Melwyn, you sound like a cynic. And a grumpy old man.
By far the most interesting were the references scattered through the text to books she hadn’t gotten around to yet. She found herself making a mental list and wishing she’d started with this particular diary first. That was the trouble with finding a library of antique sorcerous books, one never knew the right place to start.
She finished the tea and ended up lying on the table, wincing as she shifted and her body reminded her she’d put it through hell lately. I should go home. But this is so interesting. I suppose I could fit it in my purse, but I don’t want to damage it and I don’t want anyone knowing for sure where these books are. She yawned, stretching, her ribs protesting at the hard table. Need to find a way to smuggle a pillow in here. This is getting ridiculous.
Chess rolled over on her back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. Her sock feet were a little chilled, but she’d long since grown used to the even sixty-five degrees down here. It was probably thanks to the stone walls that the temperature never wavered. Her hair was almost dry now, and she’d only sneezed twice. She reached up, touched her lips with her fingertips, felt Ryan’s mouth on hers again. I’m not all animal, he’d said, with that bitter twist to his mouth. The unspoken attitude—that the Drakul were somehow second-class because they were part demon—got to her. Even Paul, who might have turned out to be decent, had acted like he had the right to boss Ryan around.
About the only person in this whole goddamn thing who understands anything is Ryan, she realized. He’d believed her when she’d denied knowing anything about Paul’s disappearance, he’d fought a demon away from her window, been waiting in her apartment for her, worried sick. As men went, he wasn’t half bad. And he was easy on the eyes, definitely. Nice shoulders. A good mouth, when it wasn’t pulled tight with bitterness. Those black eyes.
From now on, it’s your side I’m on. Trust me.
He’d been telling the truth all along, even if he hadn’t told her everything. Of course, she wasn’t guaranteed to react calmly to any of this.
Chess sighed and stretched, almost knocking over her empty tea mug. It took ten minutes to clean everything up, leaving the diary on the table nearest the door with all the other books she wanted to take a look at as soon as she had time. The lights dimmed as she made one more circuit of the room, checking for anything left out, a habit learned after years of working in a library. Everyone should be home by now, she felt as if she’d been down here for hours.
He’s probably worried. No wonder he didn’t want me to go to Charlie’s last night. Maybe I should have stayed home. She shrugged back into her damp jacket, pulling it down over her purse. Carried the helmet to the door, stopped to glance one last time over her shoulder. Maybe I’ll bring Ryan down here. He’ll probably have a better idea of what to do with all these than I will. And he can probably tell me a better way of going about doing my research.
The thought made her heart feel a little lighter.
It was well past sunset, and misty rain hung in the uneasy, windy air. Ryan was probably climbing the walls by now. The streetlamps were all out. Darkness slid oily up against the side of the library as Chess tucked her keys in her pocket. That’s odd. She set off along the side of the building, her head down against the wet wind; the library was dark too. Of course, a Saturday evening, who would want to spend it here?
Nobody except me, I guess. Nobody except a boring old demon-hunting librarian.
Vox Street was uncharacteristically dark as well. Her sneakers made soft wet sounds against the pavement as she walked, the wind now cutting across her path only when she crossed the street. Dampness began to soak back through her jacket. I’m wet, I’m cold, and I’m hungry. I can’t wait to get home and fix myself some chicken-noodle soup. And have a big jigger of Scotch. It might be time to open that bottle.
The sound was soft and distinct, a soft dragging. Like a wet footstep. She didn’t speed up or slow down, but she did pull up her jacket, her right hand rooting around for the flap of her bag. Her heart started to hammer. I don’t like the sound of that. Her nape suddenly began to crawl, her damp hair chill and cold against her skull. What is it? Is something following me? Oh, goddammit. Now’s a fine time to wish Ryan was around.
Her hand closed around the hilt just as she heard something else.
A low, chilling growl that made her skin feel tight and stretched thin, as if electric needles had suddenly been pressed against her and switched on. She tore her hand free of the bag, the knife’s hilt slipping a little in her suddenly sweaty palm. Her sneakers scraped as she whirled, blue light suddenly darting harshly from the blade; she’d yanked it free of the sheath. Thank God for small favors—But her mouth was suddenly cotton-dry, heartbeat thudding in her ears and throat. Oh, God. God . . .
