Oh, stop it. She’s just a harmless old woman. This is the only happiness she gets from the drudgery of daily life.
Then Pembroke held up a Mylar-coated book. It was a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
Chess braced herself. The desire to bray with laughter rose, was suppressed with a violence that tickled her throat and stung her eyes. Oh, Lord, forgive me. What now?
Pembroke took a deep breath. “What is this smut doing in my library?” she huffed. “Do you know what’s in this book?” Her voice dropped theatrically. “The “N” word, Miss Barnes! On almost every page! It’s indecent, it’s filthy, and I wish this book taken off the shelves immediately.”
Oh, Christ, help me. I’m about to strangle a crazy old woman who scrubs the floor down at St. Ignatius’s. Chess’s fingers tightened against each other, she could almost feel her knuckles creaking. The urge to laugh and the urge to throw a paperweight rose hand-in-hand, and she suddenly felt much better. Almost normal. “I’ve explained to you before that I can’t take books off the shelves, Mrs. Pembroke. My job as a librarian is to keep them on the shelves.”
Her cheeks flushed angrily. “But think of the children, Miss Barnes! This—this filth was in the Young Adult section!”
What were you doing in the Young Adult section, Mrs. Pembroke? Inspiration struck. “Have you spoken to Father Bruce about this, ma’am?”
The Indignant blinked her watery eyes.
Chess persisted. “You might want to see what he says. I know Father Bruce personally, and would love to hear from him after you talk. We can’t take Huckleberry Finn off the shelf, but maybe Father Bruce and I can work together to find a list of books you would like better.”
Pem was not mollified. “I certainly don’t want to bring this filth to the good Father’s attention!” she hissed, her eyes bulging.
It was official. The urge to throw a paperweight at the old biddy’s head was winning. Not only that, but Pembroke the Indignant was actually swelling like a poison toad.
Sharon was now done with the teenager and her romance novels, and was watching the scene play out with a worried line between her eyebrows. She seemed even more worried when Chess gave her a tight smile.
That is officially it. I have had enough. Francesca took a deep breath. “Mrs. Pembroke, not a week goes by without you coming to my office or bothering my staff about something you feel is indecent. If this library is such a sinkhole of filth and corruption, why don’t you patronize the parish library on Twelfth Street? I’m sure they will have texts more to your taste.” Chess gained her feet in one motion. She could feel the little betraying tic in her cheek that meant she was wearing her mother’s patentedYou-Are-Aware-I-Am-Potentially-Deadly? expression, the one Mom sharpened to perfection on Principal Bonhoffer when Chess was in tenth grade. Pembroke leaned back in her chair, her face suddenly going cheesy-pale. But Chess simply leaned over the desk and snatched the Mylar-jacketed book from her bony claws. “I will take care of checking this back in for you. I expect your other books will be returned in a timely fashion, and if you are unhappy with our library we will be more than happy to cancel your card. Good day, ma’am.”
“But I’m not finished—” Pembroke began, too late.
Oh, yes, you are. It wasn’t politic to annoy the old biddy, she would probably start a letter-writing campaign to get the Head Librarian fired. It was just the sort of crusade that could fill her time effectively.
She’s probably just lonely and unhappy, really. But dammit, nobody insults Mark Twain on my watch. Chess marched back to the circulation desk. Sharon stared, leaning against the counter; her dark hair pulled back under a white headband that complimented her tartan skirt and crisp white blouse. She had a green pashmina draped over her shoulders; she was the only person who could wear a pashmina without looking ridiculous. Of course, it could have been because she was a little under six foot tall and model-willowy, with large doelike eyes and a cherry mouth. Despite her obvious physical attributes, she was a good coworker, intelligent, punctual, cheerful, and just occasionally sarcastic enough to be interesting.
Chess carefully didn’t slam the little thigh-high swinging door that was more a psychological deterrent than a barrier. It clicked shut, and she crossed to one of the computer terminals. She could feel the French twist she’d trapped her hair in this morning beginning to loosen, and wanted to lock herself in the bathroom to secure it. She also wanted a bacon cheeseburger, with an intensity that surprised her. Of course, she’d skipped breakfast. Again.
