"Good one,” Paul muttered.

"Shut up.” Ryan unfolded his arms. If you weren't a Malik I'd kick your ass for pissing her off. “Don't you start too. I'm going to go up to the roof, take a look around. If she leaves this apartment I'm going to be very upset."

"Hurry up, then.” Paul's tawny head bent over the tabletop, but his shoulders were shaking. Whether it was from tension or repressed mirth, Ryan didn't want to know.

Chess didn't bother to leave her bedroom, simply took a long, hot shower and collapsed in bed, unwilling to let the day get any more complicated. If the world wanted to go on, that was fine—but it would have to go on without her. Besides, she was bone-deep exhausted. Pulling a pillow over her head to shut out her problems sounded like a damn good idea, better even than eating.

She woke out of a sound sleep when Ryan's hand closed over her mouth; his other hand touched her shoulder, shook her. Gently, but she wasn't fooled. He could dislocate her arm in a hot second if he felt like it. He smelled like a winter night, cold and full of rain, with smoky anger boiling off him in waves. Chess instinctively tried to squirm away, her pulse skyrocketing; he didn't let her move. “Quiet.” A mere breath of sound, somehow menacing anyway. “Or I'll tie you up."

He sounded serious, and Chess's eyes suddenly seemed far too big for their sockets. She yanked the blanket and tried to wriggle away again. He didn't even seem to notice. “Don't be ridiculous, I wouldn't,” he whispered. “Just making sure you're awake, you slept all day. Get up, get dressed."

His hand left her mouth slowly, his fingertips brushing her cheek. “What's going on?” I slept all day? The room suddenly didn't seem to have any air left.

"Get dressed, Chess. There's something going on, and I'm nervous.” His eyes glittered in the near-dark, dusky light fading in her window. She had slept all day. “Want to be ready to move.” He loomed over the bed, and Chess suddenly felt like an idiot. Now that she'd had a chance to catch up on sleep in her own bed, she felt a lot less unsteady—but hungry. She wanted an omelet, dripping with melted cheese. Bacon. Pancakes with maple syrup. It was nighttime again, and all she was craving was breakfast food. Her body clock was all screwed up. It didn't look like she'd be able to sleep in Monday morning either.

He let go of her arm, too, and straightened. Buster Keaton looked mournfully over his shoulder, his eyes infinitely sad.

"What's happening?” Don't let it be any more dead bodies. Please, God, don't let it be any more dead bodies.

"It's too quiet out there. I've got a bad feeling about this. Come on, get dressed."

"I suppose you're going to watch.” Why am I whispering? “A little bit of privacy would be nice."

"Maybe I like watching you.” She saw the gleam of teeth in a smile, before he ghosted across to her window, peered out. “I promise I won't look. Unless you want me to."

She stretched, yawning. It was cold, so cold she wondered if the heaters had stopped working. Slid her feet out of bed, shivering. “I can't figure out whether I like you or want to heave you out the window."

"You don't have to like me. I'm just here to keep you alive.” The way he said it almost hurt.

"I spent the day reading Melwyn Halston's last diary. Did you know he was involved with a Drakul? Guy was named Samuel. They were apparently really tight—"

"Chess, get dressed.” His shoulders were rigid. “Please."

"I am getting dressed.” She was already in a T-shirt and boxers, and she grabbed jeans, underwear, and socks, retreating to the bathroom. The light stung her eyes, and she shivered as she used the toilet and dressed quickly, tying her hair back in a sloppy ponytail. You idiot, I'm trying to be nice to you. Her teeth almost chattered as she opened the door and stepped out, was temporarily blinded when Ryan reached around the corner and flipped off the bathroom light.

"There's a scout in the alley.” His tone was so calm, he sounded like he was ordering a pizza. “You'll need a coat."

A demon? Outside? “Did you turn the heat off?” She edged for her closet, found a sweater by touch, and pulled it over her head.

"No. Are you cold?"

She nodded, forgetting it was dark. “My coat's in the hall clos—"

He seemed to blur through space, ending up with his arm around her, spinning as the window shattered and the warding laid across it fluoresced into the visible spectrum, popping and hissing as threads of energy snapped. Chess let out a short, sharp yell, found herself shoved toward the door as Ryan cursed, a sharp vehement sound. Her fingers closed around the doorknob as something snarling and smelling horribly fetid landed with a thump inside her bedroom window. Chess yanked on the door and found she was breathless. The high, thin screaming sound was her, and she tore the bedroom door open and spilled out into her living room.

Growls and thumps shook the building. She heard Ryan's voice, cursing again, and the shivering sound of breaking glass. That was probably my Keaton print! Goddammit!

Her demon-hunting bag was on the kitchen table. Chess bolted for it, running behind the couch and hooking around the wall into the dining room. There was another confused flurry of motion, more glass breaking, and Paul appeared out of the darkness near her living-room window, a gun roaring. She actually saw the muzzle flash and ran into her table, almost tripping over a teetering stack of physics and English textbooks. Her bag was over her head in a trice, thank God she'd put her knife back in it.

All right. I think I can handle this. She plunged her right hand in her bag, whirling back toward the window, her hip banging the table a good one. Her fingers closed around the hilt and she yanked the knife out just as her bedroom door shattered, something dark and human-sized flung through it with incredible force, demolishing the flimsy wood.

I am never going to get my damage deposit back. She took a deep breath, and blue light burst out as she dragged the knife free of her bag. “In nominae Eumenidae, coniurat vax!"

It was bastardized Latin, meant to show any demon hidden in the vicinity, but it worked. She heard a chilling scream of demonic pain as Ryan hauled himself up from the floor. He'd just been tossed through her bedroom door.

"Ryan!” Paul backed up, two guns in his hands, both leveled at a patch of snarling, rabid darkness cringing in the corner near the entertainment center. The TV screen glowed with blue phosphorescence, the smell of ozone crackling through her apartment. Her teeth chattered. She expected to see her breath plume on the air. Why is it so cold?

"I'm on it.” Ryan sounded calm. “Chess?"

"What the fuck is it?” Well, for once I sound capable of kicking ass.

"Get her out of here, Paul. There's a High One close."

"Holy shit.” Paul kept backing up, skirting her couch gracefully without looking. His guns were steady, but his hair stuck up anyhow. He looked as if he'd been awakened a little less gently than she had. Chess stared at the cringing thing. High One? What does he mean, High One? I don't like the sound of that.

"What do you mean, High—” The smell of burning charcoal and dried blood tainted the cool night wind pouring in through the broken window. Chess ducked reflexively, Paul let out a shapeless yell, and Ryan was suddenly there, colliding with the thing a scant two feet from Chess, driving it down next to her kitchen table with a cracking sound. He'd broken the floor, he'd hit it so hard.

Even the skornac wasn't that fast. It's a kibbik. Oh my God, a kibbik in my living room! She finally placed the smell, charcoal and copper, according to the books it was all teeth and hair and appetite.