And they usually roamed in packs.

It squealed in a falsetto that sawed right through Chess's head. She might have stabbed herself with her own knife while trying to clap her hands over her ears to shut it out, if the cry hadn't been cut short with a gurgle.

Ryan rose, spinning his knife around his fingers, black demon blood exploding free of the shining metal. “Put that thing away, Chess!” he barked. “Paul, get the fuck back here!"

"No need to shout.” Paul had Chess's arm, hauled her up. He tried to wrestle the glowing-blue knife free of her numb fingers. Chess ripped away from him. “Let's go. Put the Fang away, girl, it might cripple him!"

What the— Understanding flashed. The knife affected anything demonic, it glowed whenever Ryan was around. It was either put the knife away and trust the Drakul, or keep the knife out and risk affecting him, maybe to the point he couldn't fight. “My knife,” she said, numbly. “It's my knife, I'm not going to—"

"Please, Chess.” Ryan had her arm. He squinted, his black eyes suddenly alive and alight with a feral intensity that made his face not only sharp but handsome. He dragged her into the kitchen, Paul moving behind them with his guns trained on the windows. “Just stick the knife in your bag or something. It hurts."

Nope, definitely not going to get the damage deposit back, she thought inanely as she heard more scrabbling little sounds from her bedroom. God, if you're listening, I'd really like to take all this back. Okay?

"Christ, there's a whole tribe of them.” Paul's voice was a little higher than usual. Ryan paused at Chess's front door just long enough to flip the locks. “The trouble with fucking Tribbles."

"Steady, Malik.” Ryan pulled the door open. Chess flinched as yellow light from the hall fixtures flooded in. “They're planning on driving us out through the front door. Sloppy."

"Are you sure it's the front door they're planning on?” Paul dragged the door closed behind them and ran to keep up, Ryan's long strides eating the distance. “Chess, goddammit, put the knife away."

"That's my house,” she heard herself protest. “They're in my house!"

"Everything in there can be replaced, one way or another. You can't.” Ryan reached over, grabbed her wrist, and shoved her hand back into her bag. “That's better. Remember the rules, Chess? Move with me, stay behind me, don't grab my arm. And run when I tell you to.” He was going the wrong way down the hall, toward the utility door instead of toward the door that led to the main stairs.

"Kibbik.” Her voice was high and thin. “Roams in packs, smells of copper and the burning of charcoal. According to Morelly, vulnerable to garlic crushed into a paste; Delmonico scoffs at the idea—"

"We know what it is,” Paul hissed. “Shut up."

"Leave her alone.” Ryan's hand was bruising-hard on her arm, he all but dragged her. “It's her way of coping.” He actually kicked the fire door off its hinges, the heavy door crumpled as if made of paper. “It's okay, Chess. Just keep close."

"Scavengers,” she whispered. The knifehilt was slick against her palm, her hand trapped in her bag. Her teeth chattered as Ryan pulled her down the stairs, she honestly couldn't tell if her feet were even touching the steps.

"There's a High One out there.” He sounded grim. “You've read about them if you've read Delmonico, the siafeaine. The Unnamed."

"The Unnamed?" Her voice bounced off the stairwell walls, it was oddly silent otherwise. Ryan made no more sound than a hunting cat, and Paul moved very quietly. “There's one of those out there?"

"There is. It's why you're so cold. Now be quiet, for God's sake, sweetheart."

Quit calling me that. The flood of irritation swept through her, slapped her into thinking again. The Unnamed. Big, tough, unstoppable, another one of those “if you meet these, run and kiss your ass goodbye. Or in O'Mailey's words, “Make thy peace with God, hunter, for thou wilt face Judgment soon.” Wonderful. “How do you kill one of them?"

Ryan dragged her around a corner, his feet barely brushing the steps. “You don't. You get the hell out of here with Paul and leave it to me."

"Ryan—” Paul sounded as breathless as she felt. “You can't—"

"If I'm going to die, I'm going to die protecting her,” he replied shortly. They reached the last flight of stairs, he slowed and glanced down at Chess. “You go with Paul if I tell you to. Clear?"

I am not leaving you to face an Unnamed alone. The words rose up, and she wondered why exactly she'd think something like that at a time like this. But she felt a burst of panic just under her breastbone when she thought of him facing down the worst type of demon—a demon that looked like a tall, thin humanoid with pale skin and incandescent eyes. Most demons were ugly, but the books couldn't agree if the Unnamed were ugly in a particularly beautiful way, a way that induced nausea—or if they were beautiful. Beautiful enough to warrant the worship some of them had received from human cults of spilled blood and flayed flesh.

The idea of a pretty demon made a hysterical laugh rise under her breastbone as Ryan stopped between one step and the next right inside the utility door. “I mean it, Chess.” He looked like he did, too; his eyes flashed and his mouth drew into a thin line when he wasn't speaking. “No heroics. You get on your bike with Paul, and you get the hell out of town."

She shook her head, mute. Not going to, she thought. Her fingers tightened inside her bag, the hilt of her knife slipping in sweat.

Ryan didn't argue, he simply let go of her arm and ghosted to the utility door. He cocked his head, listening, and Chess clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Her demon-hunting bag lay heavily against her hip; her fingers still curled around the hilt of her knife. The blurring, buzzing, prickling sensation of the knife reacting to demons jolted up her arm, now that she had time to pay attention to it. Her heart pounded thinly, and her mouth was dry. Creeping cold spilled through her arms and legs, she swayed.

Paul caught her arm, kept her upright. He said nothing, watching Ryan. There was no trace of superciliousness or arrogance. Instead, he looked like a professional waiting for the right moment, having done everything he could and commended his soul to God.

She winced inwardly. Why do you think of things like that at a time like this, Chess? Jeez.

Then she began to hear little soft sliding sounds.

Gooseflesh prickled up her back. The sounds were too quick and light to be human. She'd never before imagined that the sound of footsteps could be terrifying in its inhumanity. Her eyes locked on Ryan's shoulders, his quarter-profile as he listened intently causing a funny flutter just under her ribs. It's going to be okay. He's here.

Ryan held up his hand. “Alley's clear,” he mouthed. “They expected us out through the front, didn't know about this door. Cover Chess."

"Locked and loaded, baby.” Paul sounded serious. There was a double click—hammers, on guns, drawn back. “No fucking Inkani's going to get his mitts on your girl, Drakul."

Up the stairs, there were little tapping sounds. Creaking. A snarl.

Ryan tore the door open and moved out. Paul pushed Chess in front of him. Darkness folded around them, the darkness of an alley where night came early, the last light fading from the cloudy sky. Cold caressed Chess's entire body, cold and the spilling terrible weakness she'd felt before. The alley slipped by in a blur, Ryan stopping to herd them through a door in the apartment building opposite, a door he simply wrenched open as if it wasn't locked. Metal pinged and hit the alley floor; it had been locked. The deadbolt glinted in the dim light as Paul dragged her past. “Ryan, she's passing out or something."

"Might be the High One.” Ryan sounded thoughtful. They were in a long, dimly lit hall, doors opening off on either side. “This should bring us out on the street, and we'll have a fighting chance to get out."