Lilith Saintcrow: The Demon's Librarian

Her knife prickled and buzzed insistently in her hand. She looked down at it, and saw bright leaks of light from the sheath. It vibrated, jarring her wrist. She stepped into a pair of sandals and took a deep breath.

Tap-tap.

Francesca whirled, her hair swinging in a heavy wave, as something dense and heavy smashed against her window. The fire escape screeched violently, metal twisting, and she let out a half-scream as the warding sparked, smoked, and fizzed invisibly. Oh, God. Oh, God.

She swallowed dryly, tore the knife out of the sheath, and let the blue glow free.

The thing in the window—red eyes, claws, and smoking, bristling hide—scrabbled frantically at the glass. The blue light touched it, lashed smoking weals in its skin, and it screeched, a falsetto squeal drilling right through Chess's head.

She screamed, lifting the knife, if that thing comes in here I'm going to have a hell of a fight on my hands. I'm not even dressed! The thought flashed through her head and was gone in a millisecond. Then the impossible happened.

Another hard impact, more screeching metal. Everyone in the building's going to be up by now, she thought, and something hit the thing from above. She had a confused impression of motion, and everything fell away from her window.

Chess's jaw dropped. That was someone else! Holy fucking shit, that was someone else falling on the thing from above! Her heart leapt into her throat, started to pound, and she looked around for her coat. Down in the alley. Someone's fighting that thing down in the alley. If it's another demon hunter, they'll need backup.

Exhaustion forgotten, she bolted for her closet. Fifteen seconds later she had her coat and her keys, and was out the door, running swift and silent down the hall. It would be a miracle if nobody called the police. Whoever was out there was going to need all the help they could get, after falling five stories with a hungry demon. It would be a miracle if there was anything left of them to rescue.

She ducked into the utility stairwell, the one that would give out onto the alley below, and barely slowed down enough to round each corner. Her sandals almost went flying, and she had to remember to stuff her keys into her left coat pocket before she hit the door giving out to the alley with everything she had, the knife suddenly shining like a star in her hand.

The alley was clean except for the Dumpsters, and dark except for the glow of the knife blade. She skidded out into it and stood, her chest heaving and her hair falling into her face. She smelled a breath of smashed rosemary; her plants were probably gone. Should have tied my hair back, no time… a fall from my window would put them right about… there. But I don't see anything, I—

"Look out!” Someone smashed into her from the side, her knife went flying, and her head hit the side of a Dumpster with a hollow bong that might have been funny if it hadn't hurt so fucking much.

Snarling. Ripping. Sounded like dogs fighting, low hideous growls and tearing sounds, another hollow boom as something else hit another Dumpster. It was cold, her boxers were getting soaked and her legs were wet. She was lying in a puddle. Her head swam. My knife. OhmiGod my knife, where's my knife, some help I am! She made it to her hands and knees, her head ringing, roaring in her ears. The knife was easy to see, glowing like a star, she scrabbled for it. She'd lost a sandal, the concrete hurt her bare foot. She made it to the knife and scooped it up, pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and turned back to the end of the alley.

Two shapes, one low and feral, another tall and broad-shouldered. The knife's light picked out a black knee-length coat, flapping as the man—had to be a man, it was too tall and broad for anything else—moved two steps to the side with eerie fluid grace, between her and the thing. The thing snarled, scrabbling against the pavement, red eyes fuming and the smell of it hitting her suddenly. Burning hair and ammonia, the stench of a demon, she recognized with a flare of relief.

Baltiriaz. Burning hair and cat piss, that's distinctive, it looks like a dog with red eyes. Okay, I've read about this. What's it vulnerable to? Think!

It was hard to think with her head pounding and her shoulder rippling with pain. Her knee felt scraped, a thin trickle of heat slid down her shin. Her coat dripped against her calves. Did I dislocate my shoulder? How could he survive a five-story drop? Think, Chessie! Think!

D'Arras, referring to the Baltiriaz, called them Dogs of Darkness; Aventine Carlyle said they were allergic to sunlight, as most demons were. But Baltiriaz were incredibly sensitive to any kind of light, not just sunlight.

Light? Fiat lux, let there be light. She raised her knife as the other figure locked with the dog, growling, snarling, spitting; she had no time to wonder how a hunter was getting that close to a demon and still standing upright. “Fiat lux,” she whispered, “In nominae Eunomines et Brigid, fiat lux, so I command, so it shall be, give me light!"

The disorientation of working an act of sorcery without preparation and patterning hit her, her empty stomach rising in rebellion. Thank God she had nothing in it. The feeling of vital force bleeding out of her solar plexus intensified. Her knife turned red-hot for a moment, the power pushing out through it, then light burst over the alley in a brilliant flash, rich golden light.

Sunlight, a flood of it, as if she'd pointed a high-powered yellow searchlight down the alley.

The Baltiriaz made a grunting, snuffling, howling sound of absolute pain, and the other hunter descended on it. There was a squeal, cut short, and a sickening crack. Holy shit, I think he killed it. That was quick.

No sound but distant sirens. Chess blinked, coughed, goosebumps the size of small eggs pushing up under her skin. Is it dead? Her eyes watered, stinging furiously under the assault of the light. “Is it dead?” she whispered.

"The light.” The other person's voice, dark and low, a man's voice, rough and strangely breathless. “Goddamn, girl, shut it off."

She let the spell go, light bleeding away. Her eyes stung and she was temporarily blinded as darkness returned. The smell of a dead, stinking demon roiled. “Are you all right?” Her voice broke. She shivered, the knife blade jittering, the blue glow helped. She felt cold, and suddenly very, very hungry. Scrambled eggs, steak, bacon—I need protein. Her shoulder throbbed, and her head felt like a swelling pumpkin on a slender stem, huge and bruised and painful. “Thank God. I wasn't sure… thank God."

"Christ.” He backed up, footsteps sounding lightly on the wet pavement, and she was suddenly aware that she was in her jammies and her coat, one foot bare and already hurting from the cold concrete, her hair wet and messy and bruises puffing up on the side of her face. Ouch. Cops are coming, and this thing stinks. It's raining. And who is this man? I just ran out here, this entire place smells like demon… oh, God, what have I gotten myself into now?

He made a quick movement; she could barely see it in the darkness. “You weren't sure? About what?” There was a sparking, sizzling sound, and the smell thankfully shredded. He'd done something to clean the air. I want to learn that.

"If it really was a Balteriaz.” Her voice sounded thin and high next to his. She glanced back over her shoulder, saw twisted metal blocking the entrance to the alley. “Who the hell are you?” The sirens were even closer. The big shape of the man slumped, and he exhaled as if hurt. “Are you okay?” She sounded like a little girl, all breathy and ridiculous. The ground seemed to shake underfoot.

He turned around, and she saw dark hair, cut short, he was much taller than her. He clutched at his shoulder as if he was hurt too, and lights began to flick on overhead. Her neighbors would be wondering what the hell was going on.