Three concrete steps down to a yawing, off-center wooden door miraculously not drifted under paper rubbish, and he put his hand up to push open the door. A faded, peeling sign above the door proclaimed the Shelaugh Taverne. “Stay close,” he warned, and pushed.
The door swung and creaked open, a draft of warmth and cigarette smoke bellowed out. He herded her into the sudden thick noise of a jukebox playing Warren Zevon at high decibels and conversation trying vainly to be heard over the top. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, copper tang, and the smell of Others, nothing off, his ears took everything in and decided it was a normal night. She stepped in and he loomed behind her, making the point before anyone thought to ask. Subtle, Ryan. Way subtle.
There was a gaggle of full sheela at the bar, with bell-like voices and long bright hair. He squired Chess over to a small table in a defensible corner. “Drinks?” he asked over the hubbub.
She shook her head, her eyes moving over the whole place. She looked very calm for someone sitting in the middle of a clutch of definitely Other, from the red-skinned man in the corner drinking from a shallow black bowl to the woman whose small black dog sat on the bar, watching her toss peanuts that somehow were shelled when they landed in her coppery hands. There were warty, gray-skinned stonekin too, taking down beer at a prodigious rate and paying with silver pieces; the shadowy corners were full of strange shapes with bright eyes. The breath of alien exuding from this place would keep the skins away; normal people had a positive genius for ignoring what they didn’t want to see.
He left her at the table, elbowed his way to the bar and got two whiskey sours, leaving the tip and a single silver piece laying on the shipwrecked, rollicking oaken monstrosity of the bar itself. Then he forced his way through the crowd back to the table and scooted into the booth next to her, testing the table—not secured to the floor. Good. He made sure his back was to the wall and ran a practiced eye over the crowd. His coming had already been remarked, and the presence of a female with him too.
Well, I’ve come this far. I might as well go all the way. Let them come. It was empty bravado, but he felt a fierce sense of relief. Nothing he could do about it now, he was committed to a course of action. There was a certain relaxation in that realization.
“Here.” He edged one glass toward her, across the sticky tabletop. “Won’t be long.”
“What’s going to happen?” She eyed her drink as if she expected a coconut palm to spring forth from it.
“Someone will bring me that silver piece on the bar, and we’ll talk. Go ahead, drink that. It’ll relax you.” I like the thought of you relaxed.
The thought was amused and completely reflexive. Yes, he was fucked for sure.
“What’s in it?” Still distrustful, she touched the glass with a fingertip, condensation beading up on the surface.
“Whiskey and calf’s blood.”
“You’re kidding.”
I am. Though you can get that here, the sheel like it. “You’re right. No whiskey.”
She actually laughed, and he had to stop himself from smiling. She liked my joke. Paul wouldn’t have asked what was in it, he just would have taken it down while eyeing the sheela. Where the fuck is he?
It didn’t take long. One of the stonekin wandered over, his tread heavy and Ryan’s silver piece in his paw. “Nagàth,” he said, in a voice like stones rubbing together. He lowered himself in the chair with its back to the room. “Wondered when show.”
“Been busy.” Ryan’s tone was easy and polite, but his hand came down over Chess’s wrist. If she decided to move or speak, the stone might get twitchy. They didn’t know what to do when a female not of their species talked to them. “Word?”
The stone shrugged, his skin creaking. He had a fat, wart-starred face and broad yellow teeth, a mark of handsomeness among his kind. His shoulders were broad but hunched, and his legs powerfully built but not for speed. His shirt was rotting, black cloth, fine-woven and thick. “Malik, then no Malik. Bad. Black smoke rising.”
“Guess so.” Ryan’s stomach turned over once, hard, then settled. The music suddenly seemed too loud. The Inkani are in town, and Paul was seen. Someone knows something. “But the moon always comes out.” And the sun, too, but mentioning sunlight is rude. After all, the Phoenicis potentials were mostly killed during the Long Dark and we haven’t been able to save any since. They were closely allied with the stonekin.
The logical extension to that thought came circling back, and he realized it was bothering him. So how did the woman sitting right next to me make a Fang, then? It doesn’t make sense, she was very specific that she found the instructions, bought the knife, and consecrated it.
The stone wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his flat yellow eyes had come to rest on Chess, who looked back, seeming only mildly surprised though her pulse beat frantically in her wrist. Ryan could feel her heart racing, his own pulse was starting to pick up and follow hers. “Hey,” he said sharply, wanting the stone’s eyes on him. “She’s with me. Keep your eyes in your own head.”
The stone didn’t look at him. “Shaala non grigh,” he rumbled, staring at Chess, whose eyes had grown very round. “Sunlight come again soon. Listen, know, understand.”
What the fuck? “She’s mine,” Ryan repeated. “You have something to say, talk to me.”
“Grigh non vakr.” The stone’s eyes flicked contemptuously over him, and Ryan readied himself for combat. It wouldn’t take much to turn this whole place into a goddamn free-for-all, he didn’t want to do it, but he would if the stone made any move on her. But why? Stones didn’t attack humans unless the humans came across a mating or a kenning, they were one of the few non-carnivorous Other species. “No taillaki nagàth; emmikah vakr.”
Did he just say what I thought he said? “You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?”
The stone shrugged, his skin moving with a sound like a leather jacket creaking. “Saw Flights in old day. Know smell. Gold under skin, soft to win.”
Christ in a chariot-driven sidecar, this is the last straw. Paul, if you’re not dead, I’m going to kill you myself. The thought was only halfway joking. His hand gentled on Chess’s wrist, and his eyes moved up and over the interior of the bar. They were getting a few looks, but none out of the ordinary. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought.
Just as he thought that, the lights died. All of them, and all at once. The sudden sharp smoky smell of sorcery bloomed and Ryan’s skin seemed to shrink two sizes as the demon in him stretched, feeling the company of others of its kind.
The Inkani had arrived. And he had to get her out of here. All of a sudden saving Paul didn’t matter so much.
Saving the only Phoenicis potential in five hundred years was the only thing that mattered. And Paul, the brainless pudding, had overlooked her to fixate on a sheela and probably gotten himself killed.
Seven
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.
The Demon's Librarian Page 9
