“One of my patients is going
to have an exorcism instead of continuing therapy.”
Megan started to tell the story, but halfway through she had
to stop. Greyson was laughing too hard for her to continue.
“Exorcism? Darling, your patients never cease to amaze me.
Exorcism, of all things.”
“Ted could really get hurt.”
“And if Ted wants to do something incredibly stupid, that’s
his prerogative. I somehow think we have more important things to worry about
right now, don’t you?”
Megan opened one eye—opening both seemed like too much
effort—and glared at him. As much as she could with one eye anyway. “I’m trying
not to think about it.”
“Enjoy one last night of not thinking about it, then,
because tomorrow we need to get to work. In more ways than one.”
“The meeting.” She sighed.
“The meeting,” he said. “And the fact that whoever it is
who’s trying to kill you will probably be there.”
“A fun, scary, and sexy ride
on the paranormal express!”
—award-winning author Carole
Nelson Douglas
“Fun, scary, exciting, and
everything in between.”
—Fantasy SciFi Book Review
DEMON POSSESSED
STACIA KANE
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Copyright © 2010 by Stacey Fackler
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This
one is for Stephen.
Acknowledgments
Aside from my family, my husband and daughters, I have to
thank Corinne Knell and Caitlin Kittredge, Stacey Jay, Mark Henry, Richelle
Mead, Synde Korman, Todd Thomas, Kaz Mahoney, David Bridger, and all the pals
who were so patient with me while I finished this book and completed an
international move. Additional, huge thanks to Paula Guran, Jennifer Heddle,
Chris Lotts, and Erica Feldon.
DEMON
POSSESSED
Chapter One
The
woman shifted on the ivory leather couch and smiled. “Thank you for seeing me
at such short notice, Dr. Chase.”
Megan
nodded and forced herself to return the smile, just as she would if the woman
were a patient.
But
the woman—Elizabeth Reid—was not a patient. Elizabeth Reid was an FBI agent.
Eleven
months before, the idea of a federal agent having any reason to talk to her, to
question her, would have surprised Megan enough to make her spill her cocktail,
had she been drinking one. Not so now. Damn it. She was only surprised the feds
were being so blatant this time, that they were actually speaking to her
openly.
“Of
course.” Megan folded her hands in her lap, decided that looked too prim, as if
she had something to hide, and rearranged herself into a more relaxed pose,
arms resting on the arms of her chair, ankles crossed. Casual. She hoped.
At
least Agent Reid didn’t seem to see a problem. Her mind, when Megan reached
into it as stealthily as she could, seemed totally focused on her objective,
and seeing what it was put some much-needed steel
into Megan’s spine.
“You
haven’t asked me why I’m here, Dr. Chase.”
“I
assume you’ll tell me, Agent Reid.”
The
woman smiled. “I suppose I will. We were wondering if you knew anything about
the Bellreive Hotel.”
Okay.
This had not been in the woman’s head a few seconds ago. Good thing Megan had
had some practice lately in keeping calm, in not letting her own emotions and
feelings show. Something she’d always considered herself pretty good at; now
she figured she’d just about graduated from the Masterclass.
“I’ve
heard of it,” she said. “I’ve never been there. I wouldn’t be able to afford
it, I don’t think. Why?”
Agent
Reid gave her a sunny smile, as if this was the answer she’d expected. Which it
probably was. She pushed a strand of ink-black hair behind her ear and leaned
forward, her black-suited body a deep crack against the pale couch and walls.
Everything in the room was light, an attempt to counteract the darkness of the
windowless space in the dingy little strip mall.
Maybe
not as bad as that. It was a big space. It was in a nice part of town. But it
still wasn’t . . . wasn’t what she’d dreamed of when she’d
thought of having her own practice.
It
was good enough, though. And she couldn’t have everything. The rest of her life
certainly held little cause for many complaints.
“Since
you asked, we’ve received some interesting information,” Agent Reid said. “And
I think you’ll be especially interested, as it concerns you.”
“I
assumed it did, since you’re here,” Megan replied, “but I can’t imagine how
this could have anything to do with me.”
“We’ve
received information that a meeting is due to take place at the Bellreive next
week. Attending that meeting will be one or two . . . persons of
interest to us.”
“I’m
afraid I don’t know anything about that.”
“You
haven’t taken next week off ? According to your schedule—”
Megan
stood up. Done. “Next week is my birthday. As I believe you know. Yes, I’m
taking some vacation time. I have every right to. So?”
“So
you’re confirming the meeting?”
Megan
just stared at her.
“Dr.
