The Demon's Librarian

CHAPTER 5

He didn't listen to her, of course, and had a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast for her as soon as she appeared, showered, in clean clothes, and feeling marginally more able to handle the situation. He hadn't done her toast right—Chess preferred it just lightly toasted, and he'd damn near burned it—but she was so hungry she didn't care. He had even made coffee, and it was little consolation that he'd managed to do that right. The coffee alone was strong enough to eat a silver spoon.

By the time she finished the first piece of toast—made tolerable by a liberal layer of strawberry jam and frequent gulps of coffee with cream—she was feeling much better. The ointment, reapplied after her shower, had worked its sorcery, and she was well on her way to simmering with fury. It was only eleven o'clock in the morning. If she was at work she would be shelving for a little bit before lunch. The rain had blown itself out, now the windows darkened when a cloud went over the sun and brightened when it came back out.

"So the Malik are human, but they've got sorcerous talent. They're like sorcerers. What are… Dragool?"

"Drakul,” he corrected. Settled on the other side of her table, his black eyes focused on the wickedly-curved, sharp-looking knife he was oiling, he looked far more deadly than he had this morning. His profile was harsh, especially when he was concentrating, and he didn't treat the knife with the same delicate care he'd used on her knee. Instead, his eyebrows were drawn together, and he looked almost distracted but still… well, lethal. Muscle moved in his arm as he lifted the knife, eyeing the blade critically, and her heart began to pound. He had a black bag with a flap and a shoulder strap; it seemed to hold a lot of odds and ends he probably needed for demon hunting, like her own bag. “Drakulein. The Order of the Dragon. In 1431 the original order—meant to fight against the infidel in Eastern Europe—was expanded. One of Sigismund of Luxembourg's vassals was a Malik, a kind of medieval demon-hunter. He got a secret charter from Sigismund, who was King of Hungary. Then he started finding men with demon blood."

"Demon blood?” She almost forgot to eat, this was so interesting. But she was absolutely starving and took another bite of toast and contemplated more coffee. I have a big, tall demon hunter sitting at my kitchen table. Whoa. She was beginning to feel almost charitable toward him, despite him dangling her from her throat and spying on her.

"Whether by rape, by trickery, or through bargaining, Others have been breeding with humans for a long time. Not all of them have tentacles or are foul-smelling dogs. Anyway, the children of those unions usually had lots of sorcerous talent and the changes in bone structure began at about that time, we think. We're not sure. Sigismund's vassal laid the foundation for the Order. When Sigismund died, the human Order of the Dragon—"

"Wait a minute. Dracul.” She made the connection. The 1400s, Order of the Dragon, Eastern Europe. Oh my God. “You mean like Vlad Tepes? As in—"

"He wasn't one of ours. He was part of the human order, just a warlord in Wallachia.” But he looked pleased that she knew her history. He set the knife down, and his eyes settled on her. They were so dark, iris blending into pupil, it gave his gaze a piercing intensity she wasn't sure she liked. “Anyway, that was the start of it. When Sigismund died, the human Order went into decline, but the Malik and Dracul… we stayed. We had to. Demons were everywhere, feeding on the chaos wars left behind, and we had a hard time clearing out territories so people could sleep at night without worrying about the sounds they heard outside. There were outbreaks, of course, but after 1607 we were largely in control of things. I'm Drakul, my father and mother both had demon blood. Gave me some trouble when I was young, I could do things ordinary kids couldn't. I learned early and well to be circumspect; but my mom couldn't handle the demon in me coming out. Neither could anyone else, and I got labeled a runaway and a juvenile delinquent.” His mouth turned down bitterly at both corners. “Then the Malik found me. I haven't looked back since."

"So you're… part…” Her mouth was dry. She took a hurried gulp of coffee, scorching her tongue. Ouch. So that's why he moves so fast and why my knife's been acting funny. Why didn't any of the books warn me about this? I thought he was human. Like me.

"Part demon, lacking a soul. Scared of me yet?” He gave her a bright, sunny smile, the tips of his white teeth showing, his eyes cold and dark.

