The Demon's Librarian

CHAPTER 18

Darkness.

It was not the mothering darkness of night, the dark that called a hurtful flower of strength out from his demon half. No, this darkness was different. It closed around him like the steel jaws of a trap. He simply existed for a while, floating in the blackness, struggling to remember something very important. Something he had to do. The word came slowly, rising from the depths.

Chess.

Where was she? He had to find her.

Then the pain came, rolling in a great wave over him, and he returned to consciousness with a jolt. Red agony around his wrists, weight against his shoulders, he could barely breathe. His ribs felt like they'd been smashed in, and anklets of fiery pain closed around his ankles. He was hanging, and that told him what he needed to know even as the demon half of him felt others of its kind drawing close.

He forced his eyes open, a millimeter at a time. The light stung him, ruddy torchlight, fire straining and smoking against the choking breathless smell that was a High One. Salt stinging his eyes, too, sweat and warm blood, he felt the hot trickles from gaping holes in his chest. Four of them, nicely grouped.

Chess. Where is she? And the second thought: Who? What happened? They shot me, shot in the back, I remember that. But there was nobody behind us, I was certain of that Nobody except—

"I think he's coming around.” A familiar voice.

What the fucking hell?

Metal clashed as he stirred, unable to stop himself. He lifted his head, one slow screaming inch at a time. Stinging in his eyes, a rivulet of something warm running down his throat from his ear, his shoulders shrieking with rusty iron and broken glass.

He hung, his ankles loaded with weighted chains that crackled with etheric force. The black lightning of demon sorcery crawled over the cuffs at his wrists, too, shackling even a Drakul's strength.

Then another voice, a voice that slid along his skin like tiny, frozen, razor mouths, their bite so cold it didn't hurt for the first few seconds. A sibilant, soft, evil voice. “He iss traitor to hiss kind.” It was a High One. An unspeakable demon, a foulness on the face of Creation, one of the lords of hell.

And it was speaking to Paul.

The light ran through him. Paul and an Inkani.

What have you done? Jesus Christ, Paul, what have you done? It was impossible. Im-fucking-possible.

His mind began to work again through the screaming raw agony of pain from his wrists and shoulders. He was trained to function even through this blinding misery.

Paul had been gone from the rendezvous for days. The room had been rented out, a trap left for Ryan. Once the Inkani realized there was a potential in town, the High Ones would have come. They had been hunting down potentials for centuries and were damn good at it. They'd probably been alerted by the killing of the skornac and the golden scent that even then was following Chess around.

She was valuable, a potential so close to becoming a full Golden. The closer she was, the more powerful their Rite of Opening would be, and the more High Ones they could bring through to lord it over the skins.

But Paul didn't know she was a Golden!

No, he hadn't… but the books. The books would be valuable to the Inkani, to be used against the Malik. The sheela and the head librarian both stank of sorcery, and one of the library volunteers had been an Inkani dog. The demons had been trying to find the library for a long time, and Paul had taken himself off to strike a deal, certain the two women he suspected of knowing the cache's location would stay right where he wanted them, guarded by the dumb, faithful Drakul.

But first Paul had to find a demon who would listen, and then he had to bait and set the trap for Ryan. Once he found out Chess was the potential the Inkani were searching for, Paul had struck an even better deal. It all made sense now. And Paul had plenty of time to call in Chess's location while she was in the shower and Ryan was on the roof, checking the neighborhood.

Not only that, but the Malik flooding in to protect Chess would be walking blind into a trap full of the worst demons around. There would be horrible casualties.

"I know you can hear me.” Paul's voice, soft and bored. “Come on, Ryan. Wake up."

"Usselesss."

"You don't know him."

At least he still respects my abilities. His mouth was desert-dry. He opened his eyes further, straining.

The torchlight ran wet over stonekin-carved, fluid stone. It was a high arched chamber, proportioned subtly wrong. The chains hung from a hook at the very apex of the ceiling, and he knew without looking that the weights dangled into a circular shaft cut in the middle of the floor. The floor itself was sloped toward that maw, which would be floored with sharp iron spikes.

