dislocate her arm in a hot second if he felt like it. He smelled like a winter night, cold and full of rain, with smoky anger boiling off him in waves. Chess instinctively tried to squirm away, her pulse skyrocketing; he didn't let her move. “Quiet.” A mere breath of sound, somehow menacing anyway. “Or I'll tie you up."

He sounded serious, and Chess's eyes suddenly seemed far too big for their sockets. She yanked the blanket and tried to wriggle away again. He didn't even seem to notice. “Don't be ridiculous, I wouldn't,” he whispered. “Just making sure you're awake, you slept all day. Get up, get dressed."

His hand left her mouth slowly, his fingertips brushing her cheek. “What's going on?” I slept all day? The room suddenly didn't seem to have any air left.

"Get dressed, Chess. There's something going on, and I'm nervous.” His eyes glittered in the near-dark, dusky light fading in her window. She had slept all day. “Want to be ready to move.” He loomed over the bed, and Chess suddenly felt like an idiot. Now that she'd had a chance to catch up on sleep in her own bed, she felt a lot less unsteady—but hungry. She wanted an omelet, dripping with melted cheese. Bacon. Pancakes with maple syrup. It was nighttime again, and all she was craving was breakfast food. Her body clock was all screwed up. It didn't look like she'd be able to sleep in Monday morning either.

He let go of her arm, too, and straightened. Buster Keaton looked mournfully over his shoulder, his eyes infinitely sad.

"What's happening?” Don't let it be any more dead bodies. Please, God, don't let it be any more dead bodies.

"It's too quiet out there. I've got a bad feeling about this. Come on, get dressed."

"I suppose you're going to watch.” Why am I whispering? “A little bit of privacy would be nice."

"Maybe I like watching you.” She saw the gleam of teeth in a smile, before he ghosted across to her window, peered out. “I promise I won't look. Unless you want me to."

She stretched, yawning. It was cold, so cold she wondered if the heaters had stopped working. Slid her feet out of bed, shivering. “I can't figure out whether I like you or want to heave you out the window."

"You don't have to like me. I'm just here to keep you alive.” The way he said it almost hurt.

"I spent the day reading Melwyn Halston's last diary. Did you know he was involved with a Drakul? Guy was named Samuel. They were apparently really tight—"

"Chess, get dressed.” His shoulders were rigid. “Please."

"I am getting dressed.” She was already in a T-shirt and boxers, and she grabbed jeans, underwear, and socks, retreating to the bathroom. The light stung her eyes, and she shivered as she used the toilet and dressed quickly, tying her hair back in a sloppy ponytail. You idiot, I'm trying to be nice to you. Her teeth almost chattered as she opened the door and stepped out, was temporarily blinded when Ryan reached around the corner and flipped off the bathroom light.

"There's a scout in the alley.” His tone was so calm, he sounded like he was ordering a pizza. “You'll need a coat."

A demon? Outside? “Did you turn the heat off?” She edged for her closet, found a sweater by touch, and pulled it over her head.

"No. Are you cold?"

She nodded, forgetting it was dark. “My coat's in the hall clos—"

He seemed to blur through space, ending up with his arm around her, spinning as the window shattered and the warding laid across it fluoresced into the visible spectrum, popping and hissing as threads of energy snapped. Chess let out a short, sharp yell, found herself shoved toward the door as Ryan cursed, a sharp vehement sound. Her fingers closed around the doorknob as something snarling and smelling horribly fetid landed with a thump inside her bedroom window. Chess yanked on the door and found she was breathless. The high, thin screaming sound was her, and she tore the bedroom door open and spilled out into her living room.

Growls and thumps shook the building. She heard Ryan's voice, cursing again, and the shivering sound of breaking glass. That was probably my Keaton print! Goddammit!

Her demon-hunting bag was on the kitchen table. Chess bolted for it, running behind the couch and hooking around the wall into the dining room. There was another confused flurry of motion, more glass breaking, and Paul appeared out of the darkness near her living-room window, a gun roaring. She actually saw the muzzle flash and ran into her table, almost tripping over a teetering stack of physics and English textbooks. Her bag was over her head in a trice, thank God she'd put her knife back in it.

