The Demon's Librarian

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Music poured out into the cold air as Ryan hung, his feet dangling and his eyes smarting and watering, from the seventh-floor escape. Don’t let her look up. Christ in Heaven, how did she get a goddamn Phoenicis Fang? Those are extinct. Nobody can make them anymore and none of them are missing. How did she get hold of one? Goddamn, that hurt. Don’t let her look up. Look down, sweetheart. I’m not ready for you to see me yet.

  “Jesus.” Her voice, under the music. He couldn’t hear much under the pounding beat, only that it was female, and low. “Seeing things. I’m really getting paranoid.”

  The sound of that voice, even screened by the music, made his skin tighten. Ryan pulled himself up, moving silently, jackknifing to get his feet on the seventh-floor fire escape. He heard her window bang down and the music shut off.

  Sorry about that, sweetheart. That was an amateur move, and I’m damn glad you didn’t catch me. I have enough to worry about right now.

  He waited, crouching on the cold metal of the fire escape, until his sharp ears picked out the sound of her moving around in her apartment. A little while later, the smell of roasting chicken and grilled onions drifted up, distinguishable from the other cooking smells in the building by its smoky tang of sorcery. Damn, everything she does is covered with that smell. She’s practicing. Ryan carefully, slowly, quietly dropped down to the fifth story again, ready to go over the side and vanish at any moment.

  She’d set her kitchen table and stood, irresolute, with her plate in one hand. The television was still going, eerily silent, she’d turned it down all the way. As Ryan watched, the librarian’s shoulders slumped. She set the plate down, dropped into her chair, and buried her face in her hands.

  Wait a minute. What’s this?

  Her shoulders shook for a good ten minutes, silently, while the blue-glowing knife lay next to her plate, glittering sharply and almost blinding him. He had to squint, looking past the hard hurtful glow. A Fang was deadly to anything demonic. The only reason why he wasn’t crippled with the pain was because he was only part demon. All of the Fangs are accounted for. She had to have made it. But she can’t have, the way of making them was lost a long time ago when Halston died. He was the last Golden and old, very old. There haven’t been any potentials in five hundred years, the Inkani somehow hunt them down before we can bring them in. Jesus. Why is she crying?

  He watched her get up, leave the Fang on the table, and carry her plate, untouched, into the kitchen. Watched her dump her dinner into the garbage and stand next to the sink, wiping at her cheeks with a napkin. What was wrong?

  Hey, what’s going on? Why are you crying? Shit. Did I do that? He had to think for a moment before he recognized the tearing feeling inside his chest as guilt. And that was something new, too. Why the hell was he feeling guilty? He hadn’t done anything.

  And besides, I don’t feel guilt. I’m Drakul.

  But it hurt him to see this diminutive woman who could work a heavy bag like a pro crying alone in her apartment, with demon warding on the walls and a Fang sitting on the table next to her. Had she taken on a skornac? No way. But still, it was looking more and more like she was a mystery that needed to be solved for the Order. She might even be that rarest of skins, a Golden potential.

  And if the Malik pulled her in he might never see her again. He definitely wasn’t ready for that. Already he was roused to uncomfortable interest.

  I’m going to have to watch you, sweetheart. We’ll see what happens.

  Three

  Two weeks, sleeping badly, and not eating. This is getting ridiculous. Chess turned over, fluffing her pillow, and peered blearily at the alarm clock. The nightmares were getting worse. And the feeling of being watched had only intensified. She hadn’t seen the man in tweed anymore, and Sharon had mentioned being stood up for a dinner date. That had put Share in a two-day funk of muttering into her teacup and generally moping. It wasn’t her usual luck to get stood up.

  Not just that, but Chess’s family was starting to get suspicious. Where are you all the time? Charlie had asked, her forehead wrinkling. Got a new boyfriend? You never answer your phone anymore. And then Mom. Honey, I don’t hear from you like I used to. Is something wrong?

  Chess turned over again, sighing. She was almost sure she was being followed, but that was ridiculous. Her knife glowed at odd times; she was beginning to think she’d made a mistake during its creation. But it had dealt with the tentacled thing just fine.