“What was that?” Sharon peered over Chess’s shoulder.
Pembroke was gathering herself, it seemed. I hope she doesn’t want a rematch. I don’t think I’d be able to restrain myself. “She had a problem with Mark Twain’s use of the Southern vernacular,” Chess whispered back. “I told her we could cancel her card any time she wants. Suggested she go to the parish library.”
Sharon’s cheeks flushed and her mouth twitched. “She’s looking.” It was a good jailyard whisper, her lips barely moved. “Dear God.”
“I know.” Chess keyed her code into the computer terminal and checked the book back in, her fingers lingering gently on the cover. Poor Mark Twain, having to put up with her. Of course, he probably would have withered her with jolly sarcasm without her ever suspecting. “I have officially defended Sam Clemens’s honor. Just call me a white knight.”
Sharon’s cheeks were pink with repressed laughter. Her eyes sparkled. “Looks like she’s hobbling for the front door. Congratulations, Saint George.”
Chess made a face at the computer screen, taking a deep calming breath. Sharon snickered and retreated, stepping through into the room behind the circulation desk. The room held a desk and a few filing cabinets as well as the carts of to-be-shelved and a cabinet of circulation-desk supplies, with a coffeemaker and a cabinet full of coffee, coffee filters, tea, and packets of sugar. Share was due for her afternoon cup of herbal tea, and Chess couldn’t wait for her to finish. It would be lunchtime when Share finished making her tea, as always. A bacon cheeseburger with lots of drippy, melted cheese sounded good.
The library purred in its afternoon drowse. The smell of paper and quiet hum of computers mixed with the occasional page-turning and murmuring calm voices. One of the library volunteers, Antoine, pushed his cart into the Biography section, white hair gleaming under the lights. He was a retired naval officer, and a good library worker. Another volunteer, Grady, was over in the Fiction section, peering at Chess through his thick horn-rim glasses before he looked back down at his cart. If it wasn’t for volunteers the whole place would sink like a ship. Of course, with the way the maintenance is going, it probably is going to sink like a ship. Right into the sewers. And the Head Librarian might go down with it.
Other than Antoine, Grady, and a few other volunteers, there weren’t many people. There were a few teenagers, whether skipping school or off for the day, who knew? Of course, who would skip school in a library?
Well, other than me. I’m probably looking at some future class of library-science degree-holders. Yet more bodies to feed the maw of the library system, working for little pay and putting up with budget cuts and Pembrokes. “Lo I have slain dragons,” Chess muttered, leaning against the counter as she struggled with the temptation to open the book and lose herself in it. “And lo have I rescued maidens. But lo, oh lo, I can’t for the life of me conquer all the idiocy in the world.”
Something tingled against her nape, and she glanced up. Paranoid. I thought I’d start getting paranoid. Of course, the kind of things she’d been doing lately, including hunting down an octopus demon, were almost guaranteed to give one a fair dose of healthy paranoia as well as intuition. It was a side-effect often warned about in the books, a strengthening of the psychic muscles. As well as the inherent risk of thinking everyone was out to get you.
Of course, thinking everyone is out to get you is a good way to stay cautious and undiscovered. You are, after all, hunting demons, Chess.
&nb
sp; Her eyes traveled along the familiar counter, down the long strip of polished hardwood floor leading to the steps and the high narrow foyer, the short blue carpet stretching away on either side into the stacks. Globe lights descended from the ceiling, there was a slice of rainy sunlight falling into the foyer. And someone was coming up the stairs, a sandy-haired man in a sports jacket and jeans, with a backpack. His hair glowed mellow under the lights as he mounted the steps. The steps were hard, having been remodeled more than once, and everyone’s shoes made noise on them.
Everyone’s, apparently, except his. He moved very quietly, striding along, looking around like he’d never been in a library before. Tall, nice wide shoulders under the jacket, a crisp, blue button-down shirt, and a pair of wire-rim glasses. Chess set Huckleberry Finn on the closest cart, sighing when she thought of the extra work it would take to actually walk over and shelve it, and turned back to the rest of the library to find that Mr. Maybe-Hunk had done a Speedy Gonzales and was now right in front of the desk.
