"You leave my kitchen alone. I'll make my own damn breakfast.” And with that, she vanished into her bedroom.

Perfect. I managed to handle that in a spectacularly bad way. But she's agreed, and she's decent, so she'll probably live up to it. That, however, was the least of his problems. He had to find his Malik and find out what the Inkani were up to. And then he had to figure out how to stay as close to her as possible, for as long as possible.

I'm in trouble, and if the Order finds out I'll never see her again. His throat went dry, and he retreated to the dining room, where he'd left his weapons and his bag. What am I thinking of? I'm contemplating something very dangerous. Let's hope I come to my senses sometime soon.

But he heard the shower gurgle into life, and his entire body seemed to vibrate with tension, kicking up a notch. It was too late. She'd triggered some of the worst and deepest instincts a Drakul had, and he was in the biggest mess of his life, without the faintest idea of how he'd gotten there.

He didn't listen to her, of course, and had a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast for her as soon as she appeared, showered, in clean clothes, and feeling marginally more able to handle the situation. He hadn't done her toast right—Chess preferred it just lightly toasted, and he'd damn near burned it—but she was so hungry she didn't care. He had even made coffee, and it was little consolation that he'd managed to do that right. The coffee alone was strong enough to eat a silver spoon.

By the time she finished the first piece of toast—made tolerable by a liberal layer of strawberry jam and frequent gulps of coffee with cream—she was feeling much better. The ointment, reapplied after her shower, had worked its sorcery, and she was well on her way to simmering with fury. It was only eleven o'clock in the morning. If she was at work she would be shelving for a little bit before lunch. The rain had blown itself out, now the windows darkened when a cloud went over the sun and brightened when it came back out.

"So the Malik are human, but they've got sorcerous talent. They're like sorcerers. What are… Dragool?"

"Drakul,” he corrected. Settled on the other side of her table, his black eyes focused on the wickedly-curved, sharp-looking knife he was oiling, he looked far more deadly than he had this morning. His profile was harsh, especially when he was concentrating, and he didn't treat the knife with the same delicate care he'd used on her knee. Instead, his eyebrows were drawn together, and he looked almost distracted but still… well, lethal. Muscle moved in his arm as he lifted the knife, eyeing the blade critically, and her heart began to pound. He had a black bag with a flap and a shoulder strap; it seemed to hold a lot of odds and ends he probably needed for demon hunting, like her own bag. “Drakulein. The Order of the Dragon. In 1431 the original order—meant to fight against the infidel in Eastern Europe—was expanded. One of Sigismund of Luxembourg's vassals was a Malik, a kind of medieval demon-hunter. He got a secret charter from Sigismund, who was King of Hungary. Then he started finding men with demon blood."

"Demon blood?” She almost forgot to eat, this was so interesting. But she was absolutely starving and took another bite of toast and contemplated more coffee. I have a big, tall demon hunter sitting at my kitchen table. Whoa. She was beginning to feel almost charitable toward him, despite him dangling her from her throat and spying on her.

"Whether by rape, by trickery, or through bargaining, Others have been breeding with humans for a long time. Not all of them have tentacles or are foul-smelling dogs. Anyway, the children of those unions usually had lots of sorcerous talent and the changes in bone structure began at about that time, we think. We're not sure. Sigismund's vassal laid the foundation for the Order. When Sigismund died, the human Order of the Dragon—"

"Wait a minute. Dracul.” She made the connection. The 1400s, Order of the Dragon, Eastern Europe. Oh my God. “You mean like Vlad Tepes? As in—"

"He wasn't one of ours. He was part of the human order, just a warlord in Wallachia.” But he looked pleased that she knew her history. He set the knife down, and his eyes settled on her. They were so dark, iris blending into pupil, it gave his gaze a piercing intensity she wasn't sure she liked. “Anyway, that was the start of it. When Sigismund died, the human Order went into decline, but the Malik and Dracul… we stayed. We had to. Demons were everywhere, feeding on the chaos wars left behind, and we had a hard time clearing out territories so people could sleep at night without worrying about the sounds they heard outside. There were outbreaks, of course, but after 1607 we were largely in control of things. I'm Drakul, my father and mother both had demon blood. Gave me some trouble when I was young, I could do things ordinary kids couldn't. I learned early and well to be circumspect; but my mom couldn't handle the demon in me coming out. Neither could anyone else, and I got labeled a runaway and a juvenile delinquent.” His mouth turned down bitterly at both corners. “Then the Malik found me. I haven't looked back since."

"So you're… part…” Her mouth was dry. She took a hurried gulp of coffee, scorching her tongue. Ouch. So that's why he moves so fast and why my knife's been acting funny. Why didn't any of the books warn me about this? I thought he was human. Like me.

"Part demon, lacking a soul. Scared of me yet?” He gave her a bright, sunny smile, the tips of his white teeth showing, his eyes cold and dark.

Yes. Of course I am. I saw you move last night. Too fast to be human, and you survived a five-story drop onto concrete. My God. “No. If you mess with my library, I'll find some way to get rid of you.” She popped a piece of toast into her mouth, chewed, and took another drink of coffee. It was too hot, but she needed the caffeine. “So you lost the guy in tweed—Paul."

"Yeah. He didn't meet me at the rendezvous, and didn't meet your friend. That means something's wrong. It's not like Paul to miss a dinner date. He thinks he's a goddamn Casanova.” He slid the knife back into its sheath and took something else out of his bag. It looked like a coil of copper wire. The shoulder of his T-shirt was still torn and crusted with dried blood, and her conscience suddenly gave a hard twinge.

So he'd been watching her because he suspected her of having something to do with the disappearance. He'd still intervened, getting that thing away from her window. She'd been too exhausted to recognize the danger. He deserved a little slack, even if he had practically manhandled her in her own home. “Hey, take your shirt off."

That managed to get a reaction. He looked steadily at her, his jaw gone hard as stone and his eyes hard, closed-off, and almost feral.

"I mean it,” she persisted. I'm offering you an olive branch, you bossy jerk. Take it, why don't you? “I've got some T-shirts left from an ex-boyfriend. One of them will probably fit you. I'll wash the one you're wearing and put it in my mending. No reason for you to go around all bloody."

He still stared at her as if she'd just informed him there was something unspeakable in his cornflakes. Chess sighed. “Fine. Forget it. So you want me to help you find this guy Paul. All right. Where do we start?"

"Nightfall.” He looked back down at the table. “If you've got an extra shirt, I'll take it. I can mend this one, but it would be nice to have it washed."

"You could probably use a shower, too. It was pretty dirty and wet out there last night.” And I ran out in my pajamas. I haven't even looked at my coat yet. If I bled on it I'll have to take it to dry cleaning and wear my camel coat… dammit. And if I'm out all night I'm going to drag at work tomorrow. Lovely. “So this… Order. You'll keep them away from me and my library if I cooperate?” I've admitted to having the books. Her heart rose to her throat, she swallowed hard. Whether she liked it or not, she had to trust him now.