"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, almost 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?

"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.