All right. I think I can handle this. She plunged her right hand in her bag, whirling back toward the window, her hip banging the table a good one. Her fingers closed around the hilt and she yanked the knife out just as her bedroom door shattered, something dark and human-sized flung through it with incredible force, demolishing the flimsy wood.

I am never going to get my damage deposit back. She took a deep breath, and blue light burst out as she dragged the knife free of her bag. “In nominae Eumenidae, coniurat vax!"

It was bastardized Latin, meant to show any demon hidden in the vicinity, but it worked. She heard a chilling scream of demonic pain as Ryan hauled himself up from the floor. He'd just been tossed through her bedroom door.

"Ryan!” Paul backed up, two guns in his hands, both leveled at a patch of snarling, rabid darkness cringing in the corner near the entertainment center. The TV screen glowed with blue phosphorescence, the smell of ozone crackling through her apartment. Her teeth chattered. She expected to see her breath plume on the air. Why is it so cold?

"I'm on it.” Ryan sounded calm. “Chess?"

"What the fuck is it?” Well, for once I sound capable of kicking ass.

"Get her out of here, Paul. There's a High One close."

"Holy shit.” Paul kept backing up, skirting her couch gracefully without looking. His guns were steady, but his hair stuck up anyhow. He looked as if he'd been awakened a little less gently than she had. Chess stared at the cringing thing. High One? What does he mean, High One? I don't like the sound of that.

"What do you mean, High—” The smell of burning charcoal and dried blood tainted the cool night wind pouring in through the broken window. Chess ducked reflexively, Paul let out a shapeless yell, and Ryan was suddenly there, colliding with the thing a scant two feet from Chess, driving it down next to her kitchen table with a cracking sound. He'd broken the floor, he'd hit it so hard.

Even the skornac wasn't that fast. It's a kibbik. Oh my God, a kibbik in my living room! She finally placed the smell, charcoal and copper, according to the books it was all teeth and hair and appetite.

And they usually roamed in packs.

It squealed in a falsetto that sawed right through Chess's head. She might have stabbed herself with her own knife while trying to clap her hands over her ears to shut it out, if the cry hadn't been cut short with a gurgle.

Ryan rose, spinning his knife around his fingers, black demon blood exploding free of the shining metal. “Put that thing away, Chess!” he barked. “Paul, get the fuck back here!"

"No need to shout.” Paul had Chess's arm, hauled her up. He tried to wrestle the glowing-blue knife free of her numb fingers. Chess ripped away from him. “Let's go. Put the Fang away, girl, it might cripple him!"

What the— Understanding flashed. The knife affected anything demonic, it glowed whenever Ryan was around. It was either put the knife away and trust the Drakul, or keep the knife out and risk affecting him, maybe to the point he couldn't fight. “My knife,” she said, numbly. “It's my knife, I'm not going to—"

"Please, Chess.” Ryan had her arm. He squinted, his black eyes suddenly alive and alight with a feral intensity that made his face not only sharp but handsome. He dragged her into the kitchen, Paul moving behind them with his guns trained on the windows. “Just stick the knife in your bag or something. It hurts."

Nope, definitely not going to get the damage deposit back, she thought inanely as she heard more scrabbling little sounds from her bedroom. God, if you're listening, I'd really like to take all this back. Okay?

"Christ, there's a whole tribe of them.” Paul's voice was a little higher than usual. Ryan paused at Chess's front door just long enough to flip the locks. “The trouble with fucking Tribbles."

"Steady, Malik.” Ryan pulled the door open. Chess flinched as yellow light from the hall fixtures flooded in. “They're planning on driving us out through the front door. Sloppy."

"Are you sure it's the front door they're planning on?” Paul dragged the door closed behind them and ran to keep up, Ryan's long strides eating the distance. “Chess, goddammit, put the knife away."

"That's my house,” she heard herself protest. “They're in my house!"

"Everything in there can be replaced, one way or another. You can't.” Ryan reached over, grabbed her wrist, and shoved her hand back into her bag. “That's better. Remember the rules, Chess? Move with me, stay behind me, don't grab my arm. And run when I tell you to.” He was going the wrong way down the hall, toward the utility door instead of toward the door that led to the main stairs.

