I can't believe I'm standing here in the rain with my Malik giving me dating advice. The image of Chess mourning a broken nail made an unfamiliar smile pull on the corners of his mouth. I can't wait to see Paul's face the first time he sees her on a heavy bag. He scanned the street again. “I like her,” he said, his eyes moving from streetlight to streetlight, each with a circle of wet orange light underneath. “She's got good taste in music."

"You fell in love with a librarian because of her taste in music?” There was a strangled sound, and Ryan realized his Malik was laughing. It did sound funny when he put it that way.

"She likes Buster Keaton, too.” This is no time for levity, dammit. Keep watch.

"Ryan?"

"What?” I feel like the parent of a five-year-old. But he's probably talking to keep himself awake.

"Why'd you let her go? You could have kept her there. I could have brought her sister home.” He sounded genuinely curious. “Or we could've kept them both there."

Because I can't stand the thought of her unhappiness, Paul. I'm an idiot. “Best to keep on a potential's good side, Paul. Besides, she needed a little rest.” I need to be normal for a little while, Chess's voice floated through his head.

Normal. Yeah. He didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't going to be “normal” for her ever again.

"Um, Ryan?"

He brought himself back to full awareness with a start. Cursed himself for letting his attention wander. “I see it.” Down on the street, moving from patch to patch of darkness, a shape too quick and light to be human fluttered in and out of existence.

Ryan's skin went cold and prickled with gooseflesh. His pupils dilated, and the demon in him rose in a single snap of red flame. Soldier demon, without a host. Looks like one, anyway; the rain's damping the smell. What's it doing out here?

They came, a solid pack of twelve. Twelve black-smoke spider shapes flitting through the streetlamp-scarred dark, followed by a slightly slower, more solid-looking humanoid that moved from shadow to shadow. There was a flash of red eyes, and Ryan's hand curled around a knifehilt. Karhanic and a group of twelve, a full hunting-pack. Goddammit.

They called kaharnac “squeezers,” because of their preferred method of taking prey. They weren't as loathsome as the skornac, most squeezers looked like very tall, very pale humans with long, soft, grasping fingers and oddly smooth noseless faces. But they were very, very good hunters, and even with the rain blurring Chess's trail they still might catch onto her. She wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

He watched, barely breathing, his attention taut and focused, as the pack swirled down the street, taking no more notice of the high-rise than of any other building. Unfortunately, that meant nothing; they could be on an errand or simply out nosing around. On the other hand, the low, fluid, smoky shapes of the demon hounds weren't sparking or fizzing with excitement, and that was something.

The group vanished down the street, and Ryan strained his preternatural senses. They kept moving; he heard the faint chilling silver stroke of an ultrasonic hunting cry. Whatever prey they were after tonight, it wasn't his Golden.

The flare of possessiveness no longer surprised him. My Golden. As if I have any right to think that. Water fell from the skies, steady weeping that had probably saved them all by erasing the smell of a potential from the air.

"Squeezer. And a pack. Was it a full pack?” Paul sounded calm, but a stray breath of wind brought the smell of adrenaline through the rain. The sound of Paul's pulse thudding frantically reminded him of Chess. Ryan's nose wrinkled slightly.

"It was a full pack,” he confirmed. I hope you're sleeping, Chess. I hope you're oblivious to all this.

"Christ.” Paul shifted, the click of a hammer easing down audible under the sound of the wind. “Jesus Christ. We can't wait for reinforcements, we have to get her out of here."

"She won't leave."

"Goddammit, Drakul, don't be an idiot. If there are packs scouring the street and skornac taking humans, this is worse than we ever dreamed, and we have got to get her out of town. Two of us against all of them? She'll die. They'll take her, and use her for the Rite. You know they will."

The fact that he was right didn't help. But still, it would be easier to catch them in transit, Paul wasn't thinking clearly. “So we hit her over the head and carry her off? Great. That will really gain her trust."

"If they use her for the Rite, we'll lose this city and the two to the north, probably the ones to the east too. They'll be able to bring another mass of them through, the High Ones. We can't fight that. Jesus Christ, Ryan, use your head. We've got to get her out of here."

"You're right.” Shut up. That's rabbit-talk.

"If you don't, I will."

Like hell you will. I'll find some way to make her listen. I have to. She's safer staying in a bolthole than trying to escape the city. They've probably got this place cordoned off tighter than a Grand Master's asshole. Ryan's hand tightened on the knifehilt. He said nothing, hunching his shoulders against the rain as the turn-aside charm thickened, trying to cope with all the water from the sky. He wondered if he'd ever dry out. Sleep well, sweetheart. I'm standing watch.

Paul didn't say anything else either. He didn't have to. Two more hunting groups, both with a higher-class demon to keep the hounds in check, swept the street before dawn.

She didn't go straight home like she promised Charlie she would. Instead, she took another long shower, ate two whole-wheat muffins, got back into her clothes from last night and brushed her teeth with Charlie's toothbrush. It was a Saturday morning and her sister was already at work, leaving a twenty for cab fare on the kitchen counter, as if Chess didn't have her own job, thank you very much.

Charlie's apartment was sleek chrome and clean glass, pale linen pillows and bookshelves full of frowning, fat leather-bound law books. Her stash of sci-fi and fantasy was in the bedroom, ranked neatly on stripped-pine shelves, Chess took a moment and went through the familiar titles, soothed by so many old friends. There was Tolkien and Peter Beagle, Tanith Lee and Robert Heinlein, Asimov and Gaiman… all the greats. Chess frowned, seeing a new Gabaldon paperback. I didn't think Charlie went in for time-travel. Wait ‘til I tease her about this. Scottish time travel, no less. Mom will have a fit. Still thinks anything romance is porn, but de Sade is okay ‘cause he's dead. Got to love you, Mom.

As usual, the books made her feel steadier, more alert. More like she actually had a clue about what was going on. She picked out the copy of Joan Vinge's Psion and opened it, her fingers finding the gap. There, between the pages, was the flat spare key.

Oh, baby. Come to Mama.

She tried not to feel guilty—after all, she'd paid for the bike too, and Charlie had it all the time because parking was hell around Chess's building. Chess even kicked in for the horrendous insurance, and that was a strain on a librarian's salary. But on the infrequent occasions when she needed transportation she couldn't get by cab, bus, or her own two feet, the bike was a welcome luxury. Even if it did rain more in Jericho than it should.

She shoved the key in her pocket and left a short note on the counter, sweetly informing her sister she'd taken the bike and borrowed the helmet. Ten minutes later she was in the underground parking level, fluorescent lights buzzing and reflecting off the smooth concrete. She penetrated to a far, dark corner, little-used and stocked with a Viper and a few slim leaning shapes under tarps. One tarp she twitched aside.