She didn’t say anything. She simply shook as she cried into his shredded shirt. He stroked her hair and shifted his weight, easing his shattered knee as it healed. He should have questioned her, demanded to know exactly what happened, pushed her until she told him everything. Instead, he held her. Everything else could wait. Nobody’s going to take your library, sweetheart. And they’re sure as hell not going to take you, not if I can stop them. The Order has no goddamn idea how important you are. They might not listen to the stonekin, or the stones won’t tell them. And if the Inkani find out, they will take you and use you for their Rite of Opening, and you’ll beg for death before they’re through. It’s up to me to keep you alive until we can show the Order what you are.
* * * *
Later, as the gray of false dawn began to take its first breaths in the east, he watched her. The strength of nighttime began to fade as the demon inside him went to sleep with the sun’s rise.
Chess lay on her side among the scattered pillows, breathing deeply, the flush of sleep high in her cheeks. Ryan smoothed the blue comforter down, glad he’d washed his hands at least. He didn’t want to get blood on her blankets. He stood by the side of the bed, staring down at her long dark hair spread over the pillow, one small hand flung out, loosely cupped and holding only darkness.
She hadn’t been happy, repeating over and over that she just wanted to go to bed, that she was finished with it. But she’d told him enough that he’d heaved a sigh of relief. The stonekin knew what she was, and had saved her, not even requiring payment for passage Below. Ryan had been seen publicly with a woman right before all hell broke loose, and he’d run in time. The Inkani might suspect what she was... and if the Malik caught wind of Ryan with a woman all hell would break loose.
Doesn’t matter. She’s a potential Golden. There haven’t been any surviving potentials for five hundred years, why now? And why did Paul not notice? His fingers itched to touch her hair, smooth it away from her face. She’d actually clung to him, wrapping her hands in his shredded shirt and refusing to let go, sobbing. All things considered, she was a lot more resilient than a lot of civilians faced with their first Inkani attack. Crying was better than screaming and beating your head against the walls, as sometimes happened when a skin came face-to-face with the night side.
He closed his eyes, breathing her in. I am in a deep hole, and it’s getting deeper by the second. She’s one of the Golden, and I’m attached to her. Too attached to her. I let my instincts get involved, but what the hell was I supposed to do? The image rose, again, of her sitting lonely at her kitchen table, crying into her hands, dealing with facing a skornac, something she should never have had to even see. There was so much lonely bravery in that image a lump rose in his throat. She was far braver than any of the Malik he knew. What had it cost her to know these things existed and bear that knowledge in absolute quiet, going out to defend the children of her city with only a Fang and her wits to protect her? Then to mislead Paul, and face a Drakul with her chin held high and her eyes flashing?
I have to call in. Tell them what she is. They’ll send a whole division to protect her if need be, bring her in and give her anything she wants. She’ll be as safe as it’s possible to be.
Especially with him protecting her. Would they let him stay with her? Not bloody likely . . . but if she insisted, maybe, just maybe . . .
You’re only fooling yourself. His fingers itched, ached, he wanted to touch her. You’re a liability, you’ve broken Rule Number Two for a Drakul. But your duty as one of the Order is to protect the Golden.
He had to call in. The chill voice of logic told him the more Malik around her, the safer she was. She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. She should be watched, taught, protected, allowed to fully come into her own as a Phoenicis. Call in. Tell them I’m protecting her because she’s something we haven’t seen in five centuries, a way to drive back the Inkani and reclaim some of the cities. Call in and tell them I’m obeying the precepts of the Order, protecting her. Don’t mention that I’ve let myself get tangled in a knot over her and abandoned my Malik. But someone saw Paul, the stone said as much. And now I’ve been linked to her, and the stones know she’s . . . God. What a mess.
She made a soft sound, curling more tightly into herself. And damn him if he didn’t want to shuck off his coat and his torn-up shirt and sink down next to her, share her space, slide his arm over her and hold her. Share her warmth like the animal he was.
More trouble than you need, Drakul. Call in. Bring in reinforcements. Take your punishment if you have to, but call in. Keep her safe.