“Grady?” she whispered. OhmiGod. He’s one of them.
Bones cracked and crackled as the library aide, his shoulders hunching, seemed to grow a full foot in under twenty seconds. His horn-rimmed glasses fell, one lens cracking as they hit the pavement and spun away. Grady’s shirt hung on him as if he was a scarecrow in last year’s model. His jacket fell too, his face becoming skeletal as it thinned, his jaw suddenly swelling. His teeth seemed to shift shape, one of them popping out of his mouth and curving to a wicked point.
Was he waiting for me? I thought I heard something as I went through the door. Oh, God.
Her hand, holding the glittering-blue knife, lowered slightly. Her helmet hit the pavement with a sharp cracking sound. Fucking hell. I can’t kill him. He’s a volunteer.
“Grady—” Her voice wouldn’t work properly. She sounded as if the air had been punched out of her.
What do you know, that’s how I feel. Grady? One of them? What did he sell his soul for?
Grady made a chilling little squeal that sounded like he was trying to laugh. Then he leapt.
Sixteen
“Get down!”
The scream came from his right, but he was too goddamn busy to worry about it. Paul moved with the speed trained into Malik by constant practice, smashing her out of the way, and Ryan hit the Inkani dog hard, felt bones snap under the force of his blow. The knife tore up, the curse glowing along its blade, ripping through skin gone hard and leathery with armor-plating. He only had a few critical seconds while the dogsbody finished changing to get in the final blow. If he let it go much further he’d have to spend some serious effort kicking its ass.
Etheric force crackled, a Drakul’s fighting-aura, almost visible in the wet air. Paul yelled, a shapeless sound. The dog’s neck cracked as Ryan backhanded it with just the right amount of force, the sound like a dry branch snapped in half. The body crumpled, he shook foul black blood off his knife and half-turned on his heel, scanning for more of them.
Christ.
The street was dark, all the lamps either busted or refusing to work. Chess lay on her side, her hair ripped free of its usual sleek braid and her eyes wide, dark, and uncomprehending just before they closed. His chest hurt, a swift slicing pain—she’s alive, thank you God, alive, I owe you one—and Paul was on one knee, crouched in front of her, his left hand reaching down, fingers tented, to touch the wet pavement. His right hand was up, the gun trained on the irikornac, which hunkered down growling, its red eyes infernos and its forked tail lashing. Just greaAt. A leaper.
The irikornic looked like a humanoid flea with red eyes and high pointed ears, its skin smooth and gray. It crouched, tail lashing, muscles bunching in its massive legs. You didn’t often see leapers. They were unable to camouflage their essential weirdness and, as such, were often kept as bodyguards or personal pets by the High Ones, much as human druglords kept pit bulls and mastiffs.
Don’t tell me there’s a High One in this city. Please God, don’t let there be one here so soon.
“Ryan?” Paul didn’t sound panicked, but the leaping iron taste of adrenaline filled the air. Chess groaned, a shapeless sound.
“Got it.” Ryan r
eached for another knife, spinning the hilt of the one in his right hand until the blade lay flat against his forearm. “Be mellow, Grasshopper. I’m on it.” Irikornic tracked with their aural receptors. Ryan deliberately scuffed his feet, attracting its attention. “Come on over here, you stupid little bitch. Come on.”
It leapt, blurring with demonic speed. Ryan dropped, a sullen-red flash sparking as he shoved etheric force into his knife and smashed upward, ripping. The thing screeched, an unholy sound, and he heard the sound that was every Drakul’s nightmare: the thin, high, silver chill of an ultrasonic hunting-cry, far too close for comfort. His head met concrete with stunning force. He shook off the blow and ended up flat on his back.
Steaming meat collapsed, rancid black blood boiling on his skin and scalp, slicking his hair to his head. He’d hit the soft spot just under its ribs and nicked a blood-channel. Lucky shot, luckier than he deserved. His foot socked into its solar plexus and he shifted, ready to push it off to the side.
