“Holy crap!” he exclaimed, hovering between Nick and me as the air started to take on a more solid form. As one, the books slid back to the front of the shelves. That was even creepier.

The mist turned yellow, then became firm. My breath hissed in through my teeth. It was a dog. That is, if dogs can be as big as ponies and have canines longer than my hand and tiny horns coming out of their heads, then it was a dog. I backed up a step with Nick, and it tracked us. “Tell me this is the library’s security system,” I whispered.

“I don’t know what it is.” Nick was ashen-faced, his slow confidence shattered. The dog was between us and the door. Saliva dripped from its jaw, and I swear it hissed when it hit the floor. Yellow smoke rose from the puddle. I could smell sulfur. What the devil was this thing?

“Do you have anything in your purse for this?” Nick whispered, stiffening as the dog’s ears pricked.

“Anything to stop a yellow dog from hell?” I asked. “No.”

“If we show no fear, maybe it won’t attack.”

The dog opened its jaws and said, “Which one of you is Rachel Mariana Morgan?”

Twenty-Five

I gasped, my heart pounding.

The dog yawned with a little whine at the end. “Must be you,” it said. Its skin rippled like amber fire, then it leapt at us.

“Look out!” Nick shouted, pushing me clear as the slavering dog landed on the table.

I hit the floor, rolling to a crouch. Nick cried out in pain. There was a crash as the table slid into the racks. It shifted back when the dog jumped off it. The heavy plastic shattered.

“Nick!” I cried, seeing him crumpled in a heap. The monster stood over him, nosing him. Blood stained the floor. “Get off him!” I shouted. Jenks was at the ceiling, powerless.

The dog turned to me. My breath caught. Its irises were red surrounded by a sickly orange color, and its pupils were slit sideways like a goat’s. Never taking my eyes off it, I backed up. Fingers fumbling, I pulled my silver dagger from my ankle. I swear a doggy smile curved around its savage canines as I shrugged out of my coat and kicked off my old lady heels.

Nick groaned and moved. He was alive. A wash of relief swept me. Jenks was on his shoulder, yelling in his ear to get up.

“Rachel Mariana Morgan,” the dog said, its voice black and honey sweet. I shivered in the basement’s cold air, waiting. “One of you is afraid of dogs,” it said, sounding amused. “I don’t think it’s you.”

“Come find out,” I said boldly. My heart was pounding, and I adjusted my grip on my dagger as I began to tremble. Dogs shouldn’t talk. They shouldn’t.

It took a step forward. I stared, mouth agape, as its front legs lengthened, pushing itself upward into a walking position. It thinned out, becoming manlike. Clothes appeared: artfully torn blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and a chain running from its belt loop to his wallet. It had spiked hair, colored red to match its ruddy complexion. Eyes were hidden behind black plastic sunglasses. I couldn’t move from the shock of it as a bad-boy swagger came into its steps.