Not to mention the sorcery used, a spell that had vanished when the Halston books had—a spell usually only a Golden could use. There had to be a cache around here somewhere, and odds-on someone at the library knew where it was. Melwyn Evrard Halston hadn't been a fool, and had hidden his books in this city. Who better to track down books than someone who worked at a library? Besides, the entire building thrummed with etheric force, and that was a recent occurrence. Someone had awakened whatever latent potential lay in the walls.

He waited, leaning against the wall of the alley, practically invisible. The library closed down, lights going off, people shooed out the front door. At seven sharp, a tall, willowy form that had to be the sheela came striding out, her faint perfume of lilacs threading through the chill, rainy air. She couldn't have more than a trace of sheela in her, just enough to make her tall, sleek, and dangerous. Sheel often intermarried with human women; they were fickle but had the gift of manipulating females. Unfortunately, they rarely stayed after the first child, and the human women usually remarried, having enough of the sheel on them by then to snare skins with no problem.

This one was probably a granddaughter, and she vanished into a cab down the street. Ryan shook his head, clearing it of the trace of lilac. Being Drakulein, he was rarely susceptible to sheela. One more thing to be grateful for, he supposed.

There was one light still burning in the library, on the third floor. He saw a flicker of movement—the head librarian? It was just like Paul to stick him with an ugly woman to follow, even though a Drakul wasn't supposed to get anywhere near a woman that smelled of sorcery at all. Ryan sighed, resting his head against the cold concrete of the building looming over him. Perfect. If it's the sheela, she'll probably join the Order. Be nice to have access to a cache of sorcerous books, though I'm not likely to get anywhere near it.

No, the Order would only let the Malik researchers near it. Drakulein couldn't be trusted. They were, after all, part demon. No matter that there hadn't been a Drakul traitor in a good three hundred years… still.

You're doing yourself no good thinking of this. Just do your fucking job and think on your own time, Orion.

The light went off, and Ryan tensed. He gave her fifteen minutes to get down to the first floor and come out. She didn't.

What's she doing in there? Everyone else left, including the assistant. What the hell do librarians do all day, anyway? Breathe dust and shelve books?

It took a good two hours for her to appear. The front door opened, and she closed it behind her as streetlights flickered on, glowing all the way down the street. Ryan peeled himself away from the wall, peering at her.

Short and graceful, almost lost in a long dark woolen coat very much like his own, the woman locked the door and patted it, proprietary pride evident in the movement. She turned, tucking her keys into her pocket and hitching her bag on her shoulder. Long dark hair pulled back in a French twist, slacks, and the purse, Paul had given a good description; she did seem a little chilly. Very self-contained.

Ryan's eyes narrowed as the woman set off down the steps. She moved well for a skin, as if she'd taken dance. And she seemed wary. Paul was right. She reeked of sorcery, in a way the sheela hadn't. The way no blind skin should. Sorcery, and a strange perfumed scent that faded in and out, like the smell of violets.

Paul, you didn't let your dick do your thinking again, did you? Ryan stepped out of the alley and drifted after her, calm and quiet. Wouldn't do to scare her, would it? Of course not. Careful and cautious, and this woman never had to know a deadly Drakul was following her. Should never know he was following her. The Malik would make contact, if it was necessary.

She walked with her head down, quickly, into the wind. That made her scent unfurl behind her like a banner. Sorcery, water, and the smell of wormwood, a powerful nose-clearing stench as well as that maddening, elusive tang. Wormwood? Why would she smell of wormwood? And… mint? What the hell is this? She isn't witch, she doesn't look like a witch, what is she? What the hell is going on?

Where was she going?

She turned right, across the wind, her head dropping even further. Her pace quickened. Now he caught another scent under the roil of sorcery and bitterness: water, clean and pure. And the smell of herbal shampoo. She smelled good, at least, under the burning fumes of whatever sorcery had been performed in her vicinity. And what was the wormwood?

He was beginning to think she'd marked him when she ducked into a doorway under a small sign. Grant's Gym. She was going to work out. Where does she find the energy after a day of slinging books around? Where's a window? I want to see this, I want a closer look at her.

He barely recognized the warning tingle of danger under the thought. He was curious, and so was the demon. She's female, and smells of sorcery. You're supposed to stay back, stay away. Surely you're not interested in a blind skin? They don't do anything interesting.

Maybe not. But he wanted to see, and he was supposed to keep tabs on her. There was a handy window, and if he stayed very still, nobody would notice him.

What is she? She's not a witch, but she's been messing around with sorcery. I'd stake my life on it.

And after all, he just might.

She moved in on the heavy bag, hands taped, sweat dripping down her back under the sports bra. Elbow, elbow, fists, knee; the huge hulking instructor said something that was supposed to be encouragement. She didn't even spare him a glance, kept working the bag as if it had attacked her. Her dark hair was in a neat French braid, and her pretty face was drawn into a feral snarl of effort.

Pretty? No, she wasn't just pretty.

Pale skin, her large hazel eyes set above high cheekbones, her lips shaped just right when they weren't pulled back in a grimace of effort. Her hair was dark and glossy, too rich to be called brown, and falling half down her back when it wasn't caught up in a braid or twist. She was short but muscled like a dancer, and moved with a swift economy that spoke of long practice. The bag shuddered under her onslaught and the teacher barked. Sweat flew, and Ryan's jaw felt like it was going to drop. He'd never seen a woman go after a heavy bag this way. The Malik females, researchers and breeders both, largely accepted their place as noncoms. Even the few Malik women who trained for fighting—as exercise, of course—didn't go about it so seriously.

She was obviously a star pupil, top of her class. The teacher was teaching straight kickboxing, but Ryan could tell he'd probably taught this librarian some street fighting. His hypothesis proved correct when the class ended, the teacher suited up in some padding, and the librarian proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Even with the padding, Ryan could see the big guy wince every now and again.

Goddamn. Look at that. He forgot he was standing in the cold, forgot he was supposed to scan the vicinity, forgot everything but watching her move. The teacher, a massive bear of a man, moved in on her, and Ryan winced when she took a fall, probably bruising her hip even though there was matting on the floor. But she simply bounced right up and attacked the padding viciously, striking at groin, throat, clawing, kicking, and generally making Ryan glad he wasn't facing her. He was Drakul, yes, but dealing with a woman this determined would be unpleasant unless he used a bit more of his strength than he was comfortable spending on a skin. Besides, he didn't like the thought of hurting a human woman, no Drakul did. The protective instincts were just too strong.

Paul was wrong. There's more here than meets the eye. And something about that bitter smell of wormwood taunted him. Wormwood and mint, and the smell of her shampoo under that. I don't think the sheela's the dangerous one.