Sloped down, so that the blood would flow into the hole itself. It was a drakarnus, a torture chamber, built for one thing. Killing a Malik—or a Drakul—slowly.

One sharp, panicked burst of thought—Chess, where is she, are they doing this to her? — and then control clamped down, the often-tested control of a Drakulein in who the dark inheritance of demons ran stronger than most. He raised his head still more, and saw Paul. The man's sandy hair glowed in the crimson light, and he looked very pleased with himself, wearing the smile he usually wore after a long night spent with someone female. He was even wearing fresh clothing—that is, if you could call the long, dark robe clothing; it was an Inkani outfit. His dark eyes gleamed.

He looked, of all things, satisfied.

Think, Ryan. Quit flailing and think. They won't hurt her, she has to be whole for the Rite. They need her whole and perfect for their dirty work. Think, goddamn you!

Next to Paul was a thin, attenuated shape, and the growl rose in Ryan's chest. He couldn't help himself.

The High One blinked its fathomless blue eyes. It looked like a human; that was the worst part about them. Wide blue eyes, a sweetly-curved mouth, and a shock of dark hair matted into dreadlocks, each fat strand bound with writhing, silvery etheric force. The bladed cheekbones were subtly wrong, as was the shape of the nose, and the creature was corpse-pallid. Its six-fingered, wax-pale hands hung loosely by its sides, and it wore plain, dark, unornamented breeches and a simple shirt. The clothes did nothing to hide the essential alienness of the being, the way its joints moved with horrid oily grace, and how the air itself seemed to cringe away from it.

A killing smile hovered on the demon's lips. “Ah, the pup growlss. Mayhap it hath teeth."

Warm salt dripped into Ryan's eyes. The burning in his chest was slender, silver-coated ammunition, deadly to demonkind. Malik ammunition. He would heal from it, his human half doing what his demon half could not—but slowly. Too slowly. “Paul.” The word was a stone in his throat. “Where… is… she?"

"Safe. For now.” Paul was literally beaming. “All the women you want, Orion. Think of it. Money. Slaves. We can have it all. We're on the winning side now, Drakul. Maybe after they're done with the Rite you can have what's left of her. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Oh, you son of a bitch. There won't be anything left of her once they finish. You know that. His eyes threatened to close, he forced them open. His fingers were insensate wood, swollen and useless, the weights strapped to his ankles robbed him of leverage. And he heard the soft drip, drip, drip of his own blood, coating the iron spikes below. “Malik.” It was as close to accusation as he could come, with his cracked lips and swollen tongue. The pain drove red-hot pokers into his side, but he'd had worse. Much worse. Chess. Where are you, sweetheart? Christ. A traitor Malik… why?

"I'm tired of being a loser,” Paul said. “Tired of rooftops in the rain, of cheapass hookers and ice-cold Malik bitches. Sick of doing what I'm told. You are too. I know you are, I see it in you. You're stronger and faster than any Malik, and they treat you like crap.” He leaned forward, his tone dropping, becoming confidential. “Come on over to the winning side, Ryan. It's better that way. They'll even give you the librarian, after they're finished with her."

For a moment, Ryan thought rage might blind him. The fury rose, shoving aside the agony for one glorious red second—then retreated before the onslaught of pain as his battered body hung stretched between roof and chasm. Metal clashed and ground together, Inkani sorcery spitting and crackling as he swayed like a plucked string. His head flopped down, his neck no longer having the strength to hold it up.

"Sso.” The High One gave a chilling little laugh that sliced through the torchlight, making the oily, crimson glow gutter. “Usselesss he iss. Let uss leave him to reconssider."

A touch against Ryan's shoulder. The scream died in his throat, half-strangled. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him yell. The High One's breath washed over his face, loaded with its alien scent, and if he'd had a stomach left, that would have turned it. “We alwayss win, coussin,” the Inkani hissed, softly. “Alwayss."

