The Demon's Librarian

CHAPTER 7

It wasn't so much the death of the lights as the sudden screaming that sent Chess's pulse into the stratosphere and made her brain fuzz into uselessness. The whole place descended into chaos; even the neon had died and it was dark like a wet bandage pressed against the eyes. She actually swallowed a scream, her wrist slipping out from under Ryan's hand as she snatched her hand to her mouth, and felt the table slide away from her, heard tinkling crashes as glass broke. Scuffling sounds, fists meeting flesh, and an absolute chaos of motion and throaty yelling swirled through the air. It sounded like the mother of all barfights happening during the mother of all blackouts, and Chess was glad to be mostly out of the way.

A stray breeze brushed her cheek. “Chess!” Ryan yelled, and the thing that had been sitting across the table from them—it looked like the illustration of a Tolkien troll, only in living color and with warts festooned with hair—made a scraping, creaking noise like a boulder breaking apart during an earthquake, with a high squeal of stressed stone.

Chess slid off the booth and hit the ground, undeniable instinct blooming just under her skin. She had to get away, it wasn't safe for her here. Whatever the troll had said to Ryan, he'd looked at her with eyebrows raised and chill appraisal on his face. Then the lights had died. And the screaming started.

How do I get myself into these situations? I'm lost in a fairy tale. Why do they call them fairy tales, when there aren't any fairies in them? Troll tales. Giant tales. Witches and gingerbread tales. She almost choked on a mad giggle and heard a deathly screech, too high and sawing to be called a scream. It spiraled up into falsetto and ended in a wet gurgle.

A deathscream. There was no mistaking it. She'd thought they were fictional inventions until she'd killed the skornac. Well, what do you know, art does imitate life. I'm living my reading material, oh God.

Shuffling footsteps. “Chess!” Ryan sounded frantic, but she couldn't make her legs work to push her back up. It was so dark, a cold that filled the marrow of her bones with ice and lead, and along with the darkness came a sudden chilling certainty that there were demons in the blackness. And that they were looking for her.

Light, she thought incoherently. I made light last night, I could do it again. But then they'd see me and they would eat me.

How wonderful. She had reverted to about three years old, huddled in her bed and terrified of the dark. But there were good reasons to be afraid of the dark, weren't there? She'd just found out how good.

A hand closed over her shoulder and she screamed, lifted bodily up from the floor. Her legs seemed not to be working properly. I'm dealing with this as well as can be expected, she thought, the books never mentioned trolls or elves or women who look like they're half-swan. Or the bartender with four arms. And Ryan just acts like it's normal. Well, of course, I am the one hunting demons after finding them in books, but this is… this is… Her brain reeled as a large hand that smelled of sun-warmed rock clamped over the lower half of her face. If Chess had had a stuffy nose she would have suffocated. Someone was carrying her as if she was a limp piece of cabbage.

I am a limp piece of cabbage, she thought, and the urge to giggle madly rose again, was squashed more by the hand over her mouth than by an effort of will, and died hysterically away. The blackness had gone strangely fuzzy, and she had the odd urge to simply curl up in a ball and let the world do what it would without her.

Shock. She was in shock. The trolls and the tall beautiful women giggling at the bar, the bartender's many arms, and the hairy thing in the booth next to theirs with eyes like flat red coins and a puglike snout… she was definitely in shock. Where was Ryan? He'd promised. What, like I can't take care of myself?

But the fey asskicking courage that had carried her through killing the skornac seemed to have deserted her.

As if on cue, his voice rose again. “Chess!” He actually screamed, a battlefield shout that tore through the rest of the noise in the air. The person carrying Chess didn't even pause, and she wondered blankly if she should try to struggle.

And I was doing so good at kickass. But her brain seemed to have stopped giving orders. There was only so much a girl could take, after all. And the swimming weakness in the dark seemed to have penetrated down to her bones. She felt like jello. Warm jello, even.

"T'haik nagàth,” whoever was carrying her rumbled.