  At that thought, a shiver went down Chess’s spine, and sleep became a total impossibility. She sat up, reached over, and turned on the bedroom light.

  “I need someone to talk to,” she muttered. “Hi, how are you? I’m Chess. I hunt demons, and I’m having a total fucking nervous breakdown. Why am I acting like a . . . like a girl? I can handle this.”

  She looked at her nightstand again. The only way she got any sleep was with the knife under her pillow and the Marx Brothers on the TV, curled up on the couch instead of in her bed. Sometimes the feeling of eyes on her was even a comfort. It helped with the crushing sense of loneliness she felt when dealing with everyday people.

  On the bright side, Pembroke the Indignant hadn’t started her letter-writing campaign to get Chess fired yet, and she hadn’t canceled her card either. As a matter of fact, Pem had checked out some Faulkner, and Chess found herself half-smiling when she contemplated the next round of righteous ire that would set off.

  Chess scooped up her knife and pillow, and dragged her down comforter out into the living room. Her windows were dark except for orange cityshine, the alley reflecting the wet gleams from damp pavement and clouded sky. She plopped down on the couch and fluffed her pillow, slid the knife underneath, and snuggled into the warm softness of her couch. A little bit of digging produced the remote, she pressed the power button and was rewarded with the TV’s blue glow.

  The comedy channel was playing some type of cartoon, but it wasn’t Looney Tunes. She switched over to the DVD player and the menu for Duck Soup came up. She pressed play and was rewarded with a feeling of wonderful release and relaxation. Man, I love Groucho. Well, I love watching him, I don’t think I’d love to date him.

  Even her mother’s veiled hints that Chess’s withdrawal was not making her happy faded in the face of Groucho. Chess felt her eyes closing, she snuggled further into the blankets. She was almost asleep when the faint tapping sounded against her window.

  What?

  Her eyes opened, heavily. She watched, as if in a dream, her window floating in front of her.

  Tap-tap. Tap tap.

  Something at her window. The layers of the warding sparked and fizzed, reacting to something, and Chess felt a drowsy alarm. What’s that? I should check that out.

  But she was so tired, and her couch was so warm, and she was halfway through the movie. It would be so easy to fall completely asleep instead of . . .

  Chess’s eyes closed, then struggled open again. It was now three-quarters of the way through the movie. A fuzzy sense of alarm grew under her skin, a prickling heat roiling down her spine. Ouch. She shifted, but it didn’t stop, she struggled up to full wakefulness as she heard something like a screech.

  Immediately, heart pounding, adrenaline in her mouth, she sat upright, digging under her pillow for the knife. Her answering machine beeped.

  Wait a minute, I didn’t hear the phone ring!

  “Franceeeeeesssscaaaaahhh . . . Francessscaaahhh . . . ” The tinny voice whispered out of the answering machine, and Chess slid her legs out from under the comforter. She was wearing plaid boxers and a Jericho Warriors T-shirt. it was going to be awful cold if she had to go outside.

  Her knife prickled and buzzed insistently in her hand. She looked down at it, and saw bright leaks of light from the sheath. It vibrated, jarring her wrist. She stepped into a pair of sandals and took a deep breath.

  Tap-tap.

  Francesca whirled, her hair swinging in a heavy wave, as something dense and heavy smashed against her window. The fire esca
pe screeched violently, metal twisting, and she let out a half-scream as the warding sparked, smoked, and fizzed invisibly. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  She swallowed dryly, tore the knife out of the sheath, and let the blue glow free.

  The thing in the window—red eyes, claws, and smoking, bristling hide—scrabbled frantically at the glass. The blue light touched it, lashed smoking weals in its skin, and it screeched, a falsetto squeal drilling right through Chess’s head.

  She screamed, lifting the knife, if that thing comes in here I’m going to have a hell of a fight on my hands. I’m not even dressed! The thought flashed through her head and was gone in a millisecond. Then the impossible happened.

  Another hard impact, more screeching metal. Everyone in the building’s going to be up by now, she thought, and something hit the thing from above. She had a confused impression of motion, and everything fell away from her window.