Their footsteps retreated. “Think about it,” Paul said, before the sound of their feet—the High One's almost weightless, brushing the drum-head of stone that shrank back from its passing; Paul's stumbling human tread—retreated. There was nothing wrong with Ryan's ears. He focused through the sheet of blinding agony from his chest and shoulders and maltreated wrists. Underground. They had him underground, in tunnels they had built with stonekin slaves; they went up through a tunnel. No door—and no guard. They were going to leave him down here to rot.

Rage returned again, fruitless rage. Paul. Whoever would have thought the feckless Malik had it in him?

Why am I still alive?

The answer was simple. They thought Chess had told him where the books were, or how to get at them—because Paul couldn't find them, even after searching the library. They would come back as many times as they had to, to get that information out of him. But that wasn't his problem.

How far away is darkmoon? The Rite is at its most powerful at darkmoon. Three days, five at the most, depending on how long I've been out.

He coughed, his body curving into a taut shallow arc as red-hot pokers drilled through his chest. The chains clashed, spat, jangled.

Chess. Francesca. He hung still, then, swallowing the tickle at the back of his bloody throat. Copper tainted the inside of his mouth. Christ, he was in bad shape.

Not as bad as those bastards are going to be when I get my hands on them. Chess. Think, you big, dumb Drakul! Think!

She had to still be alive. If they had performed the Rite, they would know how to get to the books, there was no way she could stand up to that kind of torture. She wasn't made for it. Stubborn, yes; brave, yes; determined to fight, yes. But they would rip her soul out of her body and use her to power a portal between here and the foul place the High Ones escaped from, and she would be left a battered, bleeding wreck. She would tell them anything they wanted to know, and they would kill her anyway.

Stillness, then. The chains stopped their clashing as he hung motionless, barely even breathing. Sweat and blood ran down his skin. He could barely feel any clothing. Had they stripped him? He wouldn't put it past them.

It all made sense now. Paul showing up battered… but not as battered as he should have been if he'd really run across Inkani. Showing up just after the first Inkani spider had triggered its change, suggesting Ryan keep both Chess and her sister in the apartment, talking all night to gauge whether or not Ryan was alert, suggesting they try to get Chess out of town, possibly to lure Ryan into a prepared Inkani trap, unaccountably nervous and fearful not because of combat sickness, but because he was playing both sides of the field. It all made sense. How did they get to him? How? And for how long?

Who cared? Forget Paul. He was only an obstacle now, and a fragile one at best. He was, after all, only Malik.

Only human, when all was said and done.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, Ryan tensed the fingers of his right hand. Blood slid warm down his arm. The metal crackled uneasily—but he was demon, too. More strongly demon than most Drakul.

His eyes closed, Ryan concentrated.

So much time spent keeping the demon down, keeping it chained, exerting control. Control. He'd tried so hard to be gentle with Chess, and ended up dragging her into a trap. What would have happened if he'd sent her out with Paul alone? Christ.

Think of her, then. Think of her dark hair, the way her eyes are growing golden. Think of the way she smells. She smells good, and she bites her lower lip a little when she's concentrating. Think of her sitting there at her kitchen table, with her face in her hands. Think about that, Ryan.

A thin wire of warmth slid down his lip. His teeth were buried in his own flesh, one more note in the symphony of pain.

Chess, then. Her braid bobbing back and forth as she punched the heavy bag, her hand in his. You're a human being. You're the only one I trust. We're partners.

The only one I trust. Her face, open and peaceful, as she slept in her bed.

The demon in him stirred.

It wasn't so hard after all. So much iron control, so much denying himself, when all he had to do was relax for just a moment and let that other three-quarters of himself out. The black, roaring thing he kept chained and crouching stretched, finding itself trapped in a body hanging weighted from chains that crackled with power akin to it.

Chess, he whispered without speaking, the entire world narrowing to a pinprick of bloody crimson. Every muscle tensed against itself, his teeth driven into his lip, his eyes rolling back into his head as bones creaked under the strain and the chains stilled, even their static-laden murmur hushed.

Mine, the demon whispered, filling his veins with hot, bloody wine. Mine.

"Mine,” Ryan whispered back, agreeing. He loosed the last shackle of his control, and let the demon take him.