The Demon's Librarian

by Lilith Saintcrow

  For a moment, Ryan thought rage might blind him. The fury rose, shoving aside the agony for one glorious red second—then retreated before the onslaught of pain as his battered body hung stretched between roof and chasm. Metal clashed and ground together, Inkani sorcery spitting and crackling as he swayed like a plucked string. His head flopped down, his neck no longer having the strength to hold it up.

  “Sso.” The High One gave a chilling little laugh that sliced through the torchlight, making the oily, crimson glow gutter. “Usselesss he iss. Let uss leave him to reconssider.”

  A touch against Ryan’s shoulder. The scream died in his throat, half-strangled. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him yell. The High One’s breath washed over his face, loaded with its alien scent, and if he’d had a stomach left, that would have turned it. “We alwayss win, coussin,” the Inkani hissed, softly. “Alwayss.”

  Their footsteps retreated. “Think about it,” Paul said, before the sound of their feet—the High One’s almost weightless, brushing the drum-head of stone that shrank back from its passing; Paul’s stumbling human tread—retreated. There was nothing wrong with Ryan’s ears. He focused through the sheet of blinding agony from his chest and shoulders and maltreated wrists. Underground. They had him underground, in tunnels they had built with stonekin slaves; they went up through a tunnel. No door—and no guard. They were going to leave him down here to rot.

  Rage returned again, fruitless rage. Paul. Whoever would have thought the feckless Malik had it in him?

  Why am I still alive?

  The answer was simple. They thought Chess had told him where the books were, or how to get at them—because Paul couldn’t find them, even after searching the library. They would come back as many times as they had to, to get that information out of him. But that wasn’t his problem.

  How far away is darkmoon? The Rite is at its most powerful at darkmoon. Three days, five at the most, depending on how long I’ve been out.

  He coughed, his body curving into a taut shallow arc as red-hot pokers drilled through his chest. The chains clashed, spat, jangled.

  Chess. Francesca. He hung still, then, swallowing the tickle at the back of his bloody throat. Copper tainted the inside of his mouth. Christ, he was in bad shape.

  Not as bad as those bastards are going to be when I get my hands on them. Chess. Think, you big, dumb Drakul! Think!

  She had to still be alive. If they had performed the Rite, they would know how to get to the books, there was no way she could stand up to that kind of torture. She wasn’t made for it. Stubborn, yes; brave, yes; determined to fight, yes. But they would rip her soul out of her body and use her to power a portal between here and the foul place the High Ones escaped from, and she would be left a battered, bleeding wreck. She would tell them anything they wanted to know, and they would kill her anyway.

  Stillness, then. The chains stopped their clashing as he hung motionless, barely even breathing. Sweat and blood ran down his skin. He could barely feel any clothing. Had they stripped him? He wouldn’t put it past them.

  It all made sense now. Paul showing up battered . . . but not as battered as he should have been if he’d really run across Inkani. Showing up just after the first Inkani spider had triggered its change, suggesting Ryan keep both Chess and her sister in the apartment, talking all night to gauge whether or not Ryan was alert, suggesting they try to get Chess out of town, possibly to lure Ryan into a prepared Inkani trap, unaccountably nervous and fearful not because of combat sickness, but because he was playing both sides of the field. It all made sense. How did they get to him? How? And for how long?

  Who cared? Forget Paul. He was only an obstacle now, and a fragile one at best. He was, after all, only Malik.

  Only human, when all was said and done.

  Slowly, infinitely slowly, Ryan tensed the fingers of his right hand. Blood slid warm down his arm. The metal crackled uneasily—but he was demon, too. More strongly demon than most Drakul.

  His eyes closed, Ryan concentrated.

  So much time spent keeping the demon down, keeping it chained, exerting control. Control. He’d tried so hard to be gentle with Chess, and ended up dragging her into a trap. What would have happened if he’d sent her out with Paul alone? Christ.

  Think of her, then. Think of her dark hair, the way her eyes are growing golden. Think of the way she smells. She smells good, and she bites her lower lip a little when she’s concentrating. Think of her sitting there at her kitchen table, with her face in her hands. Think about that, Ryan.

