The Demon's Librarian

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Just lie still,” a deep, male voice said. No hoarseness now, he sounded actually amused. “You’ll be fine. Took a knock to the head, your shoulder’s badly bruised, and your knee was ground up a bit from the concrete. I’ve done what I can to patch you up.”

  “Argh.” She could barely manage to squint, the light was so painful. “Phone.”

  “What?”

  “Phone. Work. Call in.” There is no way I’m making it in tomorrow. Today. Whenever it is. The pain was incredible, Biblical, titanic.

  “I called for you. Spoke to someone named Sharon, her number’s right by your phone. Told her I was a neighbor, that you had a bad case of food poisoning and I was looking after you.” The amusement didn’t leave his tone. “You seem pretty organized.”

  If you only knew. “Born that way.” The salve. “Bathroom. Go into the bathroom, look in the medicine . . . ” She had to stop, take a deep breath. “Cabinet. Blue jar, kind of sparkly. Bring me?”

  “You got it.” He paused. “I’ll be right back.”

  Of course you will. I doubt you’re looking to steal my TV or ravage me. You seem like a nice guy. She took a deep sniff. Yes, it was definitely eggs. Her stomach growled. Go figure, she was finally hungry. And all it took was a dog-demon and another hunter. What about the demon’s body? It’s raining, and he did something to get rid of the smell.

  “I found it.” His voice came from very close, startling her. Her head was pounding so bad she hadn’t heard him approach. “What do I do with it?”

  “O-open it up. P-put some on my head. And my sh-shoulder. Use some yourself.” Agh, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. And the head. Not to mention my shoulder. Holy shit. I shouldn’t have gone out there, but what else could I do? God. At least we’re both alive.

  He cracked the lid on the jar. The pungent smell of the ointment filled the air. “What is this stuff?”

  “Old recipe.” She hissed in a breath as he dabbed some on the aching sore spot on her head. “Good for you. Ouch.”

  “Sorry.” The amusement was gone. He did sound sorry. Very sorry. He sounded, in fact, like he was almost frantic with worry, in a very contained sort of way.

  “Don’t be.” It stung, but the pain began to bleed away. He pushed the torn neck of her T-shirt aside, spread more of the ointment on her shoulder, his fingers gentle. “It almost got in my window. Hate to think of cleaning that up.” The stinging, calming feel of the ointment seemed to clear her head, make it easier to talk. “The cops. Did they—”

  “Came by. I pretended to be your boyfriend, did a convincing just-woke-up act and said you were sick with food poisoning.” He dabbed a bit more ointment on her forehead, trying to keep it away from her hair. “They’re blaming it on kids fooling around with the fire escape. Just glad nobody was hurt, they said. You’re in the clear.”

  She felt a draft of cooler air as he pushed the down comforter up, exposing her knee. He paused. “Is this safe for your knee? You’ve got a good scrape there.”

  You took care of everything. Wow. “Put it on. It’ll sting, but that’s better than what it feels like now.” She was rapidly beginning to wake up. Her eyes opened, she blinked furiously, tears trickling down her cheeks from the smell and the stinging of the greasy goop. Her apartment swam into focus, shelves of books, the framed print of Saint Michael and Satan just a collage of blurry reds and taupes, the greens and browns lost. “Hi. I’m Chess.”

  “Beg your pardon?” He began pasting a thick layer of the salve on her knee with finicky delicacy. “Would you look at that. It’s taking the swelling down already. What’s in this?”

  “You don’t want to know. I’m Chess. Francesca Barnes. You are?” I want to at least know your name. And are those eggs I smell?

  “Ryan.”

  Is that a first name or a last name? She waited for more, he didn’t give any. She blinked away the tears and found thin early-morning sunlight coming through the windows, her apartment taking on its familiar sharp focus. She was on her couch, her television was turned off, and her knife was a comforting hardness against her hip. And the man was . . . well.

