“Maybe both of them?” Ryan’s fingers caressed a knife hilt, his black eyes narrowing. Stuck babysitting a damn Malik. The demon whispered and chattered inside his head, he ignored it. If it wasn’t for orders, I’d . . .
But there were orders, and good ones, too. He was to look after the Malik, make sure he didn’t get into trouble, and take out any demon too big for the other man’s training and fragile humanity. Ryan drew back a little further, wishing the sun wasn’t up. Night was the better time for him; even though his human part shielded him from the harmful effects of daylight it was still uncomfortable.
“The head’s a frosty little bitch. She didn’t know anything about the goddamn books. The sheela’s the one. Besides, a civvies skin wouldn’t have the smarts or the talent to take out a skornac. It would take an Other; and neither of them are genetic witches.”
You’re a skin too, Paul. Ryan shrugged. Only thing saving you from being a blind skin is the Malik. You poor bastard. “Guess not.” He glanced out over the street. Night came early in winter, and dusk was thankfully gathering in the corners and alleys. The best time, when the sun didn’t hurt and the demon in him bloomed, burning through the layers of fragile humanity and turning him into something more. “All right. I’ll take the short one, you get the sheela.” I shouldn’t let you deal with an Other alone, but orders are orders. And on this run you’re the boss. As fucking usual.
“Good deal.” Paul’s shoulders came up and he blinked. He was a handsome one, and far from the worst when it came to pairing up; there were a few Malik who delighted in ordering their Drakulein around. His habit of chasing women while on runs sometimes got him into trouble, but he at least he wasn’t a sadistic bastard. “Stay on the short one, just to be sure. All right?”
“I got it, Malik. Be careful, sheela are tricky.” And if you get yourself killed I’ll have to put up with training a whole new skin.
“I’ll see you back at rendezvous in the morning.” Paul was evidently expecting to have a good night. He eased out of the alley and was soon gone, his sport coat flapping as the edges of his Drakul-laid shielding blurred to make him one with the coming night. Ryan sank back, listening to the slow song of concrete and steel that made up a city. His nose twitched, a little—he could smell the death of a demon, burned flesh and nose-stinging ammonia. A skornac, taken down by a non-Malik hunter, in a free city. If there was someone out there looking to tip the precarious balance, they had to be brought in. Questioned. And then invited to join the Malik . . . or put away. And if it was one faction of demons declaring war on another, or the High Ones coming to town, it was even more imperative that the Malik know about it.
Not to mention the sorcery used, a spell that had vanished when the Halston books had—a spell usually only a Golden could use. There had to be a cache around here somewhere, and odds-on someone at the library knew where it was. Melwyn Evrard Halston hadn’t been a fool, and had hidden his books in this city. Who better to track down books than someone who worked at a library? Besides, the entire building thrummed with etheric force, and that was a recent occurrence. Someone had awakened whatever latent potential lay in the walls.
He waited, leaning against the wall of the alley, practically invisible. The library closed down, lights going off, people shooed out the front door. At seven sharp, a tall, willowy form that had to be the sheela came striding out, her faint perfume of lilacs threading through the chill, rainy air. She couldn’t have more than a trace of sheela in her, just enough to make her tall, sleek, and dangerous. Sheel often intermarried with human women; they were fickle but had the gift of manipulating females. Unfortunately, they rarely stayed after the first child, and the human women usually remarried, having enough of the sheel on them by then to snare skins with no problem.
This one was probably a granddaughter, and she vanished into a cab down the street. Ryan shook his head, clearing it of the trace of lilac. Being Drakulein, he was rarely susceptible to sheela. One more thing to be grateful for, he supposed.
There was one light still burning in the library, on the third floor. He saw a flicker of movement—the head librarian? It was just like Paul to stick him with an ugly woman to follow, even though a Drakul wasn’t supposed to get anywhere near a woman that smelled of sorcery at all. Ryan sighed, resting his head against the cold concrete of the building looming over him. Perfect. If it’s the sheela, she’ll probably join the Order. Be nice to have access to a cache of sorcerous books, though I’m not likely to get anywhere near it.