Well, hello. What do we have here? Nice, slightly curly sandy-brown hair, check. Good cheekbones, dark eyes behind the wire-rims, a long nose, check. Shoulders nice and wide, waist nice and trim, a little over six feet tall, check. Clean-shaven, check.
Initial hypothesis verified. He was a hunk. He looked like every girl’s wet dream of an English professor.
Of course, I’m not crazy about sport jackets. But I could make an exception for shoulders like that, I like a man who works out. Hel-lo stranger. Come to get your library card?
His eyes flicked over her, and Chess restrained the urge to push her shoulders back and raise her chin. She wore a perfectly respectable blue sweater over a white dress-up shirt and navy slacks today, along with pearl earrings. It wasn’t dowdy—no daughter of Chess’s mother would ever dare to be frumpy—but it wasn’t exactly a cocktail dress either. The way he looked at her seemed to imply he found her a little less than professional.
“Welcome to the Jericho City Library.” Chess gave him a wide, bright smile. “May I help you?”
Then her right hip began to prickle.
He gave her a long, considering look, then answered the smile with one of his own. It was a white-toothed, fierce, supermodel-wide grin that actually pushed her back a step, the tingling against her hip intensifying as if she had the knife strapped under her slacks.
As a matter of fact, she did. Paranoid? Maybe. But facing down a tentacled demon that your entire upbringing says doesn’t exist kind of makes you paranoid. Not to mention owning a knife that glows blue whenever anything demonic approaches. The knife was strapped against her hip, the bulge of the hilt hidden under the length of the sweater. And it had never, ever done this before.
“Hi there.” He had a nice voice, an even tenor, but those teeth were too white. “I’m looking for a copy of Delmonico’s Demons and Hellspawn.”
Her heart started to pound, her palms were getting slippery. “Really? Well, is it fiction or nonfiction?” It’s nonfiction, and I don’t think I’m going to take you down into the basement, sir. Who the hell are you?
He didn’t seem to expect that. He blinked, and he didn’t lean forward to rest his elbows on the counter. The rare person that didn’t lean against Chess’s counter was usually too short to reach it. Kids went to the checkout counter in the children’s section unless they were lost or precocious.
Silence ticked through the library. Someone coughed over in Biography. Chess tried her best to look interested, disingenuous, and innocent all at once. She could almost feel her cheeks freeze in what Charlie called the Dealing-With-Idiots-Smile. It almost hurt. “Fiction, or nonfiction?” she asked again.
A thin trickle of sweat slid down her back. Please don’t let me be sweating on my forehead, he can see that. I should have practiced this in front of the mirror. Having a mother who could almost freeze boiling water with a raised eyebrow was far from the worst training for something like this, but how could anyone have found out so soon? She should have practiced more.
Don’t be an idiot, Chess. You’re dealing with sorcery here. It stands to reason opening the door in the basement, making your tools, learning a few spells, and going out to kill demons is going to get you some damn attention. You screwed up somewhere. Or he’s just fishing.
“Nonfiction,” he said, finally. His eyes moved over her face, an appraisal not nearly as hard to meet than Mom’s eagle eyes. “Delmonico is the author.” He spelled, too. Nice of him.
She made her fingers work, woodenly. Tapped to the “author” field, put the name in. Hit the return key. “What’s it about?” Tried to sound bright and interested. Her throat seemed coated with cotton fuzz.
“It’s a study of the techniques and methods used in classifying and identifying demons,” he returned, with an absolutely straight face. His hands were under the edge of the counter, and her nape prickled again. So did her hip. And her stomach was leaping like Lassie on speed.
“Wow.” And it’s useful if you cross-reference it with Amandine’s The Four Gates of the Unspeakable, but you’ve got to watch out for Delmonico’s tendency to give you useless minutiae. Myself, I prefer Gilbert d’Arras, he’s far more practical and forward-thinking. Plus he’s a better writer. And those diaries I found aren’t bad either, even if they are a slow read. “I’m not seeing it here. When was it published?” Act normal, Chess. For God’s sake act normal.