  Black hair, cut short, with blue highlights showing in the weak gray sunshine. He wore a black T-shirt, straining against nice broad shoulders. He crouched by the side of the couch, looking intently at her knee as he smoothed the ointment on, his touch butterfly-delicate. His profile was severe but very nicely balanced—aquiline nose, strong jaw, nice chin—and his charcoal-fringed eyes were so dark she could barely see where the iris ended and the pupil began. His hands were much larger than hers, and she could feel calluses rasping as he attended to her knee. There was a healing slice across his own forehead, and his shoulder seemed to be much better, though his T-shirt was torn and flapping, crusted with dried blood. He wore a pair of dark-blue jeans, and dark socks; his hair was mussed as if he’d run his hands back through it damp and made it stand up in soft spikes.

  Her mouth went dry. Wow.

  The faint scowl of concentration he wore was even more attractive. He looked very serious, and Chess’s heart thumped against her ribcage.

  “Hurts?” he asked, giving her a dark glance. Those eyes were deadly, really. He looked very serious. Very concerned.

  He’s cute. How the hell did he survive a five-story drop like that? She found she’d stopped breathing, hastily inhaled and almost choked on the thick smell of mint and wormwood. “Little bit. Not bad.” That’s a damn lie, Chess. But oh well. I got rescued by a hunk. Though technically, I suppose I could have just left him out there. That wouldn’t have been very nice, but I could have done it.

  Yeah, sure. “So, Mr. Ryan. You got a first name?” Or a last name? Or should I just call you yummy?

  One corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “Just Ryan, sweetheart. Short for Orion.”

  What a moniker. And if you stick around we’re going to have to talk about that “sweetheart” bit. “Orion. The Hunter.” She tried to nod sagely, winced as her neck reminded her she’d been thrown against a Dumpster. “You made breakfast?”

  He shrugged, dropping his eyes and finishing his ministrations to her knee. “Yeah. Needed a protein load after last night. I can pay you for—”

  “Pay me? You saved my life. We’re pretty even.” I must look like I’ve been hit by a truck. Nice first impression, Chessie the Demon Hunter, who goes out in her jammies to fight the denizens of the dark side. Crap. “So you . . . you know about them.”

  “About what?” He capped the jar deftly, tendons flickering in his wrist as he tightened the lid.

  Um, are we even speaking the same language? “About . . . demons.”

  The half-smile dropped from his face. “I’m Drakulein,” he said sharply, as if she’d just insulted him. “I’m a hunter. The question is, what the hell are you? How did you get that knife? And what the hell have you done with my Malik?”

  Four

  She blinked at him owlishly, and Ryan was suddenly shaken with the urge to grab and shake her. He was in a fine stew of frustration. His Malik was gone, and he’d spent a further five worthless days trailing this skin, who didn’t seem to have the faintest goddamn clue what he was talking about. And that meant Ryan had miscalculated. Paul’s disappearance was linked to something else, and while he’d spent days shadowing this woman he’d probably lost track of his Malik for good.

  It didn’t help that he’d shown his hand too soon. He’d felt the Dog tracking her as she went on her round of work, gym, grocery store, and home; the house she’d visited turned out to obviously be her family. Then, seeing the wards crackling and smoking after repelling the demon’s initial attempt, he’d simply flung himself thoughtlessly down after it, causing a whole hell of a lot of noise and attracting the attention of the authorities.

  The trouble was, he hadn’t stopped to rationally consider any of the consequences. Thinking of her inside the apartment while that thing came for her had damn near blinded him with red rage. He’d heard her bail out of the buildi
ng behind him with that damn Fang, pain blurring and buzzing into his nerves, and he’d moved to protect her instinctively. The demon in his head hadn’t fought him; as a matter of fact, the hard fiery alien part he’d inherited as a Drakul had snarled with possessive rage, spurring him on.

  And then he’d lingered here and taken care of her, as if she was his Malik and not Paul, who at least deserved a Drakul who would look for him. But he had no goddamn leads, the sheela that the head librarian worked with was too damn scatterbrained to be any threat. Not to mention the fact that Ryan had tracked down Paul’s dinner reservation at a tony North Side restaurant. A few careful questions had elicited the troubling news that the sheela had shown up, waited for three hours for his feckless partner, then left in high dudgeon. The head librarian had looked like his best bet . . . but she was obviously clueless. He had shaken her awake every hour, checking her pupils’ dilation and working what limited healing sorcery he had possession of, and the worst part of it was, he’d actually been . . .