No, the Order would only let the Malik researchers near it. Drakulein couldn’t be trusted. They were, after all, part demon. No matter that there hadn’t been a Drakul traitor in a good three hundred years . . . still.
You’re doing yourself no good thinking of this. Just do your fucking job and think on your own time, Orion.
The light went off, and Ryan tensed. He gave her fifteen minutes to get down to the first floor and come out. She didn’t.
What’s she doing in there? Everyone else left, including the assistant. What the hell do librarians do all day, anyway? Breathe dust and shelve books?
It took a good two hours for her to appear. The front door opened, and she closed it behind her as streetlights flickered on, glowing all the way down the street. Ryan peeled himself away from the wall, peering at her.
Short and graceful, almost lost in a long dark woolen coat very much like his own, the woman locked the door and patted it, proprietary pride evident in the movement. She turned, tucking her keys into her pocket and hitching her bag on her shoulder. Long dark hair pulled back in a French twist, slacks, and the purse, Paul had given a good description; she did seem a little chilly. Very self-contained.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed as the woman set off down the steps. She moved well for a skin, as if she’d taken dance. And she seemed wary. Paul was right. She reeked of sorcery, in a way the sheela hadn’t. The way no blind skin should. Sorcery, and a strange perfumed scent that faded in and out, like the smell of violets.
Paul, you didn’t let your dick do your thinking again, did you? Ryan stepped out of the alley and drifted after her, calm and quiet. Wouldn’t do to scare her, would it? Of course not. Careful and cautious, and this woman never had to know a deadly Drakul was following her. Should never know he was following her. The Malik would make contact, if it was necessary.
She walked with her head down, quickly, into the wind. That made her scent unfurl behind her like a banner. Sorcery, water, and the smell of wormwood, a powerful nose-clearing stench as well as that maddening, elusive tang. Wormwood? Why would she smell of wormwood? And . . . mint? What the hell is this? She isn’t witch, she doesn’t look like a witch, what is she? What the hell is going on?
Where was she going?
She turned right, across the wind, her head dropping even further. Her pace quickened. Now he caught another scent under the roil of sorcery and bitterness: water, clean and pure. And the smell of herbal shampoo. She smelled good, at least, under the burning fumes of whatever sorcery had been performed in her vicinity. And what was the wormwood?
He was beginning to think she’d marked him when she ducked into a doorway under a small sign. Grant’s Gym. She was going to work out. Where does she find the energy after a day of slinging books around? Where’s a window? I want to see this, I want a closer look at her.
He barely recognized the warning tingle of danger under the thought. He was curious, and so was the demon. She’s female, and smells of sorcery. You’re supposed to stay back, stay away. Surely you’re not interested in a blind skin? They don’t do anything interesting.
Maybe not. But he wanted to see, and he was supposed to keep tabs on her. There was a handy window, and if he stayed very still, nobody would notice him.
What is she? She’s not a witch, but she’s been messing around with sorcery. I’d stake my life on it.
And after all, he just might.
* * * *
She moved in on the heavy bag, hands ta
ped, sweat dripping down her back under the sports bra. Elbow, elbow, fists, knee; the huge hulking instructor said something that was supposed to be encouragement. She didn’t even spare him a glance, kept working the bag as if it had attacked her. Her dark hair was in a neat French braid, and her pretty face was drawn into a feral snarl of effort.
Pretty? No, she wasn’t just pretty.
Pale skin, her large hazel eyes set above high cheekbones, her lips shaped just right when they weren’t pulled back in a grimace of effort. Her hair was dark and glossy, too rich to be called brown, and falling half down her back when it wasn’t caught up in a braid or twist. She was short but muscled like a dancer, and moved with a swift economy that spoke of long practice. The bag shuddered under her onslaught and the teacher barked. Sweat flew, and Ryan’s jaw felt like it was going to drop. He’d never seen a woman go after a heavy bag this way. The Malik females, researchers and breeders both, largely accepted their place as noncoms. Even the few Malik women who trained for fighting—as exercise, of course—didn’t go about it so seriously.
