Lilith Saintcrow: The Demon's Librarian

"Wow.” And it's useful if you cross-reference it with Amandine's The Four Gates of the Unspeakable, but you've got to watch out for Delmonico's tendency to give you useless minutiae. Myself, I prefer Gilbert d'Arras, he's far more practical and forward-thinking. Plus he's a better writer. And those diaries I found aren't bad either, even if they are a slow read. “I'm not seeing it here. When was it published?” Act normal, Chess. For God's sake act normal.

"1604. The latest edition was brought out and bound in 1861.” His smile widened.

"Ah.” Chess nodded sagely. “Sounds like it's a bit too early for our collection. Have you tried some of the rare book dealers?” I am doing really well with this. Don't get cocky. The knife now seemed to be vibrating inside its sheath, pressed against her hip and causing a prickling burn against her skin. How is it doing that? Why is it doing that? For doing so well with research I'm woefully short on practical experience.

"No. It's a library book.” He accented the word library slightly, his smile more like a grimace of pain now. The light glittered off the rims of his glasses, a sharp dart that threatened to jab right through her temples and set off a headache.

"Well, it's not in our library. You might want to try the university.” Her smile felt like a grimace now, too. “They're very helpful, very nice.” Shut up, Chessie. You're babbling.

That sparked a long, searching look. Those dark eyes behind the glasses suddenly seemed not so friendly.

"Is there anything else you're looking for?” Keep a light tone. You do this all day. Don't screw up now.

His smile widened. “No, guess not. Thanks, Miss…"

My God, he's actually asking my name. “Ms.,” she said, frostily. “Ms. Barnes. Head librarian. And you are?"

"Charmed,” he said promptly, his eyes dropping to her chest. “And Paul. Paul Harrison."

You bag of sleaze. Abruptly she was feeling much less charitable, no matter how hunkadelic he was. “I hope the university library can help you, Mr. Harrison.” Her tone was now perceptibly unimpressed. Her scalp tingled with unease. He looked very much like Robert, who practically oozed charm when he was trying to get into someone's pants.

Then, mercifully, Sharon appeared. “Chess, I've got my tea, if you want to… oh. Hello."

The man's eyes slid from Chess to Sharon. Immediately, assumptions were slid into place and the charm intensified. “Hello yourself,” he said cheerfully, changing direction like a champion stunt-car driver. “I was looking for a book."

"Well, you're in the right place.” Share did all but bat her long sweeping lashes at him.

Time for a graceful retreat, Chess thought, and took two steps back. “I'm popping out for lunch,” she said, to nobody in particular. The scary hunkadelic didn't look away from Sharon, who waved languidly, cupping her mug of steaming tea in one pale, slim hand.

"See you soon,” her assistant said, and Chess escaped gratefully. That was close. That was very very close.

So someone knows about my library. She forced herself to walk slowly away, her shoes firm and businesslike against the short blue carpet. I'm going to have to be very careful. But I can't see stopping.

Not with demons around.

She made it to the door to the stairwell, unlocked it, and opened it calmly. Stepped inside, and began the climb to her office to fetch her coat. She had to stop halfway because her knees were shaking so badly, which was why she hadn't taken the balky old lift.

Someone knows about my library, but I can't stop. Who will keep the other people in the city safe? I can't stop. That thing was taking children. Eating children, for God's sake. It's my job to do something about it.

Maybe I need a few recruits. But who do I know that I can say “Hello, would you like to hunt a few demons” to?

It was a puzzle, and one she suspected would keep her company all through lunch. Who knew? And how could she keep the library a secret and keep hunting demons?

"I'll take the tall one,” Paul said, his eyes all but sparkling. “I've got dinner with her tonight. Probably part sheela, but the things we do for the Order, right?"

Ryan settled himself further into shadow, hugging the alley wall. “What if she's a Golden?” He had to ask, the place had been a Nest a long time ago. It was built into the soaring lines of the architecture, the glowing outline of etheric force he could see but the Malik wouldn't. He could see and hear so much more, any Drakul could.

And all for the price of his humanity. Such a little thing, really. A useless thing.

"There aren't any Golden left.” Paul's glasses glinted as he eased them off, slid them into the backpack. As a disguise, they were simple and effective; but anything Other would be able to tell what he was by his smell, the smoky scent of a Order-trained Malik. “But I'll tell you, the inside of that place stinks of sorcery. Absolutely reeks. It's all over the head librarian and her assistant. It's the assistant, I'm betting."

"Maybe both of them?” Ryan's fingers caressed a knife hilt, his black eyes narrowing. Stuck baby-sitting a damn Malik. The demon whispered and chattered inside his head, he ignored it. If it wasn't for orders, I'd…?

But there were orders, and good ones, too. He was to look after the Malik, make sure he didn't get into trouble, and take out any demon too big for the other man's training and fragile humanity. Ryan drew back a little further, wishing the sun wasn't up. Night was the better time for him; even though his human part shielded him from the harmful effects of daylight it was still uncomfortable.

"The head's a frosty little bitch. She didn't know anything about the goddamn books. The sheela's the one. Besides, a civvies skin wouldn't have the smarts or the talent to take out a skornac. It would take an Other; and neither of them are genetic witches."

You're a skin too, Paul. Ryan shrugged. Only thing saving you from being a blind skin is the Malik. You poor bastard. “Guess not.” He glanced out over the street. Night came early in winter, and dusk was thankfully gathering in the corners and alleys. The best time, when the sun didn't hurt and the demon in him bloomed, burning through the layers of fragile humanity and turning him into something more. “All right. I'll take the short one, you get the sheela.” I shouldn't let you deal with an Other alone, but orders are orders. And on this run you're the boss. As fucking usual.

"Good deal.” Paul's shoulders came up and he blinked. He was a handsome one, and far from the worst when it came to pairing up; there were a few Malik who delighted in ordering their Drakulein around. His habit of chasing women while on runs sometimes got him into trouble, but he at least he wasn't a sadistic bastard. “Stay on the short one, just to be sure. All right?"

"I got it, Malik. Be careful, sheela are tricky.” And if you get yourself killed I'll have to put up with training a whole new skin.

"I'll see you back at rendezvous in the morning.” Paul was evidently expecting to have a good night. He eased out of the alley and was soon gone, his sport coat flapping as the edges of his Drakul-laid shielding blurred to make him one with the coming night. Ryan sank back, listening to the slow song of concrete and steel that made up a city. His nose twitched, a little—he could smell the death of a demon, burned flesh and nose-stinging ammonia. A skornac, taken down by a non-Malik hunter, in a free city. If there was someone out there looking to tip the precarious balance, they had to be brought in. Questioned. And then invited to join the Malik… or put away. And if it was one faction of demons declaring war on another, or the High Ones coming to town, it was even more imperative that the Malik know about it.