  A thin wire of warmth slid down his lip. His teeth were buried in his own flesh, one more note in the symphony of pain.

  Chess, then. Her braid bobbing back and forth as she punched the heavy bag, her hand in his. You’re a human being. You’re the only one I trust. We’re partners.

  The only one I trust. Her face, open and peaceful, as she slept in her bed.

  The demon in him stirred.

  It wasn’t so hard after all. So much iron control, so much denying himself, when all he had to do was relax for just a moment and let that other three-quarters of himself out. The black, roaring thing he kept chained and crouching stretched, finding itself trapped in a body hanging weighted from chains that crackled with power akin to it.

  Chess, he whispered without speaking, the entire world narrowing to a pinprick of bloody crimson. Every muscle tensed against itself, his teeth driven into his lip, his eyes rolling back into his head as bones creaked under the strain and the chains stilled, even their static-laden murmur hushed.

  Mine, the demon whispered, filling his veins with hot, bloody wine. Mine.

  “Mine,” Ryan whispered back, agreeing. He loosed the last shackle of his control, and let the demon take him.

  Nineteen

  She put her back to the stone wall, sitting cross-legged on the bed. It was a narrow single bed, covered in white silk; the little stone cell had a bathroom but no mirror, and no window. There wasn’t anything in the whole damn room that could be used as a weapon, she’d already yanked up the silk and tried tugging at the bedposts, but they were somehow fixed to the floor.

  So Chess sat, chewing meditatively on a fingernail, staring at the thick, heavy door, without even a doorknob or keyhole on the inside. The only light came from a single candle set in a shallow dish somehow curving out of the stone wall itself, the candles themselves smelled foul and were too thin to be of any real use as a weapon.

  They’d taken her knife. They’d taken everything. And Paul had helped them.

  Come on, Chess. Buck up. Think your way out of this one.

  They’d beaten Ryan to a bloody pulp, the blue-eyed things, and she’d been so sick she’d lost everything she’d ever thought of eating while Paul held the gun on her and laughed. It wasn’t so much their six-fingered, soft, long maggot hands or their sheerly pretty faces with their alien bones—it was the cold that emanated from them, and their hiss-clicking voices. And the genuine enjoyment they had seemed to take in beating Ryan up while they dragged Chess away. Five of them, and he’d still fought them; but . . .

  They’ve killed him. You know they’ve killed him. There’s no way someone could survive what they did to him.

  She moved restlessly, eyeing the candle again. They came every little while to bring her food—human food, from God-knew-where. Each time it was either a colorless human slave with vacant eyes, shadowed by one of the Unspeakable—or it was Paul, with a demon leering over his shoulder. And that was somehow worse, because he grinned and joked about what they were going to do to her.

  Now I know how it feels to be on Death Row.

  “There is nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so,” she whispered, her voice mouthing the cold stone walls. The bed was soft and deep, but she didn’t feel like lying down. She didn’t feel like eating, either; the latest tray with its cargo of chicken and saffron rice lay on the floor, congealing. The dishes were plastic and the tray itself was too flimsy to stand up to
any kind of abuse. She knew, she’d broken three of the trays trying to make a weapon. Any weapon.

  As if she wasn’t so sick and cold when one of those things came in she could barely stand up.

  The candle flame flickered. If she attacked Paul with the candle, they might take it away. And as much as Chess wanted to scratch the bastard’s eyes out, she couldn’t stand the thought of being locked up down here in the dark.

  She shivered. Closed her eyes. Sought refuge, once again, in literature. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” She recited the long string of paradoxes from memory, then switched to poetry. “We were very tired, we were very merry . . . ” Her voice cracked, sobs rising in her throat.

  Come on, Chess. What have you got to lose?

  She was hungry, drained, and exhausted. Her skin crawled and her mouth tasted foul. The food was starting to smell heavenly, even ice-cold as it was likely to be. But what if it was drugged?