  Chess’s jaw dropped. That was someone else! Holy fucking shit, that was someone else falling on the thing from above! Her heart leapt into her throat, started to pound, and she looked around for her coat. Down in the alley. Someone’s fighting that thing down in the alley. If it’s another demon hunter, they’ll need backup.

  Exhaustion forgotten, she bolted for her closet. Fifteen seconds later she had her coat and her keys, and was out the door, running swift and silent down the hall. It would be a miracle if nobody called the police. Whoever was out there was going to need all the help they could get, after falling five stories with a hungry demon. It would be a miracle if there was anything left of them to rescue.

  She ducked into the utility stairwell, the one that would give out onto the alley below, and barely slowed down enough to round each corner. Her sandals almost went flying, and she had to remember to stuff her keys into her left coat pocket before she hit the door giving out to the alley with everything she had, the knife suddenly shining like a star in her hand.

  The alley was clean except for the Dumpsters, and dark except for the glow of the knife blade. She skidded out into it and stood, her chest heaving and her hair falling into her face. She smelled a breath of smashed rosemary; her plants were probably gone. Should have tied my hair back, no time . . . a fall from my window would put them right about . . . there. But I don’t see anything, I—

  “Look out!” Someone smashed into her from the side, her knife went flying, and her head hit the side of a Dumpster with a hollow bong that might have been funny if it hadn’t hurt so fucking much.

  Snarling. Ripping. Sounded like dogs fighting, low hideous growls and tearing sounds, another hollow boom as something else hit another Dumpster. It was cold, her boxers were getting soaked and her legs were wet. She was lying in a puddle. Her head swam. My knife. OhmiGod my knife, where’s my knife, some help I am! She made it to her hands and knees, her head ringing, roaring in her ears. The knife was easy to see, glowing like a star, she scrabbled for it. She’d lost a sandal, the concrete hurt her bare foot. She made it to the knife and scooped it up, pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and turned back to the end of the alley.

  Two shapes, one low and feral, another tall and broad-shouldered. The knife’s light picked out a black knee-length coat, flapping as the man—had to be a man, it was too tall and broad for anything else—moved two steps to the side with eerie fluid grace, between her and the thing. The thing snarled, scrabbling against the pavement, red eyes fuming and the smell of it hitting her suddenly. Burning hair and ammonia, the stench of a demon, she recognized with a flare of relief.

  Baltiriaz. Burning hair and cat piss, that’s distinctive, it looks like a dog with red eyes. Okay, I’ve read about this. What’s it vulnerable to? Think!

  It was hard to think with her head pounding and her shoulder rippling with pain. Her knee felt scraped, a thin trickle of heat slid down her shin. Her coat dripped against her calves. Did I dislocate my shoulder? How could he survive a five-story drop? Think, Chessie! Think!

  D’Arras, referring to the Baltiriaz, called them Dogs of Darkness; Aventine Carlyle said they were allergic to sunlight, as most demons were. But Baltiriaz were incredibly sensitive to any kind of light, not just sunlight.

  Light? Fiat lux, let there be light. She raised her knife as the other figure locked with the dog, growling, snarling, spitting; she had no time to wonder how a hunter was getting that close to a demon and still standing upright. “Fiat lux,” she whispered, “In nominae Eunomines et Brigid, fiat lux, so I command, so it shall be, give me light!”

  The disorientation of working an act of sorcery without preparation and patterning hit her, her empty stomach rising in rebellion. Thank God she had nothing in it. The feeling of vital force bleeding out of her solar plexus intensified. Her knife turned red-hot for a moment, the power pushing out through it, then light burst over the alley in a brilliant flash, rich golden light.

  Sunlight, a flood of it, as if she’d pointed a high-powered yellow searchlight down the alley.

  The Baltiriaz made a grunting, snuffling, howling sound of absolute pain, and the other hunter descended on it. There was a squeal, cut short, and a sickening crack. Holy shit, I think he killed it. That was quick.

  No sound but distant sirens. Chess blinked, coughed, goosebumps the size of small eggs pushing up under her skin. Is it dead? Her eyes watered, stinging furiously under the assault of the light. “Is it dead?” she whispered.

