Music poured out into the cold air as Ryan hung, his feet dangling and his eyes smarting and watering, from the seventh-floor escape. Don't let her look up. Christ in Heaven, how did she get a goddamn Phoenicis Fang? Those are extinct. Nobody can make them anymore and none of them are missing. How did she get hold of one? Goddamn, that hurt. Don't let her look up. Look down, sweetheart. I'm not ready for you to see me yet.

"Jesus.” Her voice, under the music. He couldn't hear much under the pounding beat, only that it was female, and low. “Seeing things. I'm really getting paranoid."

The sound of that voice, even screened by the music, made his skin tighten. Ryan pulled himself up, moving silently, jackknifing to get his feet on the seventh-floor fire escape. He heard her window bang down and the music shut off.

Sorry about that, sweetheart. That was an amateur move, and I'm damn glad you didn't catch me. I have enough to worry about right now.

He waited, crouching on the cold metal of the fire escape, until his sharp ears picked out the sound of her moving around in her apartment. A little while later, the smell of roasting chicken and grilled onions drifted up, distinguishable from the other cooking smells in the building by its smoky tang of sorcery. Damn, everything she does is covered with that smell. She's practicing. Ryan carefully, slowly, quietly dropped down to the fifth story again, ready to go over the side and vanish at any moment.

She'd set her kitchen table and stood, irresolute, with her plate in one hand. The television was still going, eerily silent, she'd turned it down all the way. As Ryan watched, the librarian's shoulders slumped. She set the plate down, dropped into her chair, and buried her face in her hands.

Wait a minute. What's this?

Her shoulders shook for a good ten minutes, silently, while the blue-glowing knife lay next to her plate, glittering sharply and almost blinding him. He had to squint, looking past the hard hurtful glow. A Fang was deadly to anything demonic. The only reason why he wasn't crippled with the pain was because he was only part demon. All of the Fangs are accounted for. She had to have made it. But she can't have, the way of making them was lost a long time ago when Halston died. He was the last Golden and old, very old. There haven't been any potentials in five hundred years, the Inkani somehow hunt them down before we can bring them in. Jesus. Why is she crying?

He watched her get up, leave the Fang on the table, and carry her plate, untouched, into the kitchen. Watched her dump her dinner into the garbage and stand next to the sink, wiping at her cheeks with a napkin. What was wrong?

Hey, what's going on? Why are you crying? Shit. Did I do that? He had to think for a moment before he recognized the tearing feeling inside his chest as guilt. And that was something new, too. Why the hell was he feeling guilty? He hadn't done anything.

And besides, I don't feel guilt. I'm Drakul.

But it hurt him to see this diminutive woman who could work a heavy bag like a pro crying alone in her apartment, with demon warding on the walls and a Fang sitting on the table next to her. Had she taken on a skornac? No way. But still, it was looking more and more like she was a mystery that needed to be solved for the Order. She might even be that rarest of skins, a Golden potential.

And if the Malik pulled her in he might never see her again. He definitely wasn't ready for that. Already he was roused to uncomfortable interest.

I'm going to have to watch you, sweetheart. We'll see what happens.

Two weeks, sleeping badly, and not eating. This is getting ridiculous. Chess turned over, fluffing her pillow, and peered blearily at the alarm clock. The nightmares were getting worse. And the feeling of being watched had only intensified. She hadn't seen the man in tweed anymore, and Sharon had mentioned being stood up for a dinner date. That had put Share in a two-day funk of muttering into her teacup and generally moping; it wasn't her usual luck to get stood up.

Not just that, but Chess's family was starting to get suspicious. Where are you all the time? Charlie had asked, her forehead wrinkling. Got a new boyfriend? You never answer your phone anymore. And then Mom. Honey, I don't hear from you like I used to. Is something wrong?

Chess turned over again, sighing. She was almost sure she was being followed, but that was ridiculous. Her knife glowed at odd times; she was beginning to think she'd made a mistake during its creation. But it had dealt with the tentacled thing just fine.

At that thought, a shiver went down Chess's spine, and sleep became a total impossibility. She sat up, reached over, and turned on the bedroom light.

"I need someone to talk to,” she muttered. “Hi, how are you? I'm Chess. I hunt demons, and I'm having a total fucking nervous breakdown. Why am I acting like a… like a girl? I can handle this."

She looked at her nightstand again. The only way she got any sleep was with the knife under her pillow and the Marx Brothers on the TV, curled up on the couch instead of in her bed. Sometimes the feeling of eyes on her was even a comfort. It helped with the crushing sense of loneliness she felt when dealing with everyday people.

On the bright side, Pembroke the Indignant hadn't started her letter-writing campaign to get Chess fired yet, and she hadn't canceled her card either. As a matter of fact, Pem had checked out some Faulkner, and Chess found herself half-smiling when she contemplated the next round of righteous ire that would set off.

Chess scooped up her knife and pillow, and dragged her down comforter out into the living room. Her windows were dark except for orange cityshine, the alley reflecting the wet gleams from damp pavement and clouded sky. She plopped down on the couch and fluffed her pillow, slid the knife underneath, and snuggled into the warm softness of her couch. A little bit of digging produced the remote, she pressed the power button and was rewarded with the TV's blue glow.

The comedy channel was playing some type of cartoon, but it wasn't Looney Tunes. She switched over to the DVD player and the menu for Duck Soup came up. She pressed play and was rewarded with a feeling of wonderful release and relaxation. Man, I love Groucho. Well, I love watching him, I don't think I'd love to date him.

Even her mother's veiled hints that Chess's withdrawal was not making her happy faded in the face of Groucho. Chess felt her eyes closing, she snuggled further into the blankets. She was almost asleep when the faint tapping sounded against her window.

What?

Her eyes opened, heavily. She watched, as if in a dream, her window floating in front of her.

Tap-tap. Tap tap.

Something at her window. The layers of the warding sparked and fizzed, reacting to something, and Chess felt a drowsy alarm. What's that? I should check that out.

But she was so tired, and her couch was so warm, and she was halfway through the movie. It would be so easy to fall completely asleep instead of…?

Chess's eyes closed, then struggled open again. It was now three-quarters of the way through the movie. A fuzzy sense of alarm grew under her skin, a prickling heat roiling down her spine. Ouch. She shifted, but it didn't stop, she struggled up to full wakefulness as she heard something like a screech.

Immediately, heart pounding, adrenaline in her mouth, she sat upright, digging under her pillow for the knife. Her answering machine beeped.

Wait a minute, I didn't hear the phone ring!

"Franceeeeeesssscaaaaahhh… Francessscaaahhh…” The tinny voice whispered out of the answering machine, and Chess slid her legs out from under the comforter. She was wearing plaid boxers and a Jericho Warriors T-shirt. it was going to be awful cold if she had to go outside.