"Kibbik.” Her voice was high and thin. “Roams in packs, smells of copper and the burning of charcoal. According to Morelly, vulnerable to garlic crushed into a paste; Delmonico scoffs at the idea—"

"We know what it is,” Paul hissed. “Shut up."

"Leave her alone.” Ryan's hand was bruising-hard on her arm, he all but dragged her. “It's her way of coping.” He actually kicked the fire door off its hinges, the heavy door crumpled as if made of paper. “It's okay, Chess. Just keep close."

"Scavengers,” she whispered. The knifehilt was slick against her palm, her hand trapped in her bag. Her teeth chattered as Ryan pulled her down the stairs, she honestly couldn't tell if her feet were even touching the steps.

"There's a High One out there.” He sounded grim. “You've read about them if you've read Delmonico, the siafeaine. The Unnamed."

"The Unnamed?" Her voice bounced off the stairwell walls, it was oddly silent otherwise. Ryan made no more sound than a hunting cat, and Paul moved very quietly. “There's one of those out there?"

"There is. It's why you're so cold. Now be quiet, for God's sake, sweetheart."

Quit calling me that. The flood of irritation swept through her, slapped her into thinking again. The Unnamed. Big, tough, unstoppable, another one of those “if you meet these, run and kiss your ass goodbye. Or in O'Mailey's words, “Make thy peace with God, hunter, for thou wilt face Judgment soon.” Wonderful. “How do you kill one of them?"

Ryan dragged her around a corner, his feet barely brushing the steps. “You don't. You get the hell out of here with Paul and leave it to me."

"Ryan—” Paul sounded as breathless as she felt. “You can't—"

"If I'm going to die, I'm going to die protecting her,” he replied shortly. They reached the last flight of stairs, he slowed and glanced down at Chess. “You go with Paul if I tell you to. Clear?"

I am not leaving you to face an Unnamed alone. The words rose up, and she wondered why exactly she'd think something like that at a time like this. But she felt a burst of panic just under her breastbone when she thought of him facing down the worst type of demon—a demon that looked like a tall, thin humanoid with pale skin and incandescent eyes. Most demons were ugly, but the books couldn't agree if the Unnamed were ugly in a particularly beautiful way, a way that induced nausea—or if they were beautiful. Beautiful enough to warrant the worship some of them had received from human cults of spilled blood and flayed flesh.

The idea of a pretty demon made a hysterical laugh rise under her breastbone as Ryan stopped between one step and the next right inside the utility door. “I mean it, Chess.” He looked like he did, too; his eyes flashed and his mouth drew into a thin line when he wasn't speaking. “No heroics. You get on your bike with Paul, and you get the hell out of town."

She shook her head, mute. Not going to, she thought. Her fingers tightened inside her bag, the hilt of her knife slipping in sweat.

Ryan didn't argue, he simply let go of her arm and ghosted to the utility door. He cocked his head, listening, and Chess clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Her demon-hunting bag lay heavily against her hip; her fingers still curled around the hilt of her knife. The blurring, buzzing, prickling sensation of the knife reacting to demons jolted up her arm, now that she had time to pay attention to it. Her heart pounded thinly, and her mouth was dry. Creeping cold spilled through her arms and legs, she swayed.

Paul caught her arm, kept her upright. He said nothing, watching Ryan. There was no trace of superciliousness or arrogance. Instead, he looked like a professional waiting for the right moment, having done everything he could and commended his soul to God.

She winced inwardly. Why do you think of things like that at a time like this, Chess? Jeez.

Then she began to hear little soft sliding sounds.

Gooseflesh prickled up her back. The sounds were too quick and light to be human. She'd never before imagined that the sound of footsteps could be terrifying in its inhumanity. Her eyes locked on Ryan's shoulders, his quarter-profile as he listened intently causing a funny flutter just under her ribs. It's going to be okay. He's here.

Ryan held up his hand. “Alley's clear,” he mouthed. “They expected us out through the front, didn't know about this door. Cover Chess."

"Locked and loaded, baby.” Paul sounded serious. There was a double click—hammers, on guns, drawn back. “No fucking Inkani's going to get his mitts on your girl, Drakul."

Up the stairs, there were little tapping sounds. Creaking. A snarl.