Yes. Of course I am. I saw you move last night. Too fast to be human, and you survived a five-story drop onto concrete. My God. “No. If you mess with my library, I'll find some way to get rid of you.” She popped a piece of toast into her mouth, chewed, and took another drink of coffee. It was too hot, but she needed the caffeine. “So you lost the guy in tweed—Paul."

"Yeah. He didn't meet me at the rendezvous, and didn't meet your friend. That means something's wrong. It's not like Paul to miss a dinner date. He thinks he's a goddamn Casanova.” He slid the knife back into its sheath and took something else out of his bag. It looked like a coil of copper wire. The shoulder of his T-shirt was still torn and crusted with dried blood, and her conscience suddenly gave a hard twinge.

So he'd been watching her because he suspected her of having something to do with the disappearance. He'd still intervened, getting that thing away from her window. She'd been too exhausted to recognize the danger. He deserved a little slack, even if he had practically manhandled her in her own home. “Hey, take your shirt off."

That managed to get a reaction. He looked steadily at her, his jaw gone hard as stone and his eyes hard, closed-off, and almost feral.

"I mean it,” she persisted. I'm offering you an olive branch, you bossy jerk. Take it, why don't you? “I've got some T-shirts left from an ex-boyfriend. One of them will probably fit you. I'll wash the one you're wearing and put it in my mending. No reason for you to go around all bloody."

He still stared at her as if she'd just informed him there was something unspeakable in his cornflakes. Chess sighed. “Fine. Forget it. So you want me to help you find this guy Paul. All right. Where do we start?"

"Nightfall.” He looked back down at the table. “If you've got an extra shirt, I'll take it. I can mend this one, but it would be nice to have it washed."

"You could probably use a shower, too. It was pretty dirty and wet out there last night.” And I ran out in my pajamas. I haven't even looked at my coat yet. If I bled on it I'll have to take it to dry cleaning and wear my camel coat… dammit. And if I'm out all night I'm going to drag at work tomorrow. Lovely. “So this… Order. You'll keep them away from me and my library if I cooperate?” I've admitted to having the books. Her heart rose to her throat, she swallowed hard. Whether she liked it or not, she had to trust him now.

He shrugged. “The Malik aren't likely to believe you took out a skornac on your own, so they probably won't believe you found a cache the Order's been trying to find for over a hundred years either. Halston was Golden, he had a falling-out with the Order and hid his books. He's part of the reason why this is a free city. I'll have to figure out who to blame the dead skornac on and figure out…” He blew out a long, frustrated breath, looking far less scary and far more human. “I'll do my best, sweetheart. I promise."

Again with the sweetheart. “You can call me Chessie,” she offered, taking a forkful of egg. “Everyone does. No more of the sweetheart stuff, okay?"

"Sorry.” He didn't look sorry. He kept rummaging in his bag, taking little things out, reorganizing. It looked like a nervous tic, but she couldn't imagine him nervous. “Look, there's something else."

"Huh?” Her coffee had cooled, and she took down half of it in three gulps, waiting for the caffeine to hit her system. I am dealing with this really well, she thought for the fiftieth time, and felt like it might actually be true. She had a bloody bully of a demon hunter sitting at her kitchen table, and he didn't look like he minded the books stacked on the other chairs and on the unused end of the table. He hadn't gone looking through her bookshelves yet, but she was feeling charitable. He didn't look as if he minded the clutter or her collection of Charlie Chaplin memorabilia.

The scrambled eggs weren't bad either. Neither was his coffee.

And he knew about demons. She could talk to him. Just the thought was enough to make her feel relieved.

"You want to be careful.” He stared at his left hand, lying spread on the table. “Drakul… well, we have instincts. And they're not pretty."

She waited, but he said nothing else. “Instincts? What kind of instincts?” This doesn't sound good.

"Don't run,” he finally said. “If I grab you and tell you to stay still, stay still. I've got a reason for everything I tell you to do. Can you agree to do what I tell you, at least for the time being?"

She finished her eggs, almost feeling her blood sugar level rise back up from the basement. All things considered, for being flung against a Dumpster and possibly given a concussion, she felt pretty good. Except for the deep bruising pain in her shoulder and the way her eyes refused to focus fully for a long time. Not to mention the headache pounding behind her temples, and the aching in her leg.

