She dances while she cooks. Hope she doesn't mind us using her soap. And for God's sake, leave the toilet seat down. “She's a librarian."

"I've been thinking.” Paul limped out into the main room. He'd had extra shirts in his backpack, both for Ryan and himself, he lowered himself down on the couch with a sigh.

God save us all. Ryan held up the small blue jar of ointment. “Thinking? You? Christ, more trouble. Here. Put this on your leg, and try it on those bruises too. She makes it, it's fantastic stuff."

The blind, turned-off television watched them both as rain smacked the windows. Ryan sat cross-legged on the floor, mending the NIN T-shirt; he'd been waiting for the chance to do that. It just didn't seem right to have destroyed the only thing she'd given him so far. A stack of DVDs sat by the television—Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, the Marx Brothers—no Three Stooges, but there were several Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan films too. And a DVD of Casablanca, strangely enough. She was indeed an interesting girl.

The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he was. She might have been in shock, pale and stumbling, the chemical odor of her fear so thick it threatened even now to trigger the rage in him. He took a deep breath. Come home, Chess. Come back. If anything happens to you…?

Paul grimaced. The smell of wormwood and mint filled the air, over the smell of Chess's skin and the deeper smell of Drakulein. Paul coughed. He still reeked of fear, but thankfully the smell of Inkani was less. “Christ, this is foul. Does it work?"

"Works well enough. What are you thinking?” The smell of her rooms soothed him on a basic level, made the demon retreat into watchful silence. Waiting. Waiting for her to come home.

"She's a librarian.” Paul rolled the leg of his jeans up, smoothed some of the greasy goop on his calf. “Ouch… oh, shit. Damn. That stings."

Ryan kept his eyes on the black cotton he was mending. Thin threads of etheric force bled out through his fingers, fueled by the demon part of his inheritance, and the rips in the fabric blended together seamlessly. “I know she's a librarian. Does it work?"

"Damn. It stings, but that's better than it was.” Paul sounded grudgingly admiring. “Smart girl."

Too smart for her own damn good. He thought of her eyes, flecked with gold and wide with fear, thought of how she'd shook his hand to make them partners. Thought of the soft smell of her hair, herbal shampoo and that fresh golden scent. Come home, Chess. Or I just might do something stupid like going out to look for you, Inkani be damned. “Very smart. Don't try any of your charming little tricks on her.” He filled his lungs again with her scent, the smell they made together.

"You kidding? Not my type. Too bookish. The sheela, now… she was something else. Wish I had made that dinner. Anyway, I was thinking. She's a librarian in the building Halston worked from. I managed to do a little checking in the public records. Halston endowed the library with a trust.” Paul rolled the leg of his pants gingerly back down. He was still shaking, from adrenaline overload and fear. Was he combat-sick? “What if the cache—Halston's books—are somehow in the library itself?"

Ryan's fingers stilled. “Huh.” It made sense. It made too much sense. Chess, you sneaky little girl.

Paul spread a generous glop of the luminescent blue ointment along his bruised but no longer cracked ribs. He moved gingerly, blowing out short little chuffs of pain. “So check this out: librarian is a potential, she's poking around in her library and finds the cache. She starts playing around, ends up triggering her abilities. She starts changing, and somehow a skornac ends up getting killed here."

"She killed it.” His heart gave a nasty leap again at the thought of her facing down the skornac.

The Malik let out an unsteady laugh. “You know, a few days ago that would have surprised me. So she killed a fucking skornac. Luck, or talent?"

"Both, I think. Mostly luck. After all, what demon expects to face an almost-Golden with a Fang anymore?” Christ, you could have been killed, sweetheart. Come home so I can tell you never to do that again.

Paul gave a slight groan, agreeing with him. “Anyway, we end up running across her before the Inkani have a chance to, just out of—again—sheer, dumb-fucking luck.” Paul capped the small jar with a vicious twist of his wrist. He settled back on her blue couch, looking oddly out-of-place—a tall Malik sitting right where Chess liked to sit, her legs curled to the side, watching television. Ryan strangled the flare of territorial anger. The Malik's short sandy hair clung to his skull, and he had a large dark circle under his unwounded eye. He'd dabbed a little of the goop over his shiner, too, and that was starting to look better. “Just how involved with her are you, Orion?” Suspicion colored his voice.

Don't ask me that. He dropped his gaze again, looking down at the shirt. He was almost done mending it. The claw-swipe he'd taken to the ribs was almost healed. He was lucky.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the persistent rain. He could imagine her curled up under her down comforter, reading and sipping hot chocolate. He could imagine her standing at the window watching the rain bead on the glass and slide down, the gray light touching her sleek dark hair. Where are you, sweetheart? Come home. Get your ass back here so I can be sure you're all right.

"Christ.” Paul let out a long-suffering sigh. “Now you've gone and done it. She's a Golden, Ryan. And she's… God. You're a good Drakul, why'd you do this?"

Like I had any choice. “She went out to kill a skornac because it was taking schoolchildren.” And she sat right over there at that table and cried. She's treated me like a human being, like I'm untainted. She's… goddammit.

The silence returned. Paul sighed again. “So the Inkani have been in town for a while. And she just went out to take care of it. A fucking skin went out to take care of it. A skin girl. A librarian.” It was hard to figure out what gave him the most trouble, Chess's job or her gender. “You've gone and gotten attached to her, haven't you."

Of course I have. Right now I'm trying like hell not to pace, or go out that goddamn window and start tearing this city apart brick by brick to find her. He stared at the T-shirt, the last rip melding itself together under his fingers. The burning threads of etheric force sank in, tied themselves off. He said nothing.

"Jesus. How am I going to get you out of this one?” Paul was making himself comfortable on the couch. The sounds of his movement were nothing like Chess's, but they were close enough that something hot burned behind his eyes. Dark would start falling soon, the rain was intensifying. Where was she? How long would he be able to hold out before the mounting frustration forced him into action? “Well, she's a Golden. I'll see what I can swing, all right?"

Don't do me any favors, Malik. It was altogether more reasonable than he'd thought a Malik was capable of being about this sort of thing. “Sure.” He held up the T-shirt. It was good work, and he felt slightly mollified at having repaired it. Paul's breathing evened out, and he dropped into slumber with the ease of a man who had learned to sleep where he could. As soon as he was safely sleeping, Ryan stood, wincing a bit as his leg reminded him he'd almost been eaten alive by three Inkani spiders at once, more on the way, his entire world narrowing to holding the hall so she could flee. He couldn't ever remember fighting with such incandescent rage before. The thought of the dogs going after Chess had triggered a fey madness in him. He paced to the window, looking down at the alley. What a view, for her. Nothing but a blank wall, a slice of sky, and the Dumpsters down below. She deserved better.

Rain ran in rivulets down the window. The warding on it shimmered uneasily, brought to humming alertness by the presence of a demon, even a half-demon like him.