"Nonfiction,” he said, finally. His eyes moved over her face, an appraisal not nearly as hard to meet than Mom's eagle eyes. “Delmonico is the author.” He spelled, too. Nice of him.

She made her fingers work, woodenly. Tapped to the “author” field, put the name in. Hit the return key. “What's it about?” Tried to sound bright and interested. Her throat seemed coated with cotton fuzz.

"It's a study of the techniques and methods used in classifying and identifying demons,” he returned, with an absolutely straight face. His hands were under the edge of the counter, and her nape prickled again. So did her hip. And her stomach was leaping like Lassie on speed.

"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.