Yeah. Pretty good. “Is it… like a cat? If you dangle string in front of them, they'll chase it?"

"Kind of.” He looked like he wanted to say more, shook his head. “I've been hunting demons for a couple decades. I'm the expert here, and I don't want you getting hurt like last night. Okay?"

I never thought a man telling me what to do would be even remotely acceptable. “Decades? All right. For now, you're the boss. When it comes to demons, that is.” She nodded, her freshly washed hair sliding forward over her shoulders. “I generally work much better when people explain why they want me to do something, though."

He looked relieved. “I'll pretend you're a new Malik. I've trained a bunch of them, shouldn't be that bad. But it's very important that if I tell you to be still, you freeze. Got it?"

Why? “Why? I mean, why's that so important?” And it's going to be really damn hard to stand in one place if there's a demon around, buddy. I'll either want to run or take it on. I don't do well with doing nothing.

"It just is.” His jaw set again and his eyes glittered. “Trust me."

What the hell. Why not. “All right. For now.” She yawned, patting her mouth delicately, like Sleeping Beauty. I should call the library. “I need to call in to work, make sure everything's okay, and I should do some laundry if I'm going to be home today."

"You should rest.” His eyes dropped to the table. “Tonight's probably going to be a little stressful."

You know, when you say that, I bet it means something totally different than when I say it. “All right. After I put a load of laundry in and call the library, I'll take a nap. I feel like I've been thrown up against a Dumpster.” She managed a weak smile. “Why don't you go get cleaned up and I'll dig out a new shirt for you, to start with?"

He looked up, and there was something in the darkness of his eyes that made her heart do a triple backflip. Well, I suppose if I had to have a total bully of a demon hunter sitting at my kitchen table, he's not so bad. Her smile quickly grew more natural, and he searched her face as if wanting to be sure she meant it.

Then he offered his right hand over the table. “Sounds good. Partners?"

She took his hand. It was much bigger than hers, callused, and very warm. “Partners. Just don't boss me around.” A couple of halfhearted shakes, and she pulled her fingers away, pushed her chair back, and made it to her feet. Her knee twinged, and her bed started to sound really good.

"I'll do my best,” he muttered, messing around with his bag again. Chess decided that was good enough, and carried her dirty dishes into the kitchen. How much worse can this get? But if I'm going up against another demon, having someone like him on my side is far from the worst help I could have.

The trouble with being intelligent was that logic always had another link in the chain ready. Always assuming, of course, that he's really on my side.

"Hey.” A hand on her shoulder, a gentle shake. “Hey, wake up a little, sweetheart."

We're really going to have to negotiate something else for you to call me. Chess blinked, trying to wake up. Wait a second, who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom? Oh, yeah. Right. “Murph. Go ‘way.” She sounded slurred and exhausted.

Go figure. I was just getting comfortable playing possum.

"Someone's at your door. Sounds like a man."

"What?” Now she could hear the knocking. Three knocks, then two, a familiar pattern.

Oh, no. Could this get any worse? “It's Robert,” she managed, waking up a little more and propping herself up on her elbows. The light through her window had turned gray again, more rain. And the angle the light was falling through the door told her it was afternoon, the blue of her comforter and the rug making her room look filled with sky. She'd been asleep for a while, just passed out. Buster Keaton gazed sadly at her from the print on her wall. “Crap."

"Who's Robert?” Ryan stood by the side of her bed, sliding his hands into his pockets. The only shirt big enough to fit him was a black, long-sleeved NIN T-shirt she'd used for sleeping in after breaking up with Martin the Mexican Bandit, as Charlie had called him. He filled it out better than Marty had, his broad chest framing the logo nicely. Wow. He looks really good in that.

More knocks on the door. Great. Wonderful. Perfect. “Soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend,” she managed, sliding her feet out from under the covers and rubbing at her eyes. “Just a minute!" she called, loud enough that Ryan jumped a little. “Sorry,” she mock-whispered. “He's a real jerk, I've been trying to get rid of him."

"Want help?” And, wonder of wonders, the demon hunter gave a lopsided, very amused smile. He'd combed his short hair and taken a shower, the slice on his forehead was gone as if it had never existed.