“1604. The latest edition was brought out and bound in 1861.” His smile widened.
“Ah.” Chess nodded sagely. “Sounds like it’s a bit too early for our collection. Have you tried some of the rare book dealers?” I am doing really well with this. Don’t get cocky. The knife now seemed to be vibrating inside its sheath, pressed against her hip and causing a prickling burn against her skin. How is it doing that? Why is it doing that? For doing so well with research I’m woefully short on practical experience.
“No. It’s a library book.” He accented the word library slightly, his smile more like a grimace of pain now. The light glittered off the rims of his glasses, a sharp dart that threatened to jab right through her temples and set off a headache.
“Well, it’s not in our library. You might want to try the university.” Her smile felt like a grimace now, too. “They’re very helpful, very nice.” Shut up, Chessie. You’re babbling.
That sparked a long, searching look. Those dark eyes behind the glasses suddenly seemed not so friendly.
“Is there anything else you’re looking for?” Keep a light tone. You do this all day. Don’t screw up now.
His smile widened. “No, guess not. Thanks, Miss . . . “
My God, he’s actually asking my name. “Ms.,” she said, frostily. “Ms. Barnes. Head librarian. And you are?”
“Charmed,” he said promptly, his eyes dropping to her chest. “And Paul. Paul Harrison.”
You bag of sleaze. Abruptly she was feeling much less charitable, no matter how hunkadelic he was. “I hope the university library can help you, Mr. Harrison.” Her tone was now perceptibly unimpressed. Her scalp tingled with unease. He looked very much like Robert, who practically oozed charm when he was trying to get into someone’s pants.
Then, mercifully, Sharon appeared. “Chess, I’ve got my tea, if you want to . . . oh. Hello.”
The man’s eyes slid from Chess to Sharon. Immediately, assumptions were slid into place and the charm intensified. “Hello yourself,” he said cheerfully, changing direction like a champion stunt-car driver. “I was looking for a book.”
“Well, you’re in the right place.” Share did all but bat her long sweeping lashes at him.
Time for a graceful retreat, Chess thought, and took two steps back. “I’m popping out for lunch,” she said, to nobody in particular. The scary hunkadelic didn’t look away from Sharon, who waved languidly, cupping her mug of steaming tea in one pale, slim hand.
“See you soon,” her assistant said, and Chess escaped gratefully. That was close. That was very very close.
So someone knows about my library. She forced herself to walk slowly away, her shoes firm and businesslike against the short blue carpet. I’m going to have to be very careful. But I can’t see stopping.
Not with demons around.
She made it to the door to the stairwell, unlocked it, and opened it calmly. Stepped inside, and began the climb to her office to fetch her coat. She had to stop halfway because her knees were shaking so badly, which was why she hadn’t taken the balky old lift.
Someone knows about my library, but I can’t stop. Who will keep the other people in the city safe? I can’t stop. That thing was taking children. Eating children, for God’s sake. It’s my job to do something about it.
Maybe I need a few recruits. But who do I know that I can say “Hello, would you like to hunt a few demons” to?
It was a puzzle, and one she suspected would keep her company all through lunch. Who knew? And how could she keep the library a secret and keep hunting demons?
Two
“I’ll take the tall one,” Paul said, his eyes all but sparkling. “I’ve got dinner with her tonight. Probably part sheela, but the things we do for the Order, right?”
Ryan settled himself further into shadow, hugging the alley wall. “What if she’s a Golden?” He had to ask, the place had been a Nest a long time ago. It was built into the soaring lines of the architecture, the glowing outline of etheric force he could see but the Malik wouldn’t. He could see and hear so much more, any Drakul could.
And all for the price of his humanity. Such a little thing, really. A useless thing.
“There aren’t any Golden left.” Paul’s glasses glinted as he eased them off, slid them into the backpack. As a disguise, they were simple and effective; but anything Other would be able to tell what he was by his smell, the smoky scent of a Order-trained Malik. “But I’ll tell you, the inside of that place stinks of sorcery. Absolutely reeks. It’s all over the head librarian and her assistant. It’s the assistant, I’m betting.”