Down, boy. She doesn't understand, just do your job for right now. We'll figure everything else out later.

"What?” She sounded irritable, and exhausted.

He heard it, coming through the phone, tinny and eerie, stretched out by distance. “Francessssssca…” Her name, spoken in a long, tinkling, dragging whisper. “Franceeeessssssca…."

"Oh, for God's sake,” she muttered irritably, “find someone else to prank call. I'm busy."

His knee pressed into the bed, making the springs creak. He ignored her soft cry of surprise. He grabbed the phone, lifted it to his ear, and felt his throat swell as the subvocal growl escaped him. He heard a faint tinny squeal, then it disconnected and a dial tone echoed. Ryan dropped the phone back in the cradle. He was suddenly aware he was right next to her, she pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking at him as he lowered himself down to sit on the edge of her bed. The framed print of Buster Keaton watched them both with sad, knowing eyes.

"Does that happen a lot?” He pitched his tone low, very soothing, the last of the growl dying in his chest. “Chess?"

She slumped back onto the bed, pushed her hair back from her face. “Guess so. Couple times a week, since I found the books.” She sighed, a long sleepy sound. “I didn't know you were there."

Poltergeist activity. She must be breathing sorcery into the air. She's farther along than I thought. “Was watching you sleep.” That was, at least, the absolute truth.

"Aren't you tired?” Her eyes were closing, he could see it in the dimness. Of course, he was a night creature, wasn't he?

And she was a Golden. The Halston books had triggered her potential. She had been breathing in an air freighted with another Golden's sorcery, and using the books he had collected. No wonder. Even if she'd had only the smallest shred of potential that atmosphere would have strengthened and triggered it. He would be willing to bet, though, that there wasn't just a small shred of potential in her.

"Not tired.” I have to tell her. As soon as she wakes up tomorrow. “Go to sleep, Chess."

"'Kay.” And she turned over, the blanket pulling away from him.

Her breathing turned deep and even again, as she dropped back into slumber without any trouble. He thought about it, then reached over and clicked the switch on her alarm clock to “off.” She didn't need to get up in the morning, she needed her sleep.

Ryan braced his elbows on his knees, hanging his head. Someone knew about her. The Inkani would find out soon. And he had to call in, report what he'd found to the Malik and get them looking for his skin.

And he had to face the fact that he'd let his instincts attach themselves to a woman who had not the faintest idea of how to handle a Drakul, let alone her own potential as a Golden.

Christ, what am I going to do?

For some reason, her alarm didn't go off, so it was her mother's phone call at noon that woke her up. “Chess? Honey, are you all right? Sharon said you ate some bad Chinese. Have you stopped throwing up?"

"Mmh?” Chess blinked at her clock and at the fall of weak winter sunlight coming in through her bedroom window. She hadn't even pulled the curtains last night. “What time is it?” I sound dazed. I feel dazed.

"It's noon, sleepy. She said you had a neighbor helping you. Are you all right?” Mom was in the kitchen, Chess could hear splashing water. Washing dishes, which was a sure sign of Mom's worry. There was an indistinct murmur in the background—Chess's father. “Be quiet, Brian, I'm asking her! Sweetie, are you all right?"

Chess winced, yawning. Her head hurt, and so did her shoulder and her ribs; deep bruising, she suspected, from being tossed into a Dumpster. The salve could only do so much, even though the swelling had gone down and most of the surface coloration was gone. I should feel grateful I didn't break a bone. “Better,” she managed. “What's Dad doing home?” He should have been at the college, teaching.

More water splashing. “Oh, he's got the sniffles, and it's Friday. His students needed the time off, so I got stuck with him. Should I bring you some soup and your Connie Frances CD?"

Oh, Christ, Mom, I can't wait for you to meet this guy. He wears my T-shirts and gets them all soaked with blood; he screams my name in crowded bars and gets between me and hell-dog demons. Oh, and he's part demon too. A real winner. “No, Mom, I'm still feeling a little squidgy.” Her voice was husky, probably from last night's screaming. She sounded sick. “I feel really bad, and I like to be alone when I throw up."

"Are you still throwing up? Maybe I'll send Charlie over,” Mom waffled. Chess could hear the battle between “motherly concern” and “leave her alone to rest."

"No, Mom. I'll be fine, I'm okay. I'll call you in a day or so when I feel better, you can cook me chicken and garlic. How about that?” And by then I might have a good way to explain all this. Sure. If I have a miracle and a couple of lexicons.

"Sure, honey. You call if you need anything, and you keep covered up and away from drafts. Drink plenty of fluids. Do you need groceries?"

"No, Mom.” Her throat was full. Her mother was worried, and Chess had been withdrawing lately. Well, I've been chasing demons at night, and that kind of eats into my energy level. “I'm fine."

"All right, sweets. Go back to sleep. Call me if you're still throwing up tomorrow.” Mom hung up reluctantly, and so did Chess. She met Buster Keaton's eyes from behind the glass, and wondered why her apartment was so silent.

Then she picked up the pink handset and dialed again. She loved this phone, it reminded her of Mae West. Come up and see me sometime, Mae's throaty voice whispered, and Chess actually smiled.

"Jericho City Library, Emma speaking. How may I help you?” Yet another unremittingly-perky voice. Chess could see Emma's round face and flyaway golden hair.

Chess cleared her throat. “Em? It's Chess."

"Good Lord, you sound awful. Don't worry about a thing, Sharon opened and I'm manning the Reference desk. It's Friday, and we've already had a visit from Pembroke the Indignant."

Chess's heart plunged. She heard the familiar sounds of the library behind Emma's voice: paper, the murmuring quiet, and a soft voice—probably Sharon's. “It's Chess,” Emma stage-whispered. “She sounds terrible."

"What did old Pemmican want?” Chess asked. I do sound terrible. I wonder how much of it is hunting demons and how much is just me?

"Just to return some Faulkner and to leave you a fruit basket. The damn thing looks older than the Mayflower—the fruit basket, I mean. Though Pem's close. Guess you won her crotchety old heart.” Emma giggled, a carefree sound. “Connie's been asking for you, something about budget meetings, and Loren wants you to look over the new catalog. We caught a pair of teenagers making out in the Biography section; there was a bra on the floor. And the downstairs toilet needed plunging again. All in all, a normal day.” There was a series of soft muted beeps, the phone was ringing again. “Oh, and some guy named Paul was in here for you. Very dishy. Share wouldn't talk to him, gave him the cold shoulder. He left his number."

What? Chess struggled to sit up, reaching for her journal. The pen skittered away but she caught it. “Hang on, let me get my pencil.” It was an old library joke, and Emma laughed again. “Give me the number?"

Em did. “Do me a favor and don't call anyone, you sound like Kathleen Turner. Go back to bed and drink lots of liquids, okay? Don't eat Chinese no more."

"I'll put it in my day planner. I'm sorry, Em.” No, the first thing I've got to do is get the demon hunter off my couch. At least, I think he slept on my couch. Chess took a deep breath. She smelled something wonderful, something magnificent, something fantastic.