“Ryan? Orion!”
He shoved the limp, rotting body away, made it to his feet. “What?”
Chess’s knife spun between Paul’s fingers, its light scoring into Ryan’s eyes. Paul lowered the knife. “They’re close. Really close.”
“Where’s the key?” He made it to them in record time, almost skidding to a stop and going down on one knee. “Is she—”
“Just stunned, I think. Her pulse is good, respiration sound.” Paul held up the broad, flat motorcycle key. “I’ll get her bike. Can you handle her?”
We shouldn’t split up, but on that motorcycle you can outrun anything short of a High One. “I can handle her. She’s lighter than you.”
“A little bitty thing.”
“But sharp.” But his eyes were on Chess even as Paul fished in her purse, yanking her coat up. For a moment, the idea of another man touching her—even a Malik—made red rage rise under his breastbone. She lay on her side, her eyelids fluttering and her skin waxen-pale. He reached down to take her shoulders and gather her up. How hard did he hit her? It’s a damn good thing he got her out of the way, the spider was almost on her. He touched her cheek, a rill of pleasure spreading down his arm. She looked just like she was sleeping, instead of knocked unconscious by a Malik pounding her with both physical and sorcerous force to get her out of the way. But she wasn’t bleeding.
Paul got the knife back in its sheath, shoved her purse back where it belonged, and yanked her jacket down with one quick, efficient jerk, the Fang safely stowed. “Come on.”
It took a moment, but he had Chess over his shoulder and carried her to the empty parking lot, where the motorcycle crouched sleek and gleaming under a cedar tree. I’m not even going to ask you where you found that thing, sweetheart. The attendant was gone, his cubicle dark and forlorn, and that didn’t seem quite right. He discarded the thought as immaterial. They wouldn’t be here long. He could hear her heartbeat; it was, as Paul had said, reassuringly strong. She was breathing too, beginning to stir.
The motorcycle roused itself, its kickstand popped up and its seat swiped free of water. Paul grinned. “She’s got great taste.”
She obviously loves it. The way Chess had touched the motorcycle before leaving it here this morning had told him that much. Even if he had almost missed her speeding out of the parking garage on it. “Take care of that thing, or I’ll sic her sister on you. Godspeed.”
“You too. See you soon.” And Paul eased it out of the parking spot and turned right on Vox Street. Then he gunned it, and Ryan sighed.
Another high, crystalline hunting-cry shook the air. Ryan didn’t hesitate, cutting diagonally across the lot and gaining the safety of a dark alley. He muscled up a metal ladder bolted to the side of a brick building, handling her slight weight carefully. He reached the roof just as she stirred again and made a low moaning noise.
Hang in there, sweetheart. He reached the roof just as the heavens opened. Cold rain began slashing down, the storm front he’d been smelling for hours while watching the library dumping yet another load of water on the weary earth below—and not so incidentally, blurring his trail.
The hunting-cry came again, like a crystal glass stroked just right, chilling his skin and calling up a tide of instinct from the darkest basement of his mind. Hunting. And she’s the prey. More speed, breath tearing in his lungs. She was awake and starting to struggle.
He found a handy, defensible corner behind a billboard tacked to the top of a three-story concrete building that, from the smell, housed a dry cleaners, and eased her off his shoulder. The billboard cut the force of the wind, and he found himself holding Chess’s slim shoulders and restraining the urge to shake her. “Calm down, sweetheart. It’s only me.” I hope you’re glad to see me.
“Ryan?” She sounded dazed. Her eyes were dark, her hair sticking in damp tendrils to her forehead. But her pupils were even, her breathing slightly fast but nothing to be worried about, and she wasn’t bleeding. “What the . . . Ryan?”
Sorry, sweetheart. He leaned down, kissed her forehead, slid his fingers under her hair and checked her skull. She hadn’t hit her head. He checked her ribs, too, sensitive fingertips trying to sense even hairline fractures. “Christ,” he whispered against her forehead. I never want to do that again. Trying to track you across a city while keeping a Malik with me is not a good time. And if there’s a High One in town . . .
