No, they took the subway. And she was monosyllabic, staring out the window and biting gently at her lower lip, evidently deep in thought. She wore another sweatshirt jacket, this one a deep maroon and zippered up the front, its hood resting gently on her slim shoulders. The train bulleted around a bend and her center of gravity shifted; she actually leaned into him. Though there were empty seats, they both stood—Ryan preferring to be on his feet in case of attack and her… she probably didn't want him looming over her. He didn't blame her.

I don't blame her for any of this. Even though she found the books, woke up her potential, killed a fucking skornac and got me into trouble. No, the books probably called her, if what I was told of potentials is true. She probably doesn't even know why she found them, probably felt compelled. And now she's frightened, I haven't given her any goddamn reason to trust me other than dragging her to a tavern the Inkani just happen to decide to attack while she's there. He glanced up at the map and looked down at her sleek bent head. “Next stop,” he murmured, and her shoulders hunched. She'd heard him.

Why had she suddenly withdrawn into herself? Was it something he'd said? Probably. He had no gift for handling females, like Paul did. Hell, Ryan barely had any idea of how to talk to a woman, she seemed mercurial at best and stubborn at worst, when she wasn't so bloody foolhardy and brave it threatened to drive him right out of his head.

They emerged onto Harkness Street, and even though it was during the day she shivered. The sun was sinking, it had taken them much longer than he'd thought. “Not far now,” he said, wondering why she didn't have a car. It didn't seem like the right time to ask.

"Maybe you should go up alone,” she said suddenly. “If you're this guy's partner, he might not be too happy to see me. Especially if you're not supposed to be around a… female."

"You're coming with me. Once Paul understands, you'll have two protectors instead of one. I'm no coward, but the more Malik around, the safer you are. Even if you don't want to talk to them.” They'll wait. Hell, for a Golden they'll fall on their knees and beg. And she trusts me, I have to be careful. Not do anything stupid.

Harkness Street was in the Vietnamese district, and the crowds here didn't make eye contact as Ryan towered above them, occasionally touching Chess's shoulder to direct her. The smells of pho and baking cream puffs, strange spices and laundry steam, permeated the air. Vegetables spilled out of sidewalk booths, and a little girl in a red jacket, her black hair cut straight across her forehead and falling in an unbroken sheet down her back, pointed at Chess and asked her mother a question. Chess had turned pale, and her steps slowed. Frustration and annoyance boiled under Ryan's ribs. He'd been gentle, he'd been careful, he'd been as kind as he could.

Maybe she was having second thoughts about hanging around a Drakulein.

He guided her to a door tucked between an apothecary's shop and another grocery, this one with colorful paper pennants for sale under the awning. The clouds were beginning to show up in earnest, and the temperature was dropping even through the sunlight. The door was glass, marred with spiderweb cracks as if someone's head had been rammed into it, and Ryan began to feel uneasy. That hadn't been there before.

The door opened, and he crowded Chess in. The noise of the street fell away. A narrow tiled hall, indifferently-carpeted stairs at the back, they'd rented this room from a hard-eyed Vietnamese woman and paid in cash, weeks ago. Ryan sniffed cautiously, and didn't like what he smelled.

Paul's scent, of course, familiar as his own breath. And over that, the red roil of bloodlust, of fear, of dark purpose, and a fading tang of demon. Not Drakulein, but another type of demon entirely. Maybe a brilnac, it smelled wet and disgusting, like fur left to rot with potatoes in a dark corner.

"Upstairs. Second floor.” He had to move forward, herding her. She went reluctantly. The smell of her fear and adrenaline began to come in waves, and he tried not to breathe deeply. Little shallow sips of air, the scent spiking across his hindbrain and hiking his pulse to match hers.

She climbed the stairs in front of him, trying to move quietly. When they reached the narrow sloping aperture that gave way to the second-floor hallway, he slid around her and took the lead, going slowly and glancing back when she paused. “Stay with me.” He didn't like the way her eyes were now ringed with white. Dammit, woman, what's wrong with you? Why are you afraid if you're with me?

Still, her fear was only normal. Maybe she could sense the presence of demons, too, if she was far along the path to becoming a full Phoenicis. If she could…?

As soon as he drew near the door he could smell something else, too. Blood, violence, and a copper scent he recognized.

Death. Fuck. Oh, holy fuck.

He turned back, sliding a knife out of its sheath. “Stay here,” he whispered, and pointed to a spot right up against the wall, where she wasn't visible from the stairs or at risk from flying wreckage if any of the doors burst open. “Right here."

"I thought I was supposed to stay with you,” she whispered back, fiercely.

"Don't fucking argue with me. Stand right there and don't move.” His tone brooked no disobedience.

Her eyes glittered, but she moved. She stood where he'd pointed, and her chin lifted a little, mulishly defiant. Spots of high color stood out in her pale cheeks, she set her jaw and glared at him. Even that glare made her look adorable.

We're going to have a talk about your attitude, sweetheart, just as soon as I see what's behind Door Number One. He eased up on it, moving soft and deadly. No pulse behind it, but there could be a masking-spell; sometimes the Inkani got a little tricky like that.

Paul, I hope you got out of here in time.

If he hadn't been with Chess he would have come in through the window on the fifth floor and come down. Her perfume was beginning to fill up the hall, her heartbeat accelerating even more as he reached down and tested the doorknob, barely realizing he'd made the habitual ward-movement to blur his fingerprints.

It was unlocked.

Oh, dammit. Dammit.

The door swung wide, and he studied the room, the bed in the corner Paul had slept on, the chair in the opposite corner Ryan had stood guard in for at least a week while they canvassed the city for signs of the skornac's killer. The tiny sink and counter for a hotplate, the narrow bathroom off to one side. The smell boiled out and he heard Chess moving. There were no demons here.

Not anymore.

A man's body slumped across the bed. Blood had splashed in a high arc up the peeling wallpaper. The little room was close and full of the stench of death and spoiled Malik sorcery; no window because this was a bolt-hole, a rendezvous point. His throat had been slashed, a quick and messy job. He wore a brown leather jacket and unbuttoned jeans, a dark green T-shirt. His head lolled obscenely over to one side, his face pointed toward the door. Below his chin the wide grimace of his cut throat opened, grinning huge and horrible.

There was another body on the floor, a human woman in a tight skirt and high boots, the perfume and hairspray she'd worn while living turning into a cloying reek. Her neck had been broken and her shirt was off, her torso glowing pale in the dim light from the overhead lamp.

Goddammit, Paul. You couldn't go a night without a female, could you. You stupid, stupid… Wait a minute. Just wait one goddamn minute.

Relief welled inside his chest. That's not Paul.

"What is it?” Chess, at his shoulder.

I thought I told her to stay back! He reached out to push her away, to shield her from this unlovely sight, but she looked past him and gasped. Her hand flew up to her mouth.