Chase, I’m trying to . . . I’m offering you a deal. Immunity.
Full and total.” Elizabeth reached into the sleek black briefcase resting like
a coiled viper at her side. “If you’d read over these papers—we know you’re not
involved. But your testimony, if you would—”
“I’m
sorry. I have a patient due here any moment.” Megan dodged the papers and
pushed past Elizabeth to open the door. “Thanks for your time, but I have no
idea what you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps
Greyson Dante does.” Elizabeth didn’t move; neither did her eyes, focused
intently on Megan’s face. “Greyson Dante? You are involved with him, right?
Don’t bother denying it. We already know.”
“Thank
you for your time,” Megan said again. She raised her eyebrows, glanced at the
open door and the bare little room beyond. The office’s arrangement was one of
its chief charms; it may not be the greatest place in
the world, but it did provide her patients with privacy. Those exiting left
through that little room. Those waiting sat in the furnished waiting area with
magazines and a water cooler. Neither saw the other.
She’d
never thought the arrangement would be of such benefit to her. It wasn’t as
though Agent Reid had “FBI” printed across her forehead in big block letters or
anything, but just the same . . . Well. If it weren’t for the
separate exit, Megan could hardly stand there with the door open, could she?
Not when her two o’clock was bound to be already waiting, and her two o’clock
was a notorious shadow-jumper.
Agent
Reid finally gave up. She sighed and stood, shoving the papers back into her
briefcase. “I do wish you would think about it. It’s only a matter of time, Dr.
Chase. Someone with your public image ?”
Had
Megan thought the woman had given up? Ha. No, she’d just been waiting for the
opportunity to turn the screw tighter.
But
Megan’s skin was pretty thick. So she let the implied threat fall to the ground
between them and refused to pick it up. “If you don’t mind, I do have another
appointment.”
“Of
course.” Agent Reid slipped a stark white business card from the black depths
of her suit jacket The blue FBI logo seemed to glow against the background.
“Take my card, though, please. And call me if you change your mind. Or if you
find yourself at the Bellreive next week.”
Megan
took the card. No point in appearing unco operative.
Or rather, more uncooperative than she already appeared.
It
didn’t really matter; she hoped it didn’t anyway. But that bothered her too,
didn’t it? Hoping it wouldn’t matter? Hoping that Agent Reid and her fairly odd
attempt to get whatever information she thought Megan might have were no more
important than the few casual words Megan exchanged with the checkout girl at
the grocery store and no more likely to stick in anyone’s mind later?
Yes.
It did. But there was very little she could do about it at that moment, save
utter a quiet “Fuck” under her breath when Agent Reid finally closed the exit
door behind herself.
Meanwhile
timid taps at the other door told Megan she’d been exactly right. Her two
o’clock—Ted Anderson—was there, and even if she wasn’t really watching the
clock, he certainly was. He always did.
She
shouldn’t be so hard on Ted, though. He’d followed her over from Serenity
Partners the winter before, and that loyalty meant something to her. Sure, most
of her patients had come along. That didn’t make their loyalty any less
valuable.
The
door opened with an almost imperceptible squeak. She’d have to oil those hinges
again. The office plaza now housing her practice wasn’t old, but apparently the
previous tenant had run some kind of family-encounter group that involved lots
of slamming doors.
Ted
stood just past the threshold in his typical hunched pose, like Sisyphus trying
to push his worries up a hill. The overhead
lights shone through his thin hair and made his scalp beneath glow pinkish.
“Come
on in, Ted.” Megan stepped back. Usually he practically knocked her over in his
haste to enter the room. Not a surprise, really. Ted’s wife ignored him. So did
his children. Those years of neglect seemed to have erased him somehow. Sad.
But it was something Megan usually felt she was doing a decent job of
counteracting, encouraging Ted to speak up at home, to get out into the world
more.
Today,
however, he didn’t move from the doorway. “Dr. Chase, I
just . . . I just came to tell you I won’t be coming anymore. I
thought I owed you letting you know in person.”
Oh,
for fuck’s sake. First the FBI showed up and made vague little threats and
offered vague little deals, and now this. Losing a patient wasn’t exactly a
joy. “Ted, I . . . Is something the matter? Please, at least
come in and sit down.”
He
hesitated.
“Come
in, please. Whatever decision you’ve made is your decision, and I respect that.
I won’t try to talk you out of anything. But if you wanted to tell me in
person, you obviously thought there was an explanation to be made, right?”
Still
he waited, like a golf ball teetering on the edge of a hole. Finally he nodded
and edged past her.
“Okay.”