  “The light.” The other person’s voice, dark and low, a man’s voice, rough and strangely breathless. “Goddamn, girl, shut it off.”

  She let the spell go, light bleeding away. Her eyes stung and she was temporarily blinded as darkness returned. The smell of a dead, stinking demon roiled. “Are you all right?” Her voice broke. She shivered, the knife blade jittering, the blue glow helped. She felt cold, and suddenly very, very hungry. Scrambled eggs, steak, bacon—I need protein. Her shoulder throbbed, and her head felt like a swelling pumpkin on a slender stem, huge and bruised and painful. “Thank God. I wasn’t sure . . . thank God.”

  “Christ.” He backed up, footsteps sounding lightly on the wet pavement, and she was suddenly aware that she was in her jammies and her coat, one foot bare and already hurting from the cold concrete, her hair wet and messy and bruises puffing up on the side of her face. Ouch. Cops are coming, and this thing stinks. It’s raining. And who is this man? I just ran out here, this entire place smells like demon . . . oh, God, what have I gotten myself into now?

  He made a quick movement; she could barely see it in the darkness. “You weren’t sure? About what?” There was a sparking, sizzling sound, and the smell thankfully shredded. He’d done something to clean the air. I want to learn that.

  “If it really was a Balteriaz.” Her voice sounded thin and high next to his. She glanced back over her shoulder, saw twisted metal blocking the entrance to the alley. “Who the hell are you?” The sirens were even closer. The big shape of the man slumped, and he exhaled as if hurt. “Are you okay?” She sounded like a little girl, all breathy and ridiculous. The ground seemed to shake underfoot.

  He turned around, and she saw dark hair, cut short, he was much taller than her. He clutched at his shoulder as if he was hurt too, and lights began to flick on overhead. Her neighbors would be wondering what the hell was going on.

  “You’re hurt.” She coughed, dug in her pocket and brought out her keys. Her head pounded thickly, she was having trouble enunciating clearly. I think I’ve got a concussion. Ouch. I wonder if the salve will work on that? “I have something that might help. Come on.”

  “You shouldn’t trust me.” He slumped even further. “Go back up to bed, little girl.”

  “You fought off that thing,” she pointed out. “You can’t be all bad. Come on, the police are coming.”

  “I could care less about the police.” But he stepped away from the space where the thing had died, and she saw smoke rising. There was no stench, and for that she was grateful. “Jesus, you’re bleeding.”

  She lifted her right hand, alm
ost poked herself with the knife before she could make her fingers work to spin the hilt so the blade was tucked against her forearm. It still glowed, not as brightly but still dappling the walls of the alley with blue shadows. “Something’s still out there,” she whispered. “Come on.” She jingled her keys. “Hurry. I don’t feel so good.”

  He came closer, and she saw the pale dish of his face, painted with dark blood down one side. Scalp wound, probably messy, but he was holding his left shoulder as if that hurt too. She couldn’t see his eyes, only that they were dark, blazing holes in his face. “I mean it,” he said, hoarsely. “You shouldn’t trust me. I could be anyone.”

  “You’re a demon hunter.” Her tongue seemed incredibly thick, incredibly clumsy. “I’m Francesca Barnes. I live up in 5D, and the square key with the blue rubber shield will open that door right there. You’re going to have to carry me.” Darkness was closing in, starting at the edges of her vision and clouding across her eyes like steam. “I think I’m going to pass . . . ”

  The last thing she heard was his curse. She didn’t even remember hitting the ground. Or maybe he caught her, but Chess was out cold.

  * * * *

  Softness. Warmth.

  Chess groaned. There was a cool cloth on her forehead, and something poking into her side. Her knife, almost certainly. Someone’s fingers pressed gently against her wrist, taking her pulse.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Closed just as quickly as light struck through her aching head. “Ohhhh, owwww.” She dragged in a deep breath, smelled something wonderful: toast. And . . . eggs? Damn. I’d love to wake up to breakfast already made. But does it have to be when I feel like this?