The thought made her heart feel a little lighter.

It was well past sunset, and misty rain hung in the uneasy, windy air. Ryan was probably climbing the walls by now. The streetlamps were all out. Darkness slid oily up against the side of the library as Chess tucked her keys in her pocket. That's odd. She set off along the side of the building, her head down against the wet wind; the library was dark too. Of course, a Saturday evening, who would want to spend it here?

Nobody except me, I guess. Nobody except a boring old demon-hunting librarian.

Vox Street was uncharacteristically dark as well. Her sneakers made soft wet sounds against the pavement as she walked, the wind now cutting across her path only when she crossed the street. Dampness began to soak back through her jacket. I'm wet, I'm cold, and I'm hungry. I can't wait to get home and fix myself some chicken-noodle soup. And have a big jigger of Scotch. It might be time to open that bottle.

The sound was soft and distinct, a soft dragging. Like a wet footstep. She didn't speed up or slow down, but she did pull up her jacket, her right hand rooting around for the flap of her bag. Her heart started to hammer. I don't like the sound of that. Her nape suddenly began to crawl, her damp hair chill and cold against her skull. What is it? Is something following me? Oh, goddammit. Now's a fine time to wish Ryan was around.

Her hand closed around the hilt just as she heard something else.

A low, chilling growl that made her skin feel tight and stretched thin, as if electric needles had suddenly been pressed against her and switched on. She tore her hand free of the bag, the knife's hilt slipping a little in her suddenly sweaty palm. Her sneakers scraped as she whirled, blue light suddenly darting harshly from the blade; she'd yanked it free of the sheath. Thank God for small favors—But her mouth was suddenly cotton-dry, heartbeat thudding in her ears and throat. Oh, God. God…?

"Grady?” she whispered. OhmiGod. He's one of them.

Bones cracked and crackled as the library aide, his shoulders hunching, seemed to grow a full foot in under twenty seconds. His horn-rimmed glasses fell, one lens cracking as they hit the pavement and spun away. Grady's shirt hung on him as if he was a scarecrow in last year's model. His jacket fell too, his face becoming skeletal as it thinned, his jaw suddenly swelling. His teeth seemed to shift shape, one of them popping out of his mouth and curving to a wicked point.

Was he waiting for me? I thought I heard something as I went through the door. Oh, God.

Her hand, holding the glittering-blue knife, lowered slightly. Her helmet hit the pavement with a sharp cracking sound. Fucking hell. I can't kill him. He's a volunteer.

"Grady—” Her voice wouldn't work properly. She sounded as if the air had been punched out of her.

What do you know, that's how I feel. Grady? One of them? What did he sell his soul for?

Grady made a chilling little squeal that sounded like he was trying to laugh. Then he leapt.

"Get down!"

The scream came from his right, but he was too goddamn busy to worry about it. Paul moved with the speed trained into Malik by constant practice, smashing her out of the way, and Ryan hit the Inkani dog hard, felt bones snap under the force of his blow. The knife tore up, the curse glowing along its blade, ripping through skin gone hard and leathery with armor-plating. He only had a few critical seconds while the dogsbody finished changing to get in the final blow. If he let it go much further he'd have to spend some serious effort kicking its ass.

Etheric force crackled, a Drakul's fighting-aura, almost visible in the wet air. Paul yelled, a shapeless sound. The dog's neck cracked as Ryan backhanded it with just the right amount of force, the sound like a dry branch snapped in half. The body crumpled, he shook foul black blood off his knife and half-turned on his heel, scanning for more of them.

Christ.

The street was dark, all the lamps either busted or refusing to work. Chess lay on her side, her hair ripped free of its usual sleek braid and her eyes wide, dark, and uncomprehending just before they closed. His chest hurt, a swift slicing pain—she's alive, thank you God, alive, I owe you one— and Paul was on one knee, crouched in front of her, his left hand reaching down, fingers tented, to touch the wet pavement. His right hand was up, the gun trained on the irikornac, which hunkered down growling, its red eyes infernos and its forked tail lashing. Just great. A leaper.

The irikornic looked like a humanoid flea with red eyes and high pointed ears, its skin smooth and gray. It crouched, tail lashing, muscles bunching in its massive legs. You didn't often see leapers. They were unable to camouflage their essential weirdness and, as such, were often kept as bodyguards or personal pets by the High Ones, much as human druglords kept pit bulls and mastiffs.

Don't tell me there's a High One in this city. Please God, don't let there be one here so soon.

"Ryan?” Paul didn't sound panicked, but the leaping iron taste of adrenaline filled the air. Chess groaned, a shapeless sound.

"Got it.” Ryan reached for another knife, spinning the hilt of the one in his right hand until the blade lay flat against his forearm. “Be mellow, Grasshopper. I'm on it.” Irikornic tracked with their aural receptors. Ryan deliberately scuffed his feet, attracting its attention. “Come on over here, you stupid little bitch. Come on."

It leapt, blurring with demonic speed. Ryan dropped, a sullen-red flash sparking as he shoved etheric force into his knife and smashed upward, ripping. The thing screeched, an unholy sound, and he heard the sound that was every Drakul's nightmare: the thin, high, silver chill of an ultrasonic hunting-cry, far too close for comfort. His head met concrete with stunning force. He shook off the blow and ended up flat on his back.

Steaming meat collapsed, rancid black blood boiling on his skin and scalp, slicking his hair to his head. He'd hit the soft spot just under its ribs and nicked a blood-channel. Lucky shot, luckier than he deserved. His foot socked into its solar plexus and he shifted, ready to push it off to the side.

"Ryan? Orion!"

He shoved the limp, rotting body away, made it to his feet. “What?"

Chess's knife spun between Paul's fingers, its light scoring into Ryan's eyes. Paul lowered the knife. “They're close. Really close."

"Where's the key?” He made it to them in record time, almost skidding to a stop and going down on one knee. “Is she—"

"Just stunned, I think. Her pulse is good, respiration sound.” Paul held up the broad, flat motorcycle key. “I'll get her bike. Can you handle her?"

We shouldn't split up, but on that motorcycle you can outrun anything short of a High One. “I can handle her. She's lighter than you."

"A little bitty thing."

"But sharp.” But his eyes were on Chess even as Paul fished in her purse, yanking her coat up. For a moment, the idea of another man touching her—even a Malik—made red rage rise under his breastbone. She lay on her side, her eyelids fluttering and her skin waxen-pale. He reached down to take her shoulders and gather her up. How hard did he hit her? It's a damn good thing he got her out of the way, the spider was almost on her. He touched her cheek, a rill of pleasure spreading down his arm. She looked just like she was sleeping, instead of knocked unconscious by a Malik pounding her with both physical and sorcerous force to get her out of the way. But she wasn't bleeding.

Paul got the knife back in its sheath, shoved her purse back where it belonged, and yanked her jacket down with one quick, efficient jerk, the Fang safely stowed. “Come on."