"Get back.” He pushed her away from the door. She resisted, but was no match for a Drakul's strength, he dragged her back to the safe spot against the hallway wall and propped her there. “Stay here, goddammit. Don't make me repeat myself.” There might be a trap in the room. Just waiting for a Drakul to come back and poke around.

Besides, you don't need to see this. I don't want you to see this. Even if it isn't my Malik.

She was even paler, if that were possible, and she stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Her pupils dilated.

God, help me. “Stay here,” he repeated. “Here's the safest place for you."

Her lips moved, but even with his demon-acute hearing he couldn't tell what she was trying to say. He tore himself away and stepped back into the doorway, the knife laid flat against his right forearm, the plain wooden hilt protruding just a little from his fist. He picked his way into the room carefully, one step at a time, sparing himself nothing.

The female smelled ripe, with the bathroom odor of death-loosened sphincters. No taint of demon on her; but the recent smoky smell of sex hung in the air, fading fast. Whoever this man was, he wasn't Paul. His wallet lay open on at the end of the bed, the green edge of cash poking out—two twenties lay in a congealed pool of blood. Last night, then, the blood smells fresh but not that fresh. If I'd have dragged her out of bed and ran over here, it still would have been too late.

The small table by the chair was empty, Paul's coat was gone too. Ryan checked the corpse's pockets, feeling his gorge rise briefly. Pointlessly. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could have done, even if his stomach hadn't twisted into a knot over the woman who had disobeyed him once again and stood in the doorway, her fingers pressed against her mouth, her eyes huge and darkly dilated, the two violent spots of color in her cheeks standing out against pale skin.

I don't want you to see this, Chessie. The thought was tinted with sadness—and rage. Paul had broken cover to leave a message with the librarian's coworker; a demon had come up here and killed a man and a hooker who were, in all reality, unconscious of the danger they were in. Where was his Malik?

Goddammit, Paul, I hope you're all right. I'm glad it's not you in here.

But the sick chewing of worry wouldn't go away. And that was something else to worry about; his worry wasn't for Paul or even for the two hapless victims. No, the only person he was worried about right now was her.

Ryan retreated to the door, pushed Chess aside. She didn't resist, but she did make a small, hurt noise. “Quiet,” he warned her. If she started screaming now, she wasn't likely to stop. He swept the door closed, shut his eyes briefly. Go to God, whoever you are.

His next problem looked up at him with eyes that threatened to break his heart. “What is… Who did… Why…” She couldn't even formulate a question, and that disturbed him too. She wasn't taking this well.

What, she can handle demons but a dead body gives her trouble? He shook his head. It was an uncharitable thought. “Demon.” He grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stairs. “We've got to get out of here, we've already left more traces than we should have. Come on."

"But… police… the… the…” She struggled, but he used his strength ruthlessly, pushing her through onto the stairs.

"No police. Not now. I'll call in from your apartment and a cleanup crew will come out. They'll—"

"But—” She took a deep, gulping breath, and he didn't like the way her paleness was turning slightly green.

"Dammit, Chess, move. A demon was here. God alone knows what it left incubating in that corpse. We have got to get out of here.” His fingers sank into her arm and she swallowed another soft sound, this one of pain. He knew he shouldn't hurt her but he had no choice. “Move."

She stumbled on the thin, cheap, carpet, and he held her up. I won't let them take you, Chess. I won't.

Outside, the sun was sinking below the horizon, a soon, short winter sunset. And now, he didn't have any time. Because as soon as dark hit the Inkani would be spreading through the city, and it didn't take much imagination to think that perhaps they'd show up here. Just as he thought that, he heard a low, chilling growl, and his eyes focused on the end of the hall.

Oh, great. Not an Inkani, but one of their spiders, already in the process of shedding its humanity. Its eyes glowed with sparks of red, its fingers crackling as they lengthened. It wouldn't be able to go out into full sunlight, but the room was windowless and the hall only lit by the dimmest of bulbs. And outside, it was cloudy… and the light was already fading.

"Stay still, Chess,” he said, quietly. “This will only take a moment."

Her knees turned to water. She slumped against the wall, staring at the young man who had just appeared. He was slim, Vietnamese, and no taller than her—but then he started to grow.

The horrible stench from the room full of dead people made her want to gag as she watched the human shape at the end of the hall stretch grotesquely, as if he was made out of rubber and was being pulled from both ends. Her jaw went slack, and she wondered when, exactly, her life had gone down the rabbit hole.

There're dead people in there. She'd only looked for a moment, but the sight was seared into the inside of her head. She suspected even a hot shower and scrubbing her eyes with bleach wouldn't make it go away. The horrible throat-cut grin under the slack face, blood spattered in a high arc and soaking into tattered wallpaper, the gassy, terrible smell—

The man at the end of the hall made a low, hoarse sound like a scream of pain. He wore a faded Jericho Warriors sweatshirt that kilted up at the bottom as his lanky frame stretched into something skeletal and hunched, bones cracking as his dark eyes lit with red sparks. His hair, in the layered razor-cut so popular with young men nowadays, fell in his eyes as his shoulders rotated inward, hunching. He looked like a cartoon, except for the claws that sprang loose from his lengthening fingers. The claws looked like bone, and his bony hand jerked out, claws slicing through the faded paint on the walls, dust puffing down.

Ryan moved forward, his shoulders almost seeming to fill up the hall. “Just a spider,” he said, the razor edge of contempt slicing the air. “An Inkani spider. Used to hunt during the day. A filthy maggot with the worm inside him."

That doesn't make any sense. “Um,” Chess managed through the pinhole her throat had become.

"Left here to provide a little surprise, eh? Only you wandered from your post, slave."

The boy snarled back at him, a thin thread of sound that ended on a yip. Chess wished she could stuff her fingers in her mouth to bite down and push back the scream trying to work its way free.

Then the bone-clawed boy yanked his fingers free of the wall and leapt forward, claws outstretched. He didn't aim for Ryan, who was definitely in his way, seeming to take up most of the space; instead, his red-flecked eyes fixed on Chess and his hands outstretched. He even foamed at the mouth, champing like a horse with the bit in his teeth.

Oh, Christ. Oh God. She stood frozen in place, staring as Ryan reached out with one hand and backhanded the boy.

"No!” Chess yelled.

The boy went flying, smashed into the wall. More dust flew. He shook his head and scrambled to his feet, but Ryan was on him, moving with a spooky blurring speed, inhumanly fluid and graceful. His fingers sank into the boy's throat as the thing writhed and cackled, its claws tearing and beating at the air. Ryan's free hand caught the boy's right wrist and twisted, the sickening crack of bone breaking echoed in the hallway.