  “Whether tis nobler to endure . . . oh, wait a minute. Or by opposing, end them. Yeah. Sure. Who am I kidding?”

  The candle flame flickered, guttered.

  Oh, God, don’t let me be down here in the dark. But the flame straightened again, strengthened.

  She slumped against the wall, feeling its chill burn through her T-shirt. Ryan was dead, her apartment was probably ruined, and nobody knew where she was. She was kidnapped by demons who were going to sacrifice her in some funky ritual.

  I keep thinking this can’t get any worse. Then it goes and gets worse.

  Her ears were sensitized by the absolute silence, it was so quiet she could actually hear the candle burning, a faint soft sound. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall. This is bad. This is really bad. I wish I could think of something, anything . . . I’m so hungry. God, I’m so hungry. If I get out of this I’m going to get a big bacon cheeseburger and eat the whole damn thing. And French fries. With mayonnaise. Oh, and a bottle of white wine, so cold it hurts my teeth. Then I’m going to get a big chocolate-covered sundae and pour whipped cream on it, and load it up with nuts.

  She shifted restlessly. Ryan. God, I’m so sorry. I should have done something. What could I do? I never even got to kiss him back.

  That was a good memory, even though she was terrified. Somehow thinking of Ryan made her feel better. He’d done the best he could.

  What would he do? He wouldn’t be sitting here moping. He’d be figuring out some way of getting out of here. Christ, I’m woefully short on practical experience. The researcher’s doom, actual field conditions.

  Think, then. She had to think, before she got any hungrier, any weaker.

  She imagined the library, then. Not the secret hidden room of sorcerous books, but the plain, everyday, falling-apart library, with its faded carpet and heavy lamps, with the sound of computers softly humming and pages turning. The checkout counter, Chess’s own cluttered tiny office. God, I’d even welcome Pem the Indignant right about now. I’ll bet she’d make short work of those demons. Probably beat them over the head with her little tartan purse.

  The laugh was forlorn and thin, but it made her feel better as well. Chess rubbed her fingers together. Her hair was mercilessly tangled and she would start to smell unwashed pretty soon. Mom was probably climbing the walls, and God knew what Charlie was thinking. They had probably found her apartment trashed by now. Charlie would come over to collect the bike and find Chess’s door blown off its hinges and the window broken, her bedroom door hacked apart and—

  A soft, sliding sound outside the door. Chess froze, nailed in place before she realized the creeping cold wasn’t spreading up her fingers. More stealthy sounds, someone scraping at her door. A slight squeal, as if a key was turning.

  Holy fuck. She was off the bed, as quickly and quietly as she could. Crossed to the shallow stone dish carved out of the wall and reached out, snapping the thin wax taper. Her sneakers made slight squeaking sounds as she turned carefully, shielding the flame with her cupped hand.

  It was as close to a weapon as she could think of. And if there wasn’t one of the Unspeakable outside her door, she might just have a chance. She ghosted across the stone floor, wondering if there were any trolls around here, and put her back to the wall beside the door, cupping the frail flame with her shaking hand.

  More scraping.

  Who’s on first, she thought, shoving down the urge to giggle. What’s on second. And I Don’t Know’s on third. I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him.

  The door squeaked as it swung inward. “Hey, baby,” a familiar voice crept into the dark. “Let’s teach you some manners—what the fuck?”

  He probably sensed something wrong, because he shoved the door open, banging it against the wall with more force than was necessary, probably to make sure she wasn’t hiding behind it. Chess leapt, her back leg providing leverage as she button-hooked around the corner, jabbing with the candle’s sullen gleam and hot wax. Ohgodpleasepleaseplease—

  She got lucky. Paul let out a short blurt of surprise, dropping into a defensive crouch that brought his face right to the level of the candle. The thin taper flew forward, and smacked him right in the eye with hot wax.

  “Agh! You bitch!”