She wondered if he'd used the salve or if being part-demon made him heal faster. Curiosity, my besetting sin. I should be scared of him, he's a big bully. But I haven't slept this well in weeks. “Where would we hide the body?” She yawned, stretched, and reached for her robe. She'd chosen a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of boxers to sleep in. Her hair was probably sticking up every-which-way, but she was long past any need to impress Robert. Did you get tired of that Cuban piece of trash, Rob? “He's been cheating on me with a waitress named Carmen. Plus, he only tips ten percent.” She struggled into her pink fluffy robe, tying the waistband with a savage jerk. “Anyway, I'll get rid of him. Just hold on."

She shuffled out into the living room just as he knocked again. “I'm coming!"

God, I sound irritated. I was dreaming. Wasn't I? I think I was dreaming.

She didn't hear him, but when she glanced back over her shoulder from the hall Ryan was right behind her. “I'll handle it,” she mouthed, and he nodded, but his dark eyes were gleaming. “Who is it?” she called.

"Baby, it's Robert.” His voice was muffled by the door. “I called the library, they said you were sick, so I decided to come by and help nurse you.” She could almost hear his eyebrows raising.

You sleazy son of a bitch. I just got tossed into the side of a Dumpster last night, but you think I have food poisoning, and you want sex? Oh, I am SO ready to be done with you. “I'm not in the mood for company,” she hedged. “I feel really sick, Rob."

"I'll make you some soup. Chicken soup. All right? Open up, baby.” Rob's tenor voice was smooth, cajoling. He was trying to charm her. Again.

Too bad she didn't feel charmed.

She slid up to the door, unlocked the two deadbolts, flipped the lock in the doorknob, and opened the door a crack, peering out.

Rob's fair blond face greeted her. He wore his beret, perched on his expensive, artfully-mussed haircut. His shirt was open a little, his coat hanging wetly on him, and he wore jeans and a pair of Testoni loafers. He was also carrying a bunch of daisies, probably yanked from someone's window box.

You jerk. He'd been nice while he lasted, but she had so many other things to worry about now it wasn't even funny. Besides, the sex wasn't that good, especially if he was dipping his wick elsewhere. “Robert.” She tried to sound sick, succeeded in sounding exhausted. “I'm not in the mood. Go away."

He held up the flowers, offering his most charming smile. The one that made his blue eyes twinkle. “Come on, baby. Let me in, I'll play doctor."

Goddammit, I said no. Chess took a firmer grip on her temper. “I said no."

He stepped forward, still smiling, and Chess's stomach flipped. “Open up, Chess. You've been avoiding me, I want to know why. I'll make you some soup, we can talk."

I am not in a talkative mood. I have a demon hunter in my house and my life has just sped into the Twilight Zone. “Go talk to Carmen,” she said, and watched his face fall. He slid right into “pretty repentance” without even missing a beat. Very slick, he must have done this before.

"Carmen was a mistake, Chessie. You know that.” He used his most cajoling tone, spread the fingers of his left hand against the door, and pushed. Chess, caught off-balance, stepped back. Her heart hammered. He was acting a lot more aggressively than she'd thought he was capable of. “Let me in."

What happened next surprised both of them. Ryan's fingers curled around the door and he pulled it back, opening it further. He had also stepped forward so his chest brushed Chess's back, looming over her. “Who is it, sweetheart?” His tone could best be described as “combative,” and Chess had the distinct pleasure of seeing Robert turn cheese-pale, his right hand with its cargo of stolen flowers drooping back to his side. “Who's this?"

Chess found her voice. “It's Robert.” I sound uncomfortable. What a surprise, I feel pretty damn uncomfortable. Would he just have pushed past me if Ryan wasn't here?

Then the demon hunter slid his right arm around her ribs, resting his chin on her head; she was short enough that he could do that. He was very warm, the heat of him working through his T-shirt, her robe, and her own shirt. Her heart hammered in her chest as if she was facing down the skornac again, but it was—wasn't it? — almost comforting to feel his arm around her and his solidity behind her. “Oh, yeah. Your friend. Nice of you to come by and check on Chess, but she's really sick. She should be in bed.” He gave the last two words far more significance than they merited, and Chess felt heat rising to her cheeks. Oh, fucking hell. I'm blushing. Lovely. But I wanted this guy gotten rid of, didn't I? “I took the day off to take care of her."