He let out a soft, frustrated breath. A thin edge of light from the nightlight in her bathroom gleamed in her hair, showed the curve of her cheekbone. Why did that make the inside of his chest feel like it was cracking?
He stood there for a long time, struggling with himself. Call in? Of course. In a minute. As soon as he could pull himself away from standing here, watching her sleep. She looked so peaceful, and she needed her rest. She wasn’t like a Drakul, able to go without sleep or food, using inhuman endurance. He’d handled her clumsily from the very beginning, accusing her of having something to do with Paul’s disappearance and generally behaving like a big, dumb, brainless Drakul. It would be a wonder if she wanted anything to do with him after that little display in the hallway—
The phone shrilled.
He actually jumped, adrenaline smashing through his entire body. Chess muttered and rolled over, the T-shirt she hadn’t bothered to change out of pulling down and exposing pale flesh. What the hell?
She reached for her bedside table blindly, and grabbed the phone as it started to squawk again. It was a pink plastic Princess phone, he felt grimly amused by that as she fished it up and struggled with the receiver. “Mph.” The sound of her voice, slurred with sleep, brushed against his nerves. He should have been there on the bed beside her.
Down, boy. She doesn’t understand, just do your job for right now. We’ll figure everything else out later.
“What?” She sounded irritable, and exhausted.
He heard it, coming through the phone, tinny and eerie, stretched out by distance. “Francessssssca . . . ” Her name, spoken in a long, tinkling, dragging whisper. “Franceeeessssssca . . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered irritably, “find someone else to prank call. I’m busy.”
His knee pressed into the bed, making the springs creak. He ignored her soft cry of surprise. He grabbed the phone, lifted it to his ear, and felt his throat swell as the subvocal growl escaped him. He heard a faint tinny squeal, then it disconnected and a dial tone echoed. Ryan dropped the phone back in the cradle. He was suddenly aware he was right next to her, she pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking at him as he lowered himself down to sit on the edge of her bed. The framed print of Buster Keaton watched them both with sad, knowing eyes.
“Does that happen a lot?” He pitched his tone low, very soothing, the last of the growl dying in his chest. “Chess?”
She slumped back onto the bed, pushed her hair back from her face. “Guess so. Couple times a week, since I found the books.” She sighed, a long sleepy sound. “I didn’t know you were there.”
Poltergeist activity. She must be breathing sorcery into the air. She’s farther along than I thought. “Was watching you sleep.” That was, at least, the absolute truth.
“Aren’t you tired?” Her eyes were closing, he could see it in the dimness. Of course, he was a night creature, wasn’t he?
And she was a Golden. The Halston books had triggered her potential. She had been breathing in an air freighted with another Golden’s sorcery, and using the books he had collected. No wonder. Even if she’d had only the smallest shred of potential that atmosphere would have strengthened and triggered it. He would be willing to bet, though, that there wasn’t just a small shred of potential in her.
“Not tired.” I have to tell her. As soon as she wakes up tomorrow. “Go to sleep, Che
ss.”
“‘Kay.” And she turned over, the blanket pulling away from him.
Her breathing turned deep and even again, as she dropped back into slumber without any trouble. He thought about it, then reached over and clicked the switch on her alarm clock to “off.” She didn’t need to get up in the morning, she needed her sleep.
Ryan braced his elbows on his knees, hanging his head. Someone knew about her. The Inkani would find out soon. And he had to call in, report what he’d found to the Malik and get them looking for his skin.
And he had to face the fact that he’d let his instincts attach themselves to a woman who had not the faintest idea of how to handle a Drakul, let alone her own potential as a Golden.
Christ, what am I going to do?
Nine
For some reason, her alarm didn’t go off, so it was her mother’s phone call at noon that woke her up. “Chess? Honey, are you all right? Sharon said you ate some bad Chinese. Have you stopped throwing up?”
“Mmh?” Chess blinked at her clock and at the fall of weak winter sunlight coming in through her bedroom window. She hadn’t even pulled the curtains last night. “What time is it?” I sound dazed. I feel dazed.