  Chess almost froze. But months of practicing and training with Al rose under her skin, and she moved instinctively, snapping a low kick to his knee, a yell bursting from her own throat. She was weak, shaky, and starving, but she had surprise on her side; Paul went down hard. Chess lost her own balance, not expecting him to fold so quickly. The candle skittered out of her hand as the torch Paul carried flew down the darkened hall. Another miracle intervened—her knee landed on something suspiciously soft near his groin, and his yell abruptly became more of a strangled squeak.

  Her fist flew, a rabbit-punch not to the face—her hands were too small—but to the throat, the best place to land a punch. She could still hear Al yelling, if’n they can’t breathe, they can’t fight! Go for the throat shot! Neck, neck, neck, and I ain’t talkin about kissin!

  There was a sickening crunch, and he started to thrash. Something clipped her hard on the side of the head. Chess fell, sprawling, barking her elbow on stone and letting out a hoarse, pained cry. Ouch. Not another shiner, please, I don’t want another black eye. She scrambled blindly to get up, to run away, to use the advantage she’d been given for all it was worth.

  She managed to make it up to her knees, tasting copper, and looked down at Paul. He’d stopped moving and lay on his back, a shallow whistling sound coming from parted lips. His eyes had rolled back into his head, and he looked very, very unhappy.

  A useless sob hitched in her throat, her head throbbed with pain. Adrenaline made her stomach sour and her hands shaky. Now what do I do? Think, Chessie! Think!

  Logic dictated that he had to have some weapon on him. Logic further dictated that he wasn’t supposed to be here without one of the Unspeakable with him. Then again, he outweighed her. Maybe they’d thought she wasn’t a match for him. Or maybe he thought he was more than a match for her, and was up to no good.

  Yet another fool underestimating a librarian, she thought, rancid giggles rising in her chest. Get up, Chess. God only knows how much time you have. Get up and drag him into that room, take whatever he’s got, keys, weapons, anything you can use. Then get the hell out of here.

  Where exactly would she go? These were tunnels, for God’s sake, and she had no idea where she was. And fumbling around in the dark . . .

  Better to fumble around in the dark than wait for them to come back and kill me. The thought forced her to get moving, mechanically, her fingers numb and her legs unsteady.

  Paul was a heavy deadweight as she dragged him into the room, she’d knocked him out. A quick digging in his pockets by the pale golden light of the candle, relit from the smoking torch, turned up a heavy metal key. He also had her knife in a sheath clipped to his belt. You bastard. Why did you have my knife? She took both, the knife buzzing in her hand, and yanked the d
oor closed. On the hallway side of it there was a single keyhole. She stuck the key in and tugged at it, thinking she could break it in the lock . . . but then she thought about being locked in that room with no light, and rested her head against the cold heaviness. The door seemed made out of something alien, too cold to be wood and too light to be iron. It sounded like glass when she tapped it from the outside.

  She yanked the key out of the lock and stuck it in her pocket, clipped her knife to the waistband of her jeans, and took a deep breath, holding the rescued torch high and hearing the sputtering hiss of the flame at its far end. Her other hand held the candle, saved against the torch’s demise. Which way do I go? Right or left?

  It was a fine time to wish she’d heard from which end the demons came from. Come on, Chess. Right or left? Either way, I’m probably equally fucked.

  She finally turned left, for no reason other than she’d once read that people lost in the woods usually ended up making turns in the direction of their dominant hand. It was as good a decision as any, at this point. Her knife buzzed against her hip, sending prickles up her spine.

  Two thoughts took on uncomfortable dimensions as she started tentatively down the corridor. The first was predictable enough: I wish Ryan was here. I’d feel a whole lot better about this.

  The second thought was chilling: “Teach me some manners?” What was Paul going to do to me? And how long do I have before they discover I’m gone?

  * * * *

  The torch died a short while afterward, she managed to light the thin tapering candle from its last sputters and finally tossed the charred hunk of wood aside into one of the weird rooms that opened off on either side of the hall at regular intervals. Some of the rooms had chains hanging from the ceiling over round holes in the floor, and some had other chains attached to stone walls by rusting staples. Other rooms had items she couldn’t even begin to imagine the use of, except that they looked painful.