And how Ryan managed to inject that chauvinistic sense of possessiveness in the last four words was beyond her. It was probably a testosterone thing. As it was, it sounded very caveman. Me Ogg, take care of woman. Grunt. Snort.

Robert stared up, his blue eyes narrowing. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “Chessie, who the hell is this?"

The totally inappropriate desire to laugh like a maniac rose in her chest and was ruthlessly strangled. “This is Ryan. We've been spending some time together.” And you can make whatever you like of that statement, Rob. You will anyway. What, you think I belong to you? Not even if you weren't a cheating asshole. I belong to me. “Do me a favor and pay the person whose garden you burgled for those flowers, okay?"

"You bitch,” Rob hissed, and Ryan went tense behind her. “You fucking bitch!"

"I think you'd best shut your mouth, friend.” Ryan's tone was even, soft, and merciless. “Or I might decide to shut it for you. You want this guy around, Chessie?"

At least he didn't call me “sweetheart." She watched all the color drain out of Rob's face. She didn't blame him, the sense of cold danger exhaling from behind her was enough to make Chess want to wriggle away. But she stayed still, watching Robert and glorying in a not-very-nice feeling of satisfaction. “No,” she said finally. “I don't ever want to see his face again.” Go back to Carmen, you arrogant jerk.

Ryan eased her back, his hand still on the door. Then he pushed it. It swung shut with a decisive click, and he reached forward, flipped both deadbolts loudly, and clicked the lock in the doorknob.

Well, that was easy. Chess sighed. She waited, but he didn't let go of her. Robert stood there for maybe ninety seconds, she heard the smack of the flowers hitting her door and his heavy footfalls as he stamped away.

"Well,” she said finally, when she heard the door at the end of the hall slam. “One problem out of my hair, at least. Thanks.” She moved as if to step away from Ryan, but his arm tightened. “What? Let go, it's okay. He's gone."

He didn't move, and Chess tried to step away again, reaching down and grabbing his wrist, trying to peel his arm away from her ribs. “Hey. Leggo. Come on."

"You'd better stay still.” The chill, soft tone in his voice hadn't altered, he sounded thoughtful, and very very dangerous. “Just for a second. I wasn't ready for that."

What? “What weren't you ready for? He's just a jerk. A two-timing jerk, I might add. Nice touch with the voice. Very cavemen. Let go of me."

He did, so suddenly she stumbled, almost falling against the wall and barking her elbow a good one. Ow! “What the hell—"

Her shoulders hit the wall, Ryan's fingers sinking in. He held her at arm's length, her back against the wall and her hip pressed into the little rubber thingie that kept the doorknob from bashing a hole in the drywall. “I smell like you.” He sounded distracted now, too. Cold, dangerous, and distracted, a bad combination. His hair stuck to his forehead—was he sweating? His eyes were half-closed, and a muscle in his cheek twitched madly. “I think it's the shirt. Dammit."

"What?” Oh, Christ. What the hell is this? Is it a demon? Not during the day, no; at least I don't think so. “What's wrong with you?"

His hands were shaking. His fingers didn't hurt her, but he held her still. Her hair fell in her face and she wanted to brush it away, didn't dare move. “Instinct,” he muttered. “Triggered it. Hard to think. Just… stay still."

Uh-oh. He said they weren't pretty, these instincts. Does he want to hurt me? Oh, Lord, it's a fine time to wish someone else was here, even Rob.

"Talk to me,” he said hoarsely. “Please, Chessie."

At least he didn't call me “sweetheart.” Things are looking up. “About what?"

"Anything. Keep talking and stay still."

Are you kidding? I want to brush my teeth, and I have to pee, and I want to go back to bed and forget about all this. Goddammit, Rob, of course you would come by and ruin everything. I was just starting to like this guy, too. Note to self: don't let mean old demon hunters help you get rid of old boyfriends. It only ends in disaster. What am I supposed to talk about? Her mouth was dry, and for once in her life Chess couldn't find a single goddamn thing to say.

His eyes closed. He was sweating, and she didn't even try to move. “Talk… to… me.” Now he sounded pleading.