“It’s noon, sleepy. She said you had a neighbor helping you. Are you all right?” Mom was in the kitchen, Chess could hear splashing water. Washing dishes, which was a sure sign of Mom’s worry. There was an indistinct murmur in the background—Chess’s father. “Be quiet, Brian, I’m asking her! Sweetie, are you all right?”
Chess winced, yawning. Her head hurt, and so did her shoulder and her ribs; deep bruising, she suspected, from being tossed into a Dumpster. The salve could only do so much, even though the swelling had gone down and most of the surface coloration was gone. I should feel grateful I didn’t break a bone. “Better,” she managed. “What’s Dad doing home?” He should have been at the college, teaching.
More water splashing. “Oh, he’s got the sniffles, and it’s Friday. His students needed the time off, so I got stuck with him. Should I bring you some soup and your Connie Frances CD?”
Oh, Christ, Mom, I can’t wait for you to meet this guy. He wears my T-shirts and gets them all soaked with blood; he screams my name in crowded bars and gets between me and hell-dog demons. Oh, and he’s part demon too. A real winner. “No, Mom, I’m still feeling a little squidgy.” Her voice was husky, probably from last night’s screaming. She sounded sick. “I feel really bad, and I like to be alone when I throw up.”
“Are you still throwing up? Maybe I’ll send Charlie over,” Mom waffled. Chess could hear the battle between “motherly concern” and “leave her alone to rest.”
“No, Mom. I’ll be fine, I’m okay. I’ll call you in a day or so when I feel better, you can cook me chicken and garlic. How about that?” And by then I might have a good way to explain all this. Sure. If I have a miracle and a couple of lexicons.
“Sure, honey. You call if you need anything, and you keep covered up and away from drafts. Drink plenty of fluids. Do you need groceries?”
“No, Mom.” Her throat was full. Her mother was worried, and Chess had been withdrawing lately. Well, I’ve been chasing demons at night, and that kind of eats into my energy level. “I’m fine.”
“All right, sweets. Go back to sleep. Call me if you’re still throwing up tomorrow.” Mom hung up reluctantly, and so did Chess. She met Buster Keaton’s eyes from behind the glass, and wondered why her apartment was so silent.
Then she picked up the pink handset and dialed again. She loved this phone, it reminded her of Mae West. Come up and see me sometime, Mae’s throaty voice whispered, and Chess actually smiled.
“Jericho City Library, Emma speaking. How may I help you?” Yet another unremittingly-perky voice. Chess could see Emma’s round face and flyaway golden hair.
Chess cleared her throat. “Em? It’s Chess.”
“Good Lord, you sound awful. Don’t worry about a thing, Sharon opened and I’m manning the Reference desk. It’s Friday, and we’ve already had a visit from Pembroke the Indignant.”
Chess’s heart plunged. She heard the familiar sounds of the library behind Emma’s voice: paper, the murmuring quiet, and a soft voice—probably Sharon’s. “It’s Chess,” Emma stage-whispered. “She sounds terrible.”
“What did old Pemmican want?” Chess asked. I do sound terrible. I wonder how much of it is hunting demons and how much is just me?
“Just to return some Faulkner and to leave you a fruit basket. The damn thing looks older than the Mayflower—the fruit basket, I mean. Though Pem’s close. Guess you won her crotchety old heart.” Emma giggled, a carefree sound. “Connie’s been asking for you, something about budget meetings, and Loren wants you to look over the new catalog. We caught a pair of teenagers making out in the Biography section; there was a bra on the floor. And the downstairs toilet needed plunging again. All in all, a normal day.” There was a series of soft muted beeps, the phone was ringing again. “Oh, and some guy named Paul was in here for you. Very dishy. Share wouldn’t talk to him, gave him the cold shoulder. He left his number.”
What? Chess struggled to sit up, reaching for her journal. The pen skittered away but she caught it. “Hang on, let me get my pencil.” It was an old library joke, and Emma laughed again. “Give me the number?”