“Ryan?” She tried to twist away from him, and his fingers clamped down on her nape, stilling her.
“Just stay still. What the hell were you thinking, woman?” He scanned the rooftop, heard the hunt-cry rise again. Was it farther away? Chess shuddered, and the small movement brought her closer to him. He filled his lungs with her smell, under the thin copper of adrenaline: warm gold, female, the summa of every good thing in the world now. “Christ. Thank God you’re safe.”
“What are you doing here?” It was a fierce, shrill whisper, but at least she held still. “Did you follow me?”
He was about to answer, but glancing out over the rooftop again made him uneasy. The instinct was unerring, born of wars in dark places, protecting a Malik and keeping back the tide of demons so normal people could go about their oblivious lives. He clapped his free hand over her mouth, gently, the touch of her lips sending another hot flare of sensation through him. “Be quiet. Can you be quiet?”
Her eyes were huge. It wasn’t his imagination, the gold in them was much more pronounced. I think that was the worst fucking moment of my life, wondering if I was going to get there in time. Thank God for Paul.
She nodded deliberately. Swallowed, the movement visible even in the darkness. The wind shifted, rain smacking the other side of the billboard, and he heard the slight shifting sound that meant something had arrived on the rooftop. Chess’s eyes flicked past him. Whatever color she had left in her face drained away and her right hand patted her side, desperately searching for her knife, safe in her purse.
“Don’t worry.” She probably couldn’t hear him over the rain and the sudden inaudible sound of bloodlust curling over the roof, but he told her anyway. “Everything’s all right.” Here, with possible avenues of escape and only Chess to worry about protecting instead of both her and the Malik, things were much more palatable.
He let go of her and half-turned, his eyes moving over the rooftop. Not bad, he thought. Three leapers and a spider. That tears it. Of course a High One’s in town. The question is, where is he? Not like a pretty piece of high demonflesh to come out in the rain. So this is a tracking party, probably under the control of the spider there or another spider on the ground. The knife appeared in his hand, and the rain began to steam before it hit his skin. He was radiating again. Of course. Here with her to protect, he wasn’t disposed to play very nicely with his new friends.
Ryan moved out from the shelter of the billboard just as the first irikornic sprang. He heard Chess’s short terrified inhale and felt a nasty flare of happiness that she was, at least, worried about him before the red
rage of combat took over.
* * * *
“Hold still.” She bit her lip fetchingly, and dabbed at the scrape with the cotton ball. Her hair, tangled and dark, fell in her eyes. She found her apartment comforting, her pulse rate dropped as soon as she was inside. Paul hissed out between his teeth, Ryan’s eyes were locked to Chess’s profile. She was pale, extraordinarily pale. Her sodden sweatshirt jacket was tossed in the laundry hamper and her jeans were damp to the knee. But her hands were steady, and she cleaned the long, vicious claw-swipe on Paul’s forehead before dipping her finger in the mint and wormwood ointment and applying a thick streak of it. “There. Does it sting?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How long have you two been following me?” She slanted a dark glance at Ryan, who stood by her window, occasionally looking out and down into the alley. His T-shirt was in rags, his coat wasn’t much better, and his jeans were just starting to dry. For all that, he felt the slight trembling in his bones, weariness over a deep well of fury. He was wound far too tightly, accepted it, and kept breathing, not seeking to calm himself down.
He’d fought them free of the leapers, and she’d put up with being carried by a running Drakul. Manhandled was the word she’d used, and she wasn’t too happy about being followed. It was probably the damn library, it would take a fool not to figure out what she’d been doing inside that building with its soaring, beautiful lines. Paul had canvassed the place from top to bottom during the day and hadn’t found her, but Ryan’s instincts had shouted with crystal clarity that she was in there, and hours after she’d gone in, she’d walked right out again. So either there was a library inside the library, or it was a way to shake pursuit . . . but that was ridiculous. With the amount of demonic activity on the streets, she’d have been picked up if she surfaced anywhere else. She’d spent the whole time inside the library, in some corner that for some reason a Malik couldn’t find.
The Demon's Librarian Page 19