Books. Let's talk about books. “My favorite book of all time is Jane Eyre. But I suppose Huckleberry Finn is the one I love the most. Twain was a genius, and the layers of symbolism in the book are just amazing.” The back of her throat tickled with the urge to cough; she settled for clearing her throat. “The river, for example. It can mean freedom or slavery, life or death and destructiveness, depending on which part you read. For symbolism, though, it's hard to beat poetry—Emily Dickinson. Baudelaire, who just happens to be the best there is at symbols right next to Rimbaud. But my favorite is Yeats. In particular, Sailing To Byzantium. When I hear it read, say, by someone with a British accent, I just get shivers.” I'm running out of things to say, help me, God. What's wrong with him?

He leaned in, his eyes still closed, and actually sniffed her hair, taking a deep whiff. This is the strangest thing that's happened to me lately. And that's saying something. He's smelling me. Why?

His fingers loosened. She took a deep breath. “Other poets.” Her voice sounded thin and breathless. “Shakespeare, for one, though I'm not really a fan of Elizabethan. I actually really like Marlowe, what little I've read of him. I hope you're okay. This is the weirdest thing I've dealt with in six months, and that's really saying something. Thanks for helping me get rid of Rob, but if I'd known it was going to do this to you I would have just let him bang on the door until he got bored. That or called the cops.” Another deep breath. It was damn hard to breathe with a big dark-eyed hunk of man in a NIN T-shirt looming over her. Even if he was shaking and pale, sweating and slowly, slowly letting go of her shoulders. He hadn't hurt her, but he was still standing too close. Way inside her comfort zone. And smelling her hair didn't help either. It felt too goddamn intimate. “Don't hurt me. Please.” For God's sake, Chess, you just faced down an octopus demon and the best you can come up with is “don't hurt me?"

"Last thing on my mind,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Hurting you is the last thing on my mind. Don't worry."

I am not comforted by that in the least. “Can I move now? I want to go to the bathroom."

"Slowly. Very slowly.” His hands fell away from her shoulders, curled into fists. “Then you'd probably better go back to bed. Couple more hours before dusk hits, that's when we'll get started."

I don't want to go anywhere with you. “Yeah, sure. Like I can sleep now.” She edged along the wall away from him, toward the bathroom door. “Are you okay?"

He looked a little better now, his shoulders coming down and relaxing, his eyes still closed but his jaw not clenched nearly so tight. He nodded, his hands curling loosely into fists. “I won't hurt you, Chess. I just wasn't prepared for that."

"Prepared for what? Rob's a jerk, but he's just an old boyfriend. I know he's a sleazebucket, but even librarians have needs. And he got me tickets to a Rolling Stones concert.” The half-laugh she attempted fell flat. I'm trying to justify my taste in boy-tarts to this man. What the hell am I doing?

"I don't care about him.” The dismissive tone convinced her. “I just had a hard time with him threatening you. Go on, I'm okay now. I'm just going to breathe for a bit. You go do what you need to, get some rest."

Chess shook her head. “Fine. Great. Perfect.” It took all her self-control to keep moving one slow step at a time instead of bolting. “He wasn't threatening me. He's a big coward.” Keep talking, Chess. Keep him occupied.

"Just go, sweetheart. I'm okay now."

She got to the bathroom door. “Quit calling me sweetheart.” She shut it behind her, locked it—like that would keep him out, but it made her feel better—and slumped, trembling, against the counter, flipping on the light and exhaling shakily. Wow. I never want to do that again. He sounded fucking dangerous. What have I gotten myself into? I should have left those books alone.

But she hadn't had any choice, had she? It was as if the library had chosen her, and she'd felt compelled. The books needed someone to take care of them, and finding out about the existence of demons had cemented her responsibility to do something. He said she had a lot of talent, and there were people out there fighting to keep the innocent safe.

And any chance she'd had to walk away from this had fled the instant she'd run across the skornac feeding on the dead body of its nine-year-old victim. Nobody could see something like that and be unaffected.

Chess let out a shaky sigh. She was flushed and shaking, her hair tangled and tossed every which way, and she saw her eyes flicker nervously in the mirror. I look scared to death.

What a coincidence. I am.