She was obviously a star pupil, top of her class. The teacher was teaching straight kickboxing, but Ryan could tell he’d probably taught this librarian some street fighting. His hypothesis proved correct when the class ended, the teacher suited up in some padding, and the librarian proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Even with the padding, Ryan could see the big guy wince every now and again.
Goddamn. Look at that. He forgot he was standing in the cold, forgot he was supposed to scan the vicinity, forgot everything but watching her move. The teacher, a massive bear of a man, moved in on her, and Ryan winced when she took a fall, probably bruising her hip even though there was matting on the floor. But she simply bounced right up and attacked the padding viciously, striking at groin, throat, clawing, kicking, and generally making Ryan glad he wasn’t facing her. He was Drakul, yes, but dealing with a woman this determined would be unpleasant unless he used a bit more of his strength than he was comfortable spending on a skin. Besides, he didn’t like the thought of hurting a human woman, no Drakul did. The protective instincts were just too strong.
Paul was wrong. There’s more here than meets the eye. And something about that bitter smell of wormwood taunted him. Wormwood and mint, and the smell of her shampoo under that. I don’t think the sheela’s the dangerous one.
But good luck getting Paul to change his mind, now that he’d decided the sheela was the one with access to Halston’s books. He was the Malik.
Well, he told me to watch the head librarian. I’ll watch her. And if I get proof she’s doing something she shouldn’t, I’ll take it to Paul. It’s all I can do.
She helped the mountainous teacher take the padding off, smiling and swiping at her sweating forehead with the back of one pretty hand. Damn, she’s cute. Not just cute, but seeing her work a heavy bag is pretty damn striking. I’ve never seen a woman do that.
She disappeared into the woman’s locker room, and Ryan decided he’d better find a place up the street to watch the front of the gym. It wouldn’t do to alert her prematurely, unless Paul had done so already.
Probably. Damn Malik.
No, he was far from the worst. Ryan retreated down the street, finding a convenient doorway. Who is this woman? She reeks of sorcery and trains like a good Malik at the gym. And what else is she doing?
It took another half-hour before she came out, calling a goodbye over her shoulder. Her hair was braided back in a thick, damp rope, and she set off down the street at a good clip, long legs in her slacks, her canvas bag hitched up on her shoulder. She seemed a little easier in her skin now, a little more relaxed. The burning smell of sorcery had faded. She’d worked off some adrenaline. Enough remained to taunt him, sliding through his nose and into his brain in a way he should be very wary of. If she triggered his instincts things would get really messy.
Very interesting. Who are you, sweetheart? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were up to something. But you’re definitely a skin, you’re not even a genetic witch. What’s going on here?
It wasn’t entirely out of the question. Non-Malik hunters showed up every once in a while and were brought in or eliminated. But she looked altogether too pretty and delicate to go running around after skornac. She was a girl, too. The female Malik did research, the males did the hunting, world without end, amen. Women were altogether too precious to waste, especially female Malik. Besides, hunting would put them in contact with the Drakul, and Drakul tended to get highly possessive over females they protected. Couldn’t have a Drakul protecting just one woman when they were supposed to be protecting whatever Malik they were assigned to.
Ryan realized he was trailing her too closely. Not only that, the demon was silent inside his head, focused hungrily on the sway of the librarian’s hips. Librarian? She looks too cute to be a librarian. Don’t they usually wear thick glasses and their hair in buns?
It took a good six blocks before she finally climbed the steps to an apartment building. It was the work of a few moments for Ryan to scale the building next door and take a look from the roof, waiting to give her time to go up stairs or an elevator—no, not on this side, there were no lights on here. He made it to the other side and looked down into the alley, saw a few lighted windows, and his eyes widened in shock.
Bingo. What the hell?
It had to be her window. He could see movement inside. She was probably taking her coat off and laying her bag down; but that wasn’t what made him freeze in shock, staring at the squares of glass with warm golden glow leaking out. No, what made him stare was the thin layer of warding along her window, subtle and effective, blended into the physical structure of the building, on the window right over a fire escape. There were a few plants in pots out on the fire escape, hardy stuff like rosemary. He wondered with a sudden vengeance what the inside of her apartment looked like.
