She dragged the knife free as Paul's hand came up, full of a gun. There was a sudden, amazing wall of noise from below, the entire building seeming to groan under a shuddering impact. Squealing groans and a terrible, bloodcurdling screech followed the thump, and the sudden incredible sound of gunfire. Ryan's down there! Oh my God!

Paul swept the room, moving like a cop in a movie, making sure nothing was inside. There was a single bed and a small table with a broken porcelain lamp perched on it; the dun carpet was thin and raspy. He grabbed her arm again. Seemingly not noticing her knife, he dragged her to the window and wrenched it up, letting in a burst of chill, rain-laden air. Lo and behold, there was a fire escape here. The battered man glanced out, blinking painfully against the light, then motioned to her. “Looks clear. Let's go."

"I d-d-d—” Her voice refused to work properly. The knifehilt was solid in her sweating hand. I don't want to go with you. I want to go home.

For Christ's sake, Chess, you took on an octopus-demon in a sewer. Snap the hell out of it! The welcome sharp voice was her mother's, and it spurred Chess to action. She yanked the knife free of its sheath, seeing the hard blue glitter spring into life, jetting against the walls. He ducked out through the open window. He still had his backpack; it was as battered and singed as the rest of him. She glanced back over her shoulder, the awful smell belching and blooming, streaming out the window. Fresh chill air poured inside.

"Come on!” the Malik yelled. “Let's go, he'll catch up!"

Mechanically, Chess climbed out. The fire escape swayed dangerously, rusted and rocking under their weight. “Follow me.” Paul moved cautiously but swiftly, paying attention to each footfall. She edged after him, heard another roaring crescendo of gunfire and a thin chilling deathsqueal. Ryan, she thought, pointlessly.

They made it down, Paul holding the ladder and catching her waist when Chess was three rungs from the ground. She squirmed away from him, landing hard on her feet. You jerk. I can take care of myself. The alley, sheltered from the wind, was still full of rain; the simmering smell of garbage made her stomach rise. I'm spending a lot of time in trash-laden alleys lately. Must be my personality. Become a demon hunter, see the sights, smell all sorts of wonderful new things. Her breath sobbed in her throat. The knife glittered, throwing out hard darts of blue light.

"Christ, what's that?"

She half-spun, but his eyes were on her right hand. He looked shocked, brown eyes wide and the rain starting to plaster his short hair to his skull. “It's my goddamn knife,” she spat. “What do we do now?"

"That's a Fang!” He almost squeaked with surprise. Chess glanced around the alley nervously. The sudden rainy silence, wind moaning at the alley's mouth, made her nervous. “How the hell did you get that?"

"I bought the knife at the Army-Navy surplus store and consecrated it myself.” She tried to look everywhere at once, unsuccessfully. “What do we do now?"

Paul had gone pale. He stared at Chess like she'd grown another appendage, and not a socially-acceptable one either. He simply stood there, eyeing her, and Chess began to get a very bad feeling about all this. Then, of all things, he started to grin, a wide satisfied smile.

The fire escape began to rattle above them. “Move!” Paul barked, as if he hadn't been the one just standing there gawking. “Move, goddammit!"

Where am I supposed to go? But he grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the mouth of the alley, weaving between piles of garbage. Her boots slipped in greasy scudge, and the urge to throw up crested. Oh please don't let me blow chunks here, oh please God, please.

They burst out onto the street, people scattering as gunfire rang out behind them. Screams, produce flying as he hauled her through a sidewalk fruit stand, footsteps thudding. “Run!” he yelled. “Keep running!"

Then his hand left her arm and he spun away from her.

Chess didn't stop to look back. She heard the hoarse cries and cracking that meant more of those stretching-things behind her, and flung herself forward, her boots pounding the pavement as something zinged past her. Someone's shooting at me—maybe because I'm running down a city street carrying a knife?

She tore around the corner at Harkness and Thirty-Eighth, stuffing the knife back in her bag. Rain splashed down, and she heard distant sirens. Keep running. Sure. I can do that. A stitch grabbed her side, her breathing echoed, and she realized what she was making for just in time: the Thirty-Eighth and Strange street subway station.

Chess put her head down and bolted, running for her life.

Charlie's office was on the edge of downtown, in the plush Graber building. It was early on a Friday evening, and the secretary nodded as Chess walked in, damp and trying not to look like she'd just been chased through garbage-laden alleys and witnessed a young Vietnamese boy growing bone claws. “Hi, Lucy.” She tried her brightest smile and wished she'd worn something other than a sweatshirt jacket and jeans. I probably smell like garbage. God. “Is Charlie in?"

Lucy nodded. “She just finished with her last client. Go on back. Heard you got food poisoning.” Lucy's blond hair was a helmet of marcel waves, a close-fitting cap that added to her cherry-red lips and pale cheeks to make her seem like a 1920s flapper trapped in chic, tasteful business wear. She would look right at home on the running board of a Model T in a beaded dress and cloche hat, hanging onto a dapper swell's arm. Right now she was shuffling papers together into a file folder. Her purse was on her desk. It looked like quitting time.

"I'm still feeling urpy,” Chess replied, which was the truth. The subway's rollicking motion hadn't helped, and she'd had to take three trains to get here since she'd flung herself into the Piers Express on the platform, not caring that it would take her out of her way, caring only that the train had been at the platform and she could get away. Her heart was still going a mile a minute and she was sure her hands, stuffed in her pockets, were shaking. She'd gotten a couple of strange looks on the subway.

At least nobody tried to mug me. “Thanks, Luce.” She walked, deliberately slowly, past Lucy's desk, through the door, and into the expensive offices of Graber, Fawkes, Linton, and Barnes.

Charlie's office was a corner suite. Her secretary Phil—short for Philomela—wasn't at her desk so Chess just walked past. Phil had probably already gone home for the day. Francesca, Charlotte, and Philomela, she thought with a ghost of amusement, taking a deep breath. No wonder we like our nicknames better. We sound like the Three Stooges. Only maybe not quite as funny. A jagged laugh escaped her, and she knocked on Charlie's door and walked right in.

Sleek, tall, slim, and auburn-haired, her older sister looked up from behind the large cherry desk. She'd done her office in cream and blue, soothing colors; the view of the misty, rainy city below immediately cheered Chess up, as usual. Wooden barrister file cabinets in cherrywood, a fishtank on top of one with brightly-colored tropical fins waving gently, and a soft deep couch just right for corporate clients, as well as a tasteful glass coffee table and two more plush chairs set just subtly too far from Charlie's desk. The framed print on the wall was a Thompson, showing a ballet dancer en pointe on a lasso of stiff rope floating in empty space, watched by a tiger that might or might not be a sculpture. It was a beautiful print, even if slightly disturbing.

"Chess!” Charlie, in a couth gray suit, jacket and skirt and softly feminine blouse, almost leapt to her feet. “Mom said you were out with food poison…” Her hazel eyes—more green than Chess's, just like her hair had more red—widened, and she took in Chess from scalp to toes with a look that was very much like Mom's. She leaned over, scooped up the phone, and punched something in. “Lucy? Please call Zoftow, get his secretary to reschedule him for tomorrow. Thanks, sweetie. You're a doll.” She dropped the phone and crossed the room, in long swinging strides, her tortoise heels sinking into the thick cream carpet. One quick flick of her fingers locked her office door. Then she turned around, her back to the door, and folded her arms. “Well? What's going on?"