  Well, frightened. He was getting awfully attached to this librarian with her obvious love of books and her practice with the heavy bag, not to mention her habit of dancing while she made dinner. Watching her for so long had given him a much better sense of her, and she wasn’t like the usual brain dead skin. For one thing, she had fantastic taste in music. He hadn’t heard a bad song yet.

  Now the way she was staring at him told him he’d made a mistake.

  “My Malik,” he said tightly. “Tall guy, wears glasses, asked you about Delmonico’s Demons and Hellspawn. You know him. He had a dinner date with your friend, and didn’t show. Didn’t show at the rendezvous either. Where the fuck is he?”

  Her eyes were extraordinarily large, and very dark. He could see the flecks of gold and green in the hazel as she stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, her pretty mouth ajar with shock. Her hair fell over her shoulders, tangled and rumpled, and her torn T-shirt and boxers had been soaked with rainwater. He hadn’t tried to get her into anything dry, but he’d wondered if he should. She stared at him, one hand creeping out to touch the hilt of her knife. He was fairly sure he could fend her off, especially in her injured state, but he wanted information and her help, and the best way to get that was by being . . . well, charming.

  Too bad the charming half of this partnership was gone.

  The thought of Paul charming his way around this woman called up a hot nasty flare of emotion he didn’t want to examine more closely. Ryan decided to try again. “Look.” He tried to make his tone as soft and cajoling as possible. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to frighten you. It’s very important that I find my partner, and you seemed like the best bet I had of finding him. You have no idea what kind of trouble could come down if I don’t track him.” The Malik will eat you for breakfast, sweetheart. You won’t know what hit you if they decide you’re a threat.

  “You’ve been following me.” She reached out, and he controlled the urge to twitch away as she plucked the jar of ointment from his fingers. “Get out.”

  “What?” She didn’t just say that, did she? Not very grateful. But she’s smart, she’s put two and two together and come up with me following her. Probably even suspected it, she’s been edgy for days now. That was a stupid move, leaning against her wards like that.

  “I don’t know what books your partner was talking about, and I don’t care.” She was lying, and if she hadn’t been so hurt she might have actually pulled it off. Her pupils dilated, and her fingers curled around the hilt of the knife. She had turned deadly-pale, the bruise on her forehead stretching up into her hair suddenly standing out heavy and glaring against the chalky tone of her skin. That alarmed him more than he liked to admit. “Get out. Get out.”

  “I saved your life,” he reminded her. And you don’t know it, but I’m going to save your life again. The Malik will kill you if you don’t join them. They will follow you until you slip up, and they’ll find wherever you’ve hidden those books, and they will take them. If you’re not part of the Order, you’re part of the problem, and they are very good at solving problems. “You could at least hear me out before you do anything hasty.”

  “How do I know you didn’t sic that thing on me?” She tensed, putting her hand with the jar down as if she was about to push herself up to standing. “Get the fuck out of my house or I’ll—”

  He grabbed her shoulders, shoving her back down on the battered, rose-patterned couch and wincing inwardly when she flinched, letting out a soft sound of pain. Great, you big dumb Drakul. Just perfect. Scare her even more. “Or you’ll what? Call the cops? Tell them I’m a big bad demon hunter? I saved your life, and I’m Drakulein. I don’t sic demons on people.” He felt his lips pull back in a wide, humorless smile; she had no idea of the depth of the insult. “I am of the Order of the Dragon, a knight of the Balance, and it’s because of people like me that ordinary skins can walk around safe at night. You found a cache of sorcerous books, you’re relatively bright and you have some talent. You’ve started messing around with things you don’t understand, fine. But if you don’t start listening to me you’re going to end up in a world of hurt. You can take that to the bank, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes flashed at him. “Don’t you fucking dare call me sweetheart,” she hissed. “Get your hands off me and get out of my goddamn house!”