Well, Paul did ask me to watch her. So I’m watching her. End of story.
But how the hell did she have warding on her windows? No wonder she reeked of sorcery, she was practicing. But she wasn’t a witch, didn’t have the smell of incense and caramel-sweet blood that genetic witches had. Self-trained and practicing, and she had access to either a Teacher or a cache of sorcerous texts—and given that they were looking for Halston’s library, and this librarian worked in the building Halston had designed, built, and worked from . . . well.
Paul was wrong. Wait until I tell him. He’ll never live this down, chasing a sheela while I find the real hunter. But damn, she looks so small and delicate. And I’d be willing to bet that Paul was confused by the sheela. He’s only a skin and vulnerable to them.
The demon was still unwontedly silent, settled down and unblinkingly focused on the librarian’s window. What’s your name, honey? And why are you going out looking for trouble and training to kick ass? Hmmm? This is a mystery, and I like mysteries. Just call me Nancy Drew.
The demon was altogether too quiet, a laser-pointed intensity that rarely happened unless he was hunting. Why? The demon part of him generally didn’t pay much attention to females unless they were escorts or breeders. Sex was a reward, used to keep the gears running smoothly, and you never saw the same girl twice. Especially if it was a Malik female who had volunteered to breed; the possessive instincts were just too damn strong. It was a good thing the demon inheritance was recessive in females, coming out only in sorcerous talent; otherwise things could have gone very badly for the Order.
And the females had their humanity, their souls, too; the Drakul males were born without them and trained to disregard the lack.
None of which answered his question: Why was the demon part of him sitting up and paying attention now?
He saw shadows moving. What was she doing? He’d have to get a better vantage point, and there was the fire escape right there. Tempting, tempting, he couldn’t see any traps and was halfway down the side of the neighboring building before he had a second thought. Did he want to possibly alert
her to his presence?
Dammit, I’m Drakul, I’m more than capable of staying invisible even if she’s a talented beginner. I want a look at what’s she’s doing, and a closer look at that warding on her window. It’s my job, isn’t it? Business and pleasure, and I haven’t had both in a long time. Hell, I haven’t even had the latter in a long time.
The fire escape was a surprise, well-oiled and silent, he went slowly and reached the fifth floor ready to be absolutely invisible. He crouched and peered in the window, glad of the darkness that would keep him from being seen if she looked out. But she wasn’t looking out.
He could see a slice of her television screen from this angle if he focused just right, playing a sepia-toned movie. That was surprising, but even more surprising was the vision of the librarian, in loose paint-splattered sweats and, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, bopping around a neat, clean yellow-and-white kitchen. Her stereo throbbed something that Ryan identified, his eyebrows raising, as Oingo Boingo’s Dead Man’s Party. So she was a retro chick.
She’d obviously stretched out and was engaged in dancing while she made herself dinner and the TV screen flickered. Damn. She can move. Her ponytail switched back and forth as she sang along, chopping something and occasionally waving a cleaver for emphasis. Be careful with that knife, sweetheart. Wouldn’t like to see you get hurt. He leaned forward, watching that long, pretty ponytail swing. How can someone so short work a heavy bag like that? And why didn’t Paul think she was involved, why did he fixate on the sheela?
He got too close, not paying attention. The warding on her window suddenly sparked, pulled into taut singing alertness by his nearness. Goddamn, that’s demon-specific warding! How the hell did she learn to do that?
But the most amazing thing was her reaction. The librarian whirled, her ponytail floating as she turned with a sweet economy of motion and scooped up another knife from the counter—a knife whose blade glowed a harsh, hurtful blue that drilled right through his eyes and into his brain. He barely had the presence of mind to vanish, his body moving with the ease of inhuman speed and long training, before she ripped her window open and the blue radiance from the knife shone out over the fire escape platform.
The Demon's Librarian Page 3