Not only that, but the Malik flooding in to protect Chess would be walking blind into a trap full of the worst demons around. There would be horrible casualties.

"I know you can hear me.” Paul's voice, soft and bored. “Come on, Ryan. Wake up."

"Usselesss."

"You don't know him."

At least he still respects my abilities. His mouth was desert-dry. He opened his eyes further, straining.

The torchlight ran wet over stonekin-carved, fluid stone. It was a high arched chamber, proportioned subtly wrong. The chains hung from a hook at the very apex of the ceiling, and he knew without looking that the weights dangled into a circular shaft cut in the middle of the floor. The floor itself was sloped toward that maw, which would be floored with sharp iron spikes.

Sloped down, so that the blood would flow into the hole itself. It was a drakarnus, a torture chamber, built for one thing. Killing a Malik—or a Drakul—slowly.

One sharp, panicked burst of thought—Chess, where is she, are they doing this to her? — and then control clamped down, the often-tested control of a Drakulein in who the dark inheritance of demons ran stronger than most. He raised his head still more, and saw Paul. The man's sandy hair glowed in the crimson light, and he looked very pleased with himself, wearing the smile he usually wore after a long night spent with someone female. He was even wearing fresh clothing—that is, if you could call the long, dark robe clothing; it was an Inkani outfit. His dark eyes gleamed.

He looked, of all things, satisfied.

Think, Ryan. Quit flailing and think. They won't hurt her, she has to be whole for the Rite. They need her whole and perfect for their dirty work. Think, goddamn you!

Next to Paul was a thin, attenuated shape, and the growl rose in Ryan's chest. He couldn't help himself.

The High One blinked its fathomless blue eyes. It looked like a human; that was the worst part about them. Wide blue eyes, a sweetly-curved mouth, and a shock of dark hair matted into dreadlocks, each fat strand bound with writhing, silvery etheric force. The bladed cheekbones were subtly wrong, as was the shape of the nose, and the creature was corpse-pallid. Its six-fingered, wax-pale hands hung loosely by its sides, and it wore plain, dark, unornamented breeches and a simple shirt. The clothes did nothing to hide the essential alienness of the being, the way its joints moved with horrid oily grace, and how the air itself seemed to cringe away from it.

A killing smile hovered on the demon's lips. “Ah, the pup growlss. Mayhap it hath teeth."

Warm salt dripped into Ryan's eyes. The burning in his chest was slender, silver-coated ammunition, deadly to demonkind. Malik ammunition. He would heal from it, his human half doing what his demon half could not—but slowly. Too slowly. “Paul.” The word was a stone in his throat. “Where… is… she?"

"Safe. For now.” Paul was literally beaming. “All the women you want, Orion. Think of it. Money. Slaves. We can have it all. We're on the winning side now, Drakul. Maybe after they're done with the Rite you can have what's left of her. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Oh, you son of a bitch. There won't be anything left of her once they finish. You know that. His eyes threatened to close, he forced them open. His fingers were insensate wood, swollen and useless, the weights strapped to his ankles robbed him of leverage. And he heard the soft drip, drip, drip of his own blood, coating the iron spikes below. “Malik.” It was as close to accusation as he could come, with his cracked lips and swollen tongue. The pain drove red-hot pokers into his side, but he'd had worse. Much worse. Chess. Where are you, sweetheart? Christ. A traitor Malik… why?

"I'm tired of being a loser,” Paul said. “Tired of rooftops in the rain, of cheapass hookers and ice-cold Malik bitches. Sick of doing what I'm told. You are too. I know you are, I see it in you. You're stronger and faster than any Malik, and they treat you like crap.” He leaned forward, his tone dropping, becoming confidential. “Come on over to the winning side, Ryan. It's better that way. They'll even give you the librarian, after they're finished with her."

For a moment, Ryan thought rage might blind him. The fury rose, shoving aside the agony for one glorious red second—then retreated before the onslaught of pain as his battered body hung stretched between roof and chasm. Metal clashed and ground together, Inkani sorcery spitting and crackling as he swayed like a plucked string. His head flopped down, his neck no longer having the strength to hold it up.

"Sso.” The High One gave a chilling little laugh that sliced through the torchlight, making the oily, crimson glow gutter. “Usselesss he iss. Let uss leave him to reconssider."

A touch against Ryan's shoulder. The scream died in his throat, half-strangled. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him yell. The High One's breath washed over his face, loaded with its alien scent, and if he'd had a stomach left, that would have turned it. “We alwayss win, coussin,” the Inkani hissed, softly. “Alwayss."

Their footsteps retreated. “Think about it,” Paul said, before the sound of their feet—the High One's almost weightless, brushing the drum-head of stone that shrank back from its passing; Paul's stumbling human tread—retreated. There was nothing wrong with Ryan's ears. He focused through the sheet of blinding agony from his chest and shoulders and maltreated wrists. Underground. They had him underground, in tunnels they had built with stonekin slaves; they went up through a tunnel. No door—and no guard. They were going to leave him down here to rot.

Rage returned again, fruitless rage. Paul. Whoever would have thought the feckless Malik had it in him?

Why am I still alive?

The answer was simple. They thought Chess had told him where the books were, or how to get at them—because Paul couldn't find them, even after searching the library. They would come back as many times as they had to, to get that information out of him. But that wasn't his problem.

How far away is darkmoon? The Rite is at its most powerful at darkmoon. Three days, five at the most, depending on how long I've been out.

He coughed, his body curving into a taut shallow arc as red-hot pokers drilled through his chest. The chains clashed, spat, jangled.

Chess. Francesca. He hung still, then, swallowing the tickle at the back of his bloody throat. Copper tainted the inside of his mouth. Christ, he was in bad shape.

Not as bad as those bastards are going to be when I get my hands on them. Chess. Think, you big, dumb Drakul! Think!

She had to still be alive. If they had performed the Rite, they would know how to get to the books, there was no way she could stand up to that kind of torture. She wasn't made for it. Stubborn, yes; brave, yes; determined to fight, yes. But they would rip her soul out of her body and use her to power a portal between here and the foul place the High Ones escaped from, and she would be left a battered, bleeding wreck. She would tell them anything they wanted to know, and they would kill her anyway.

Stillness, then. The chains stopped their clashing as he hung motionless, barely even breathing. Sweat and blood ran down his skin. He could barely feel any clothing. Had they stripped him? He wouldn't put it past them.

It all made sense now. Paul showing up battered… but not as battered as he should have been if he'd really run across Inkani. Showing up just after the first Inkani spider had triggered its change, suggesting Ryan keep both Chess and her sister in the apartment, talking all night to gauge whether or not Ryan was alert, suggesting they try to get Chess out of town, possibly to lure Ryan into a prepared Inkani trap, unaccountably nervous and fearful not because of combat sickness, but because he was playing both sides of the field. It all made sense. How did they get to him? How? And for how long?