The troll. I'm being carried off by a troll. The thought struck her as eminently hilarious, and as the screaming reached a fresh pitch she began to giggle, a high terrified sound.

"Francesca!” Ryan yelled, and she felt a swimming loose satisfaction that he was using her name before she passed out. Again.

She surfaced as if through a great quantity of very clear water, and heard a rumbling voice. “Varakhin nagàth; il vakr maig.” It sounded like oily dirt being stirred, pebbles clicking against each other, with a faint but distinct note of far-off heavy machinery.

What the bloody blue fucking hell? Chess blinked. She lay on her back, under something soft and on something soft; she was covered with a great quantity of what felt like heavy downy blankets. It was dim but not dark, and she saw a great sheaf of hanging threadbare velvet, ragged and blue, with huge moth-eaten holes in it. Up at the top was a sunflower in what looked like heavy massive beaten gold. She stared at it for quite some time before realizing the dancing dim lights she saw out of the corner of her eye were candleflames.

There was a scraping squeak as if a door had closed, and a low murmur. She blinked again, lifted her hand, and felt gingerly at her head. No, she hadn't been hit in the head again. What had happened? All she remembered was darkness and the horrible screaming. The cold, spilling up her arms and legs.

And Ryan yelling her name. What instincts? Protective instincts. He sounded frantic. Where the hell am I? That's a cliché, isn't it? But really, where am I?

She pushed herself up on her elbows. Thin blue silk sheets slid away from her body, her bag lay right next to her, her knife jabbed her hip before she sat all the way up. She winced, reached down and readjusted it, sat up all the way. Ryan. Where was he? There had been demons—maybe the weird Ankeny thingies—and she'd passed out. That had never happened before, but she was tired and had been thrown against a Dumpster, not to mention had a part-demon hunter dangle her like a rag doll and threaten her. No wonder she was feeling a little less than frisky.

It felt so cold, she thought, and shivered.

The room was low and small, and made completely of stone. The ceiling looked like one sheer blank piece, so did the walls; the floor was flagstones carefully fitted together. There was a table, festooned with wax drips and holding lumpy homemade candles. Chess blinked and rubbed at her eyes. Did I get carried off to a troll's castle? I'm not a princess.

The thought was accompanied by a screaming, dark well of hysteria she didn't much like. Where was Ryan? He'd promised to watch out for her, had the demons caught him?

I don't care if he manhandled me, I can talk to him and he'd tell me what was going on. At least, I think he would; unless the troll told him something that radically redefined his idea of partnering up with me. What did the thing say to him? He seemed to understand it.

There was a lopsided, rough wooden door, and she slid her feet out from under the silky sheets and layers of motheaten velvet. Everything was ragged and lumpy except for the flagstones and the sheer rock walls; she wondered where she was.

Her head hurt. She rubbed at it, gingerly, and sighed. The chill from the darkness faded, and she rubbed life back into her fingers and took a deep breath. I am going to be really tired at work tomorrow.

That was a comforting thought, and one she decided to keep with her as she stood, unsteadily and ducked through the strap of her bag, settling the bag itself on her hip and fiddling with the strap so that it passed directly between her breasts. Thank God I'm wearing a sweatshirt. Where am I? And how the hell can I get out of here and back home? Everyone out of the pool, I'm done.

Just then, the door scraped open, and she looked up. Her jaw threatened to drop.

A troll stood in the door. This one was squat and wide, powerfully built, with a wide face so scarred with warts it looked like smallpox. It wore a threadbare black silk tunic that met its horny gray knees, belted with a bit of rough hemp cord. Its shoulders hunched, and its broad bald head gleamed. Its shoulders touched the lintels on either side, behind it she could only see darkness.

Chess swallowed. Oh, my God.

The troll's yellow eyes regarded her mildly. Then its massive gray lips parted, and it made a sound like rocks shifting, rubbing together in oily dirt. The sound turned, lowered itself, mutated into words at the very lowest audible range. “Vakr danath illyanar,” it thrummed. Its teeth were broad, and yellowing; Chess could also see little bits of something stuck between them.