Em did. “Do me a favor and don’t call anyone, you sound like Kathleen Turner. Go back to bed and drink lots of liquids, okay? Don’t eat Chinese no more.”
“I’ll put it in my day planner. I’m sorry, Em.” No, the first thing I’ve got to do is get the demon hunter off my couch. At least, I think he slept on my couch. Chess took a deep breath. She smelled something wonderful, something magnificent, something fantastic.
She smelled coffee.
Well, now she knew he was in her apartment. Bless him. And then she remembered his body pressing against hers, and his mouth; he’d kissed her. Shoved her up against the wall and kissed her, real he-man style. I should be furious over that. Okay, I’m furious. We’re going to have a little chat about how to treat a woman like a human being instead of a china figurine. Or a rubber doll. Or something like that.
“Now you stop that right now,” Em’s voice fairly crackled. “You haven’t taken a day off for good behavior in three years. No wonder it took Chinese to do you in. Grady won the office pool, his bet was two years.”
Grady? Oh yeah, the volunteer with the thick horn-rim glasses. There was a betting pool? “I don’t want to hear this,” she mumbled. “Thanks, Em.”
“Go back to bed.” Emma was actively giggling by the time she hung up. That was Em, always sunny.
Except for those three days a month, that is. She laid the phone down, collapsed back into bed, holding the journal. She coughed, closed her eyes, and blinked again. The sunlight falling across her bed was welcome, very welcome; the rain had stopped for a while. The coffee-smell got stronger, and she began to hear little sounds of someone moving, as if he was making noise for her.
Just as she thought that, he appeared in the door, his eyes half-closed against the bright light. His hair stood up in soft blue-black spikes, and his eyes seemed to look right through her. He’d managed to repair his original T-shirt, and his jeans were clean, looking like they hadn’t been all ripped and bloody last night. “How are you feeling?” His tone was soft, conciliatory. He leaned against the doorjamb, hunching his shoulders as if he wanted to appear smaller.
Fat chance. He was too damn big, and now that she knew how fast and strong he was, no amount of hunching his shoulders could fool her. Not when she could still feel his mouth on hers and taste the night sliding against her tongue.
She held up the journal, sinking down into the warm comfort of her familiar bed. “Your friend Paul stopped by the library. He left a phone number.” Now you can go rescue him. And stop manhandling me. And maybe I can start to forget what it feels like to be trapped underground with a troll. Or forget what it’s like to lay in the dark and listen to screaming.
And just maybe, just maybe I might forget what it’s like to have a half-demon hunter kiss me. Although I might not want to forget that. That was, I daresay, the only good thing about this whole damn chain of Twilight Zone events.
The room turned utterly silent. His eyes fastened on the journal. “When?”
“Yesterday, Em said.” She dropped the pen and tore the page out of her journal, dropping the small book next to her on the bed. “You want this?”
He shrugged. Muscle moved under his shirt, she wondered how he’d mended it. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go collect him.”
What? “What? I thought you wanted to go get him. He’s your partner.”
Ryan folded his arms, his jaw setting. He looked dangerous in the weak sunlight, muscle moving under his T-shirt. “You’re coming with me. We’ll collect Paul and call in, and—”
“Wait a minute. I found you your partner. That means you can keep him and your Order off my back. Right?” And keep them away from my library.
Though how much I want to keep this up, I just might have to re-evaluate. Stinky things in sewers are one thing, but trolls in tunnels under Jericho and demons that feel like I’m in an ice bath are something else. You guys hunt these things, and I just got shown how much of an amateur I am. I need to reconsider this. She stared at him, not liking the way he was looking at her. “Right, Ryan?”
“We have to talk.” He peeled himself away from the door and paced softly across the floor.
No shit we have to talk. Chess struggled to push herself up to sit, pulling her knees up. “Can it wait? I want a shower. And about a gallon of coffee. And some fresh clothes wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Just a second. There’s something I need to explain to you before anything else.” He lowered himself down on the end of her bed, his profile presented with harsh lines, his nose a bit too long, his jaw too strong. But still . . . she liked the look of him. “I frightened you last night. I’m sorry.”