Who cared? Forget Paul. He was only an obstacle now, and a fragile one at best. He was, after all, only Malik.

Only human, when all was said and done.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, Ryan tensed the fingers of his right hand. Blood slid warm down his arm. The metal crackled uneasily—but he was demon, too. More strongly demon than most Drakul.

His eyes closed, Ryan concentrated.

So much time spent keeping the demon down, keeping it chained, exerting control. Control. He'd tried so hard to be gentle with Chess, and ended up dragging her into a trap. What would have happened if he'd sent her out with Paul alone? Christ.

Think of her, then. Think of her dark hair, the way her eyes are growing golden. Think of the way she smells. She smells good, and she bites her lower lip a little when she's concentrating. Think of her sitting there at her kitchen table, with her face in her hands. Think about that, Ryan.

A thin wire of warmth slid down his lip. His teeth were buried in his own flesh, one more note in the symphony of pain.

Chess, then. Her braid bobbing back and forth as she punched the heavy bag, her hand in his. You're a human being. You're the only one I trust. We're partners.

The only one I trust. Her face, open and peaceful, as she slept in her bed.

The demon in him stirred.

It wasn't so hard after all. So much iron control, so much denying himself, when all he had to do was relax for just a moment and let that other three-quarters of himself out. The black, roaring thing he kept chained and crouching stretched, finding itself trapped in a body hanging weighted from chains that crackled with power akin to it.

Chess, he whispered without speaking, the entire world narrowing to a pinprick of bloody crimson. Every muscle tensed against itself, his teeth driven into his lip, his eyes rolling back into his head as bones creaked under the strain and the chains stilled, even their static-laden murmur hushed.

Mine, the demon whispered, filling his veins with hot, bloody wine. Mine.

"Mine,” Ryan whispered back, agreeing. He loosed the last shackle of his control, and let the demon take him.

She put her back to the stone wall, sitting cross-legged on the bed. It was a narrow single bed, covered in white silk; the little stone cell had a bathroom but no mirror, and no window. There wasn't anything in the whole damn room that could be used as a weapon, she'd already yanked up the silk and tried tugging at the bedposts, but they were somehow fixed to the floor.

So Chess sat, chewing meditatively on a fingernail, staring at the thick, heavy door, without even a doorknob or keyhole on the inside. The only light came from a single candle set in a shallow dish somehow curving out of the stone wall itself, the candles themselves smelled foul and were too thin to be of any real use as a weapon.

They'd taken her knife. They'd taken everything. And Paul had helped them.

Come on, Chess. Buck up. Think your way out of this one.

They'd beaten Ryan to a bloody pulp, the blue-eyed things, and she'd been so sick she'd lost everything she'd ever thought of eating while Paul held the gun on her and laughed. It wasn't so much their six-fingered, soft, long maggot hands or their sheerly pretty faces with their alien bones—it was the cold that emanated from them, and their hiss-clicking voices. And the genuine enjoyment they had seemed to take in beating Ryan up while they dragged Chess away. Five of them, and he'd still fought them; but…?

They've killed him. You know they've killed him. There's no way someone could survive what they did to him.

She moved restlessly, eyeing the candle again. They came every little while to bring her food—human food, from God-knew-where. Each time it was either a colorless human slave with vacant eyes, shadowed by one of the Unspeakable—or it was Paul, with a demon leering over his shoulder. And that was somehow worse, because he grinned and joked about what they were going to do to her.

Now I know how it feels to be on Death Row.

"There is nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so,” she whispered, her voice mouthing the cold stone walls. The bed was soft and deep, but she didn't feel like lying down. She didn't feel like eating, either; the latest tray with its cargo of chicken and saffron rice lay on the floor, congealing. The dishes were plastic and the tray itself was too flimsy to stand up to any kind of abuse. She knew, she'd broken three of the trays trying to make a weapon. Any weapon.

As if she wasn't so sick and cold when one of those things came in she could barely stand up.

The candle flame flickered. If she attacked Paul with the candle, they might take it away. And as much as Chess wanted to scratch the bastard's eyes out, she couldn't stand the thought of being locked up down here in the dark.

She shivered. Closed her eyes. Sought refuge, once again, in literature. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” She recited the long string of paradoxes from memory, then switched to poetry. “We were very tired, we were very merry…” Her voice cracked, sobs rising in her throat.

Come on, Chess. What have you got to lose?

She was hungry, drained, and exhausted. Her skin crawled and her mouth tasted foul. The food was starting to smell heavenly, even ice-cold as it was likely to be. But what if it was drugged?

"Whether tis nobler to endure… oh, wait a minute. Or by opposing, end them. Yeah. Sure. Who am I kidding?"

The candle flame flickered, guttered.

Oh, God, don't let me be down here in the dark. But the flame straightened again, strengthened.

She slumped against the wall, feeling its chill burn through her T-shirt. Ryan was dead, her apartment was probably ruined, and nobody knew where she was. She was kidnapped by demons who were going to sacrifice her in some funky ritual.

I keep thinking this can't get any worse. Then it goes and gets worse.

Her ears were sensitized by the absolute silence, it was so quiet she could actually hear the candle burning, a faint soft sound. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall. This is bad. This is really bad. I wish I could think of something, anything… I'm so hungry. God, I'm so hungry. If I get out of this I'm going to get a big bacon cheeseburger and eat the whole damn thing. And French fries. With mayonnaise. Oh, and a bottle of white wine, so cold it hurts my teeth. Then I'm going to get a big chocolate-covered sundae and pour whipped cream on it, and load it up with nuts.

She shifted restlessly. Ryan. God, I'm so sorry. I should have done something. What could I do? I never even got to kiss him back.

That was a good memory, even though she was terrified. Somehow thinking of Ryan made her feel better. He'd done the best he could.

What would he do? He wouldn't be sitting here moping. He'd be figuring out some way of getting out of here. Christ, I'm woefully short on practical experience. The researcher's doom, actual field conditions.

Think, then. She had to think, before she got any hungrier, any weaker.

She imagined the library, then. Not the secret hidden room of sorcerous books, but the plain everyday falling-apart library, with its faded carpet and heavy lamps, with the sound of computers softly humming and pages turning. The checkout counter, Chess's own cluttered tiny office. God, I'd even welcome Pem the Indignant right about now. I'll bet she'd make short work of those demons. Probably beat them over the head with her little tartan purse.

The laugh was forlorn and thin, but it made her feel better as well. Chess rubbed her fingers together. Her hair was mercilessly tangled and she would start to smell unwashed pretty soon. Mom was probably climbing the walls, and God knew what Charlie was thinking. They had probably found her apartment trashed by now. Charlie would come over to collect the bike and find Chess's door blown off its hinges and the window broken, her bedroom door hacked apart and—