The troll obviously expected some kind of reply. Chess gathered herself. Well, this can't be any worse than trying to get vitals for a library card from a Russian immigrant. “I'm sorry.” She pitched her voice low, soothing. “I don't speak your language."

The troll actually nodded sagely, as if that was expected. “Come,” it rumbled. “Come now. Grgath take."

Come now? Take where? What? “I'm… supposed to follow you?"

It nodded slowly, still smiling broadly. “Vakr,” it said. She was getting used to the way its voice seemed to shake her bones, thumping against her chest like the subsonic beat in a nightclub. “Come. Davr'zing."

Sing? I doubt you want a rousing rendition of Hungry Like A Wolf, but I could probably come up with some Dylan for you. Or some Kansas. How about Dust in the Wind? The lunatic urge to laugh spilled through her chest, she strangled it. It was one thing to fight a tentacled thing in a sewer. It was totally different to be standing in a room she was beginning to suspect was underground facing a troll with huge yellow teeth and hands that looked like they could tear her apart. Don't trolls eat young women? That's what all the stories say. Ryan, for God's sake, where are you? “You want me to sing?” She heard the disbelief in her voice, congratulated herself on not screaming.

"Come.” The troll beckoned. Its long blunt fingers didn't have claws, thank goodness. Chess took a few nervous steps forward.

I really don't have much left to lose at this point, she realized. “Ryan.” Her voice cracked in the silence, she could almost hear the hissing of the candleflames. “The… the man I was with. Is he…"

The troll shrugged. “Nagàth.” The rumble filled the room, made Chess's scalp crawl as if the hair was trying to stand up. Goosebumps stood up hard on her arms, spilled down her back. “Drakul.” The one word was loaded with the rumble of rocks down a mountainside, the preface to a landslide. He didn't sound happy.

Chess's hands flew up instinctively. She stepped back, hoping she hadn't just pissed off a thing that looked like it could debone her with no trouble at all. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Really, I'm sorry. Forget I said anything.” Her voice sounded very light and breathy compared to the troll's rumble.

Yellow eyes widened, stared at her. She stared back, trying vainly and desperately to think of something, anything, she could say to return this situation to normal.

Normal. Yeah. A troll. Underground. A bunch of candles. Bars full of things that shouldn't exist. God, help me out here. I think I'm going into shock.

He beckoned again, this time very carefully and slowly. “Vakr come with,” he rumbled. “Safe with stonekin.” He nodded his broad hairless head, and Chess was suddenly struck by the fact that he resembled a very old bulldog Mrs. Flatbush down the street from her parents used to own. The dog, almost blind and with its teeth worn down to nubs, had been almost pathetically grateful for a calm voice and a gentle pat on the head. Mrs. Flatbush had run all his food through a blender, he couldn't chew it anymore. He'd been called “Killer” in his youth, but all the neighbors had taken to calling him “Old Glory."

Chess dropped her hands. It can't hurt, she thought. “All right. I'll come with you.” She pitched her voice low and soothing, as if she was talking to Old Glory again. “Just take it easy with that voice, huh? It's a little scary."

He backed out of the door as she stepped forward again, her boots slipping a little on the smooth stone floor. The air smelled leaden and dead down here. The troll's bare four-toed feet spread to grip the stone. She followed cautiously, stepping out into darkness broken only by the gleams of a heavy brass candelabra held by another troll.

Outside the door was a vaulted stone passage, floored with the same fitted-together flagstones. The walls were smooth as glass, she was glad the almost-invisible seams between the stones on the floor gave her some traction or she'd be slipping all over like a cartoon character skating. Both trolls were massive, green, and watched her with disconcertingly mild, wide yellow gazes.

I am not cut out for this. She managed a smile that seemed likely to crack her face. “Okay,” she said, heard her voice fall flat in the close, choking confines of the tunnel. “I guess I'm all yours, guys. Where are we going?"