  “No.” You’re not Malik, I’m not bound to obey you. And if I leave you alone, you’ll get yourself killed. “I’ll make you a deal, librarian. You help me find my Malik and I’ll overlook your screwing around with demons. How about it?”

  Color began to flood her cheeks. She was even prettier when she was angry, despite her tangled hair and the bruise on her face, which was rapidly starting to look much better. Whatever was in that oily goop was evidently worth its weight in gold. “I don’t screw around with demons. I hunt them. Where were you when that octopus thing was eating schoolkids, huh? Well? Where were you? Spying on someone else?”

  Schoolkids? The skornac? His hands gentled on her shoulders. She’d actually damn near dislocated one of them and he didn’t want to add to the pain. “Wait a second.” Damn, her eyes are pretty. Look at that, her eyebrows are perfect, and when her eyes light up . . . Keep your mind on your goddamn work, Ryan. “Kids? Octopus—a skornac was taking humans?”

  The change that came over her face was alarming. She bit her lower lip and nodded. “I f-found out.” The color started to fade from her cheeks, and he suddenly had the horrible idea that she had indeed gone out and killed a skornac all by her lonesome. The thought managed to turn his knees to jelly. He was glad to be actually on his knees and braced against the couch. “It started with r-rats, and then moved to c-cats and kids. F-five of them. The newspapers thought it was a . . . a human. I knew better.”

  “Wait a second. Just hold on one goddamn second. Don’t tell me you . . . ” He searched her face. She didn’t look half as angry now. As a matter of fact, she looked like a woman reliving a nightmare, and he had the sudden uncharacteristic desire to smooth her hair back from her face and say something soothing.

  “I caught a glimpse one night as it took a . . . a victim. He was n-nine . . . I bought a knife and researched all the demons I could, and I followed it.” She was ashen instead of pale now, her skin taking on a tint he didn’t like one bit. “Then I researched some more, finished consecrating this—” She held up the sheathed knife. It was a long, double-bladed beauty with a plain, high-quality hilt; the blade was a good six inches long, a thin line of glowing blue between the hilt and the sheath. “And I tracked it down by using a dowsing pendulum. I caught sight of it, it went underground, and I followed it into the sewer and k-killed it.”

  Ryan let go of her shoulders. He sat down, hard, on the hardwood floor and stared at her. Cold sweat prickled on his back. She’s either incredibly fucking lucky or very, very talented. Either way . . . Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, she killed a skornac. On her own. She should have had a Drakul ther
e to protect her. She should never have been allowed near one of those filthy fucking things, she’s lucky to still be alive.

  Not to mention that if the skornac had been taking humans, something was very, very wrong here. This was a free city, not policed like a Malik town was, but an uneasy border between the Inkani in the far south and the Malik territories to the colder north. Each enclave of Others here was supposed to operate by its own rules, and the Inkani weren’t supposed to spill out into its pressure zone. But this was a keyhole city, and if the Inkani took it they would likely take a large chunk away from the already-stretched-thin Malik.

  And the skins would suffer.

  He would have to look around and see what was going on. A skornac taking humans could be a freak occurrence, like winning the lottery was a freak occurrence.

  Or, far more likely, it was the Inkani, the hellspawn themselves and their human dogs, trying to expand.

  If it was the Inkani, she was looking at a very short lifespan indeed without a Drakul’s protection. And Paul was either hunkered down somewhere waiting for Ryan to find him, or he was messily, painfully dead.

  He stared at her, a small, tangled woman who had flung herself out into the dark alley last night as if she could protect him. A woman who said she had managed to consecrate a Fang, though he was sure she had only found it, since all the Phoenicis were gone. But the knife was evidently new, it wasn’t an antique. How could he explain that?

  Her wrists were thin, she barely reached his collarbone, and even though she was hell on wheels against a heavy bag, she wouldn’t have a chance in hell against a combat-trained Malik, let alone even a small demon.

  “You need to get out of my house,” she said finally, as he stared at her, his jaw suspiciously loose. “I don’t like being spied on and lied to.” Her chin lifted stubbornly, and Ryan realized he was in very deep trouble. The thought of her facing down a skornac made the inside of his chest feel curiously leaden and cold.