She'd buried the knife in the Inkani's chest, and the foul-smelling thing had damn near imploded, rotting right in front of her eyes. It was a good thing her stomach was already empty. Right now the knife buzzed in its sheath at her hip, and she was cold. Thankfully, it wasn't the ice-in-the-marrow cold of an Unspeakable too close… but it was still chilly. And awful.

Water slid down the back of her neck, she slipped again, and blinked back blood and water. Her head was bleeding again, she struggled to focus. Ryan swayed. He somehow managed to pull her back up to her feet. “Now would be a good time for a miracle,” she said, wishing she could look back over her shoulder. Her ass hurt, and the muscles in her thighs quivered with exhaustion from the stairs. The light in the sky was strengthening, but far too slowly.

"Call… in.” Ryan's voice was husky. His breath made a faint white cloud in the cold air.

"What?"

"Find… a phone.” His eyes were still blearily vacant, and his tone was slow and slurred, as if he was talking in his sleep. “Malik."

"We're in a park. I don't even know which park. And why the hell do we need more trouble? A Malik got us into this mess!” I wonder if he's still locked in that room? She felt a sharp pinch of weary guilt, shook it aside. Looked up, rain stinging her cheeks and forehead.

Holy God. There were streetlamps, shining orange, on the hill above them. Streetlamps meant a street, which was better than slogging through this mud and underbrush. And what was even better, they looked normal, there wasn't a hint of that funny glow on them. Thank you, God. Thank you.

"Call… in,” he insisted. “Chess."

"All right, let me find a phone. We've got to get up that hill. If it's a jogging path it means Simons Park, and they have phones on the main jogging loop. Can you make it up the hill?"

"Will,” he mumbled, and his head dropped forward. He kept moving, though, as she scrabbled up the slope, fighting through branches and greenery. Blackberry vines tore at her jeans, swiped a line of fire across the back of her right hand, plucked at her hip. The rain kept coming, kissing her face with cold, sharp needles. Ryan's arm was heavy and limp across her shoulder. Her left hand cramped, her fingers curled under the waistband of his shredded jeans, she could feel hot blood soaking through the tough denim. Each time she yanked on him, trying to help him stay upright, a fresh jolt of ripping pain tore up her arm.

It seemed to take forever to reach the top of the hill, and when they broke through the last screen of clutching branches and vines Chess let out a sobbing breath of grateful wonder, her vision returning to normal with a subliminal snap. It was Simons Park, and they were on the main jogging loop. And there, in its yellow box, was an emergency phone for joggers and bicyclists. Oh, thank you. Thank you, God. “I don't have any quarters,” she managed, pulling Ryan out of the underbrush and onto the paved trail. “You think they'll take a collect call?"

Ryan lifted his head. She glanced up, and her heart began to pound. His eyes were rolled back into his head, and he looked asleep on his feet. He's not okay. Neither of us are okay. God, help us out here, please? Just a little more help, and then you can retire.

"Number,” Ryan mumbled. “Number…"

They made it, haltingly, to the yellow box. She propped him against it and reached out, trying to look everywhere at once while she picked up the receiver. Wonder of wonders, a dial tone sounded in her ear. “Number? What number?” If he can't think of it I'm going to have to call Charlie. But she can't come down here when there's demons around. Oh God, they could be in the trees even now. She checked the sky. Getting lighter by the minute. She had never been so happy to see dawn.

Ryan recited a long string of numbers, she faithfully punched them in and was rewarded with a click. Please don't tell me I have to deposit a dollar in quarters—

"Code in, please.” The voice crackled in her ear.

Chess gasped. “Code?"

Ryan recited another number. “314428-Henry-Zulu,” she repeated. Please, help me out here.

"Holy shit!” The voice was young, male, and almost squeaking with surprise. “Where's Ryan?"

"Right here next to me,” she managed, sagging with relief. “This is Francesca Barnes, I've got an almost-dead Drakul here and a bunch of blue-eyed demons looking to eat me for lunch. I'm in Simons Park, on the jogging loop, and I could really use a little help. Oh, and Paul? That motherfucker turned us in to the Inkani. I left him locked underground, and I'm bleeding and I'm glowing like a Christmas tree on crack, and you had better be able to help us, or so help me God I don't know what I'm going to do, but I know it's going to be drastic.” She had to stop to take a breath. Rain needled the sides of the phone booth, drumming its tiny fingers incessantly. Ryan closed his eyes, slumping against the side of the box, his shoulders loose and his hands dangling. He looked even more tired than she felt, and she wished he could talk to her.

There was a click, and a new voice came on. This one was older, male, and very calm. “Miss Barnes? This is Abraham Shelton, Deputy Master of the Order of the Dragon, West Coast Division. We have a lock on your position and are sending transport and cleanup. The first team is in your area and should reach you in ten minutes. How badly are you hurt? And what's this about Paul and the Inkani?"

"We're calling it a home invasion.” Abraham Shelton was a thin man with café-au-lait skin and curly black hair cut severely short. His face was a statue's, perfection burnished to a fine sheen, and his eyes were wells of calm, brown darkness. “The police report will state that you escaped your home and wandered around in shock. The library's put you on two weeks paid leave."

Well, that's mighty nice of them. Christ, you people are really serious about this sort of thing, aren't you. Chess's bandaged hand itched. She took another gulp of the scorching coffee, wishing she could wake up a little more. She'd slept for eighteen hours straight, according to the clock on the nightstand. She wished she could sleep for another twenty-four. Her knife dug into the side of her belly, they'd given her a new sheath for it.

The room was nice, if a little soulless: heavy four-poster bed with a red comforter and designer-matched sheets and pillows, a nightstand with an artful arrangement of white carnations, a gas fireplace and a window seat. Rain beaded down the window, an autumn storm she was very glad not to be out in the middle of.

The Malik “team" — four Malik and six Drakul, the Drakul glowing the same way Ryan did—had melted out of the shadows of the park, nearly scaring the life out of her and prompting Ryan to try to peel himself away from the phone to face them. It had taken some doing to calm him down, but he listened to her voice, and they had been bundled into a not-very-legal SUV that had suddenly appeared on the jogging path, in blithe disregard of its own weirdness.

To wake up here, in this nice little room, had been equally relieving and terrifying. Relief because there weren't any funky demons around, and they had even brought her fresh clothes and let her take a shower; relief because a tall, blonde medic had come to bandage her and check her for broken bones or concussion. And terror because Ryan was nowhere in sight, and nobody would tell her where he was; terror because the weird double-vision, normal world and glowing lines of force, hadn't gone away at all.

"That's really nice,” she said finally. That's uber-swell. Considering that it was one of your goddamn Malik that turned me over to the goddamn demons in the first place.

No, she was not feeling charitable at all. “Where's Ryan?” she asked for the fifth time. “Is he okay?"