Chess soon found out she was way underground, deeper than the sewers, and that the second troll-thing seemed unable to speak much English. It held an ancient brass candelabra in one thick, horny hand, and she saw warts marching along the back of its neck, each decked with black hair. The first troll had vanished down another corridor into the darkness, shuffling and making a deep hooming sound that even now reverberated through the air. Every once in a while they would pass arches yawning up to the left or right, some with a faint gleam of golden light far back in them, each resounding with that humming sound. It sounded like there were a whole bunch of singing trolls in this labyrinth, and the sound worked its way through her bones, shaking tension and her headache away.

It shuffled ahead of her through the fluidly-curving stone passage, its back hunched under a frayed black shirt, and she wondered if it was the one from the tavern. Her hiking boots made shushing sounds against the flagstone floor, each rock fitted together with exquisite care. She had to go carefully with one hand on the smooth cold wall or she'd slip. The tunnel began to slope sharply up, no doors on either side, and she was breathing heavily by the time they reached the end and a set of stairs through an arch carved with flowers and beautiful, strange runic lettering she wanted to examine more closely. “Excuse me,” she managed politely. “Excuse me?"

The troll stopped. “Thank you,” she began, unsure of whether that meant it was listening or if she'd just committed a grave breach of etiquette. “Look, can you take me up to Tenth Street and Argyle? That's close to my house. I'd really appreciate it."

The troll made a snorting sound. “Nagàth ilmesto.” Its voice was like rocks dropped into a pool, chill and plonking. “Tang vakr."

Gesundheit, she thought. “I'm sorry, I don't understand you. I apologize.” She deliberately made her voice soft, not almost-yelling like people sometimes did when they spoke to a foreigner.

"Following,” the troll said. “Danger for firebird."

"Firebird?” What the hell does Stravinsky have to do with this? Have I been stuck with a troll that loves classical music? She dragged herself back into the present with an effort. The books also didn't tell you how your mind jagged from place to place when confronted with the absurd, things your life hadn't prepared you for, violations in the reality you grew up into, leaving behind fairy tales and sorcery.

If I wasn't such an avid reader of speculative fiction, I might well be stark raving mad by now.

"Firebird. Knife, gold, soft, smell good.” The troll ruminated on this for a moment, then said, “Yew!"

Yew? You? Oh, my God. “Firebird? You mean I'm the firebird? Someone's following me?” Give Chessie a prize, she catches on quick, don't she? Ryan, you'd be proud. Why am I thinking of him?

"Drak'ul. Follow Firebird. Black smoke too.” It still didn't turn around, but its shoulders slumped. “Take firebird secret way, no follow."

Gee, that's mighty swell of you. “I'd like that.” She cast a nervous glance behind her—nothing but the yawning maw of blackness that was the rest of the tunnel, the candles flickering and failing to dispel the darkness. “Thank you.” Jesus Christ, I'm in a tunnel with a troll. An actual tunnel and an actual troll. I'm getting the idea Jericho City is a lot weirder than even I suspected. I wonder if there are Others living in every city?

It certainly seemed likely. On both counts.

"Up,” the troll grunted, and set off up the steps. She began to see how its odd, awkward legs were actually perfectly suited for tunnels and stairs. He stopped every once in a while to let her catch her breath. I'm in good shape, but damn, these are killer. My ass is never going to be the same. Stairmaster, eat your heart out. He said nothing else, but she began to hear a deep thrumming, a subsonic noise that rattled her bones and made her a little less sanguine about being on a narrow set of stairs with a troll that smelled like leather and sunwarmed stone.

At least he didn't smell like she'd always imagined trolls would smell. Though those warts were something else.

He says the Drakul are following me. Is it Ryan? Why did the lights go out? Was it them? Only it was demons… but he said the Drakul were part demon. She suppressed a shiver as the walls turned from stone to crumbling brick, the candleflames beginning to dance in drafts as other passages opened up on either side, galleries and halls of darkness. The pale candlelight was not at all comforting, even though the humming noise—almost definitely coming from the troll—was pleasant, kind of like a sonic massage. And there on the stairs, with a troll in front of her, Chessie had another deep urge to laugh maniacally.