Ryan tore the door open and moved out. Paul pushed Chess in front of him. Darkness folded around them, the darkness of an alley where night came early, the last light fading from the cloudy sky. Cold caressed Chess's entire body, cold and the spilling terrible weakness she'd felt before. The alley slipped by in a blur, Ryan stopping to herd them through a door in the apartment building opposite, a door he simply wrenched open as if it wasn't locked. Metal pinged and hit the alley floor; it had been locked. The deadbolt glinted in the dim light as Paul dragged her past. “Ryan, she's passing out or something."

"Might be the High One.” Ryan sounded thoughtful. They were in a long, dimly lit hall, doors opening off on either side. “This should bring us out on the street, and we'll have a fighting chance to get out."

"We like getting out. Getting out's good."

"Getting out safe's better."

"Well, nobody's disputing that."

They sound like they're at a party. God, get me out of this. I promise. No more fried food. No more extramarital sex. At least, not without love. Her brain kept veering like a frightened rabbit. A utility corridor, she realized. This was storage space or a utility corridor, just above the basement in the building next to hers.

The relief that came from solving that one simple puzzle was short-lived. The cold robbed her arms and legs of strength. She could barely keep up even with Paul dragging her. The prickling up her arm from the knife was the only thing keeping her on her feet; a warm wire of strength flooding up her arm and into her chest. She took a deep breath. Darkness swallowed them, she stumbled, and Paul's hand curled around her shoulder, held her upright.

"Um, Ryan? We can't see."

"It's all right. It gets better in a little bit. Just keep moving."

"Just keep moving, the man says.” Paul spoke under his breath, and Chess began to get the idea that the banter was for her benefit. If there was a chance they would be overheard, Ryan would have insisted on silence. Instead, they were lightening the situation. Making jokes. Gallows humor.

Her teeth chattered until she clenched her jaw. It was cold, the type of cold that stole into her marrow like frozen lead, making her arms and legs heavy. There was something else, too; something that teased at the edges of her mind, something she should remember, some important thing she wasn't thinking of.

"It's getting colder,” she whispered. “We're getting nearer to it. It was c-cold in the t-tavern t-too."

"It was? Don't worry, Chess. Everything's well in hand."

Don't worry, he says. I'm thinking I should be worrying right about now.

"Ryan—” This from Paul, whose hand suddenly bit into Chess's shoulder.

"Hang on a second.” There was a sound, soft and scraping, then a jingle. Chess stopped short, her breath coming in shallow sips. “Everyone involved in this is forgetting one damn thing."

"What?” I sound breathless. The cold bit into her bones, her knees turned to water, and Paul held her up with an arm around her shoulders. It's so cold. So cold.

"I'm part demon,” Ryan said, calmly enough. “And I'm not stupid. Something's wrong."

A faint edge of light appeared, a slice of dimness widening as he swept the door open. “Besides, there's something else. Something doesn't smell right here."

"What the hell do you—” Paul sounded like he'd been punched.

And that was when all hell broke loose.

Chess screamed as something boiled through the door, a wave of coldness so intense it burned. Then Paul shoved her aside, into the doorjamb, and there was the roar of gunfire. But it sounded wrong somehow. She couldn't quite think of why. A long, howling scream, Ryan yelling her name, and a warm hand closed around Chess's left wrist, giving a terrific yank that almost dislocated her shoulder. Her knife suddenly blazed with hurtful blue radiance, there was a confused flurry of motion as whatever had her arm let go. Chess's knees hit the floor with a grating shock.

A terrific impact smashed against her right hand, knocking the knife away; it skittered uselessly on concrete and Chess looked up, dazed, into Paul's dark horrified eyes. What did he… Why? He'd kicked her, kicked the knife right out of her suddenly numb right hand.

She heard her own horrified gasp and a low sound of pain that sounded like Ryan's. Another sound, awfully familiar, as if a fist made of concrete had just hit a heavy bag. But the other low sound of pain she heard told her it wasn't a heavy bag, it was Ryan, someone had smacked him a good one.

Paul held the gun, and it was pointed at her. “Don't move, Chess.” His lips were pulled back in a rictus of a smile, white sharp teeth gleaming in the sudden flare of crimson torchlight. “They want you alive. It'll all be over soon."