She sat back in her chair and plastered what she hoped was an understanding
smile on her face. “What’s up?”
“You
can’t help me anymore,” he mumbled. A piece of
paper she hadn’t noticed before tumbled in his hands; he folded and unfolded it
as though performing the motions incorrectly would result in the destruction of
the universe. “What’s wrong with me . . . it’s not something you
can fix.”
“It’s
not a matter of ‘fixing.’ I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, or
that you’re broken in some way. You shouldn’t feel—”
“I’m
possessed.”
“No,
you’re not,” she said, before she thought, Okay, double what-the-fuck.
Possessed? Where the hell would Ted get an idea like that?
Especially
since it wasn’t true. Not remotely. She could still read him; had he been
possessed, she couldn’t have.
He
glared at her. It surprised her almost as much as his previous utterance had.
“That’s what he said you’d say.”
“He?”
“Reverend
Walther. He said you’d say that. You people are just desperate to keep us on a
string, to keep taking our money.”
“Where
in the world—”
“All
these years I’ve been coming here, thinking something was wrong with me, and it
wasn’t me. It was these demons.”
“Ted.
You are not possessed by demons.” And she should know. She was, in fact,
probably the only human being in the world who could tell him definitively that
his problems had nothing to do with demons. Or at least very little to do with
them. Ted’s personal demons—his little Yezer
Ha-Ra, that was—numbered only two, and they were fairly content with that.
At
least they were now. Since Megan had assumed the leadership of the local Yezer
“family,” there’d been a few sticky moments. At one point she’d almost lost
them completely, along with her life.
But
that had been months before. Now her relationship to and rules for the Yezer
had reached a level of equilibrium, and if the Yezer weren’t growing fat off
the misery of humans, they weren’t starving either.
But
none of that was the issue at the moment. She seriously doubted Ted was talking
about Yezer, especially since Yezer didn’t actually possess people. They merely
sat on people’s shoulders and tried to persuade them to
commit . . . well, if not evil acts, then certainly not good
ones. Selfish acts. Mildly cruel acts. Depending on the person, of course.
“I
don’t expect you to believe it, Dr. Chase. But all this therapy,
psychology . . . what you do . . . it can’t help
people. It’s demons making people unhappy and demons making us do wrong, and
Reverend Walther can help me. So I won’t be coming back here. Just thought I
should tell you.”
Eep.
He’d never know how right he was about demons making people unhappy, even if he
was wrong about how it actually worked. Possession . . .
Walther . . . A bell rang somewhere in the back of Megan’s head.
Yes, she’d heard of him, hadn’t she? Seen something recently on one of those
newsmagazine shows. Her memory of it was rather vague but clear enough for one
thing, at least.
“Are
you talking about an exorcism?”
Ted
nodded. Shit.
“Ted,
please. I really have to strongly advise you against this. It could be
dangerous, I don’t know—”
Ted
stood up. Megan could say one thing for whoever Reverend Walther was, he’d
given Ted more strength than she’d ever seen from him.
Of
course, that strength was based on falsehoods and the promise of a quick fix
and so was more akin to zealotry than any actual strength, but why quibble?
There didn’t appear to be much she could do about it either way.
“The
only dangerous thing is to go on living the way I am,” he said. “To let these
demons grow and take over. No, thank you, Dr. Chase. I know there’s a solution
to my problems, but it requires faith. And faith I’ve got.”
“You
need to have faith in yourself, Ted, you don’t need an exorcism, you just
need—”
“Thanks,
Dr. Chase, but I have to go. Lily’s waiting for me in the car, and we’re about
to head over to see the reverend.” He stood up and held out his hand.
Megan
took it and, with it, the visions that came when she lowered her shields: Ted’s
wife, Lily, convincing Ted this exorcism thing was the answer to their
problems. Why had Ted never told her how deeply religious Lily was becoming
over the last six months? The shadowy face of a man—Reverend Walther, she
assumed. A face she instinctively disliked, but whether that was because she
thought he was a charlatan, because he was lying to one of her patients, or
because of some other reason, she didn’t know.
And
at that moment she didn’t particularly care. It was barely quarter past two on
a beautiful July day, and all she wanted to do was go home, crawl under the
covers, and stay there.
“If
you ever need anything . . . you can always give me a call.” She
dropped his hand. “I’ll still be here.”
“Well,
thanks again,” he said.
They
stood for an awkward moment, unsure how long to keep shaking hands or if they
should do more or what. Rather like greeting a long-lost cousin you’d never
really liked. Should you forget the time he locked you in the basement and kiss
him anyway because he was family, or did you treat him like any other stranger?
How thick was that blood anyway?
Not
so thick in this case or, rather, nonexistent. Ted let go of her hand, nodded,
and let himself out the little exit door, leaving Megan with an open
forty-minute window and plenty to think about during it. Including the FBI.
Chapter Two
Her
first instinct was to reach for the phone, but she stopped herself before her
fingers closed over the receiver and slumped back in her desk chair instead.
Greyson wasn’t available today anyway, right? In meetings all day.
Sure,
he’d still answer if she called or if she texted and said it was an emergency.
But it wasn’t an emergency. Having a shitty day—or a decent day that had
suddenly plummeted into the depths of shittiness—wasn’t an emergency. Neither
was the FBI agent, although the “We have a deal for you” angle was new.
The
information about the Bellreive . . . now, that might be
important. Extremely important. Contrary to what she’d told Agent Reid, there
was indeed a meeting there the following week, one which Megan was absolutely
attending.
She
had to. All of the Gretnegs were attending, and that meant her. Taking over the
Yezer Ha-Ra family—more technically known as a Meegra in the demon tongue—meant
more than simply an unusual and sometimes awkward situation for a psychological
counselor to find herself in. It meant learning to work with the other
Gretnegs, trying to balance friendly relations with
them against the desire to keep herself removed from some of
their . . . well, more interesting activities.
What
Megan did not enjoy about dealing with demons was exactly what they lived for:
fucking with humanity, leading them astray, and in most cases making a damned
good living from it. The Meegras were like the Mafia, only with a lot less
trouble hiding the bodies; a fire demon could reduce a corpse to ash in less
time than it took her to sear a steak.
Which
was probably not the best analogy to use, now that she thought about it,
especially not as she’d planned to have steaks with her fire demon that
very night.
Sort
of. Sort of hers.
The
less she considered that question, the better.
She rested
her head on her forearms on the desk. Only one appointment left; she was
closing early on this particular Thursday and taking Friday off. She was off
for the next week, although technically her birthday was an excuse rather than
the reason. The reason was the meeting, and the meeting was now in jeopardy.
Oh, who was she kidding? They wouldn’t cancel it. They certainly wouldn’t
change the location. The Bellreive was the most expensive and luxurious hotel
in the city, and the other Gretnegs would just as soon slice off their own
heads as stay in an inferior hotel.
Seemed
rather silly to her, to stay in a hotel for a week when everyone involved had
perfectly nice homes right nearby. Well, no. She had a perfectly nice
home. The other Gretnegs had mansions.
But
the politics behind who hosted what on which day and how many servants and
assistants everyone needed and would be allowed or whatever had proved too
frustrating, and thus the Bellreive was being used as a compromise. Everyone
could make their own arrangements and stay in whatever suites they liked. It
had taken almost two months to get everyone to agree and to get everyone
booked, and now . . . shit, where would they go?
Maybe
they’d cancel the damn thing altogether, which wouldn’t bother her. It wasn’t
as if she had a lot to do there, since she refused to get involved in Meegra
money schemes. In fact, she’d prefer them to cancel, since she knew one topic
of discussion was bound to be the Haiken Kra ritual and why she hadn’t done it
yet.
They
all wanted her to. Wanted her to allow the piece of demon inside her, nestled
by her heart, to grow. Wanted her to magically somehow become demon, or at
least more demon than human. A demon majority, as it were, right there in her
body.
She
didn’t want to do it. She’d come close to it back in December, when she’d had
to allow the demon—not just the demon but the part of her that connected to the
Yezer—to grow. She’d thought at the time that might have actually been the
Haiken Kra and that the decision had been made without her actively having to
make it, but no. It had consolidated the demon, had set its power on a direct
path, but it hadn’t physically made her a demon.
It
had simply defined her. Psyche demon. A demon with
mental powers, not physical ones. It had turned her own gifts into something
far more intense, but it hadn’t gone farther than that.
A
happy medium, in her opinion. Not so in those of the other Gretnegs. Why doing
the ritual was so important to them she had no idea. And she liked it that way.
“You
don’t look very happy.”
She
raised her head, every inch an effort, like hand-winching up a drawbridge. Oh,
good. Just what she needed when she was feeling down. “Hi, Roc.”
“I
thought you had an appointment with Ted.” The little demon’s eyes darkened for
a second, becoming little more than marbles in his dark green face. Rocturnus,
who was both her assistant—for lack of a better term—and her own personal
demon, liked Ted. Or liked Ted’s problems. For him it was the same thing.
“Ted’s
not coming anymore.”
“Oh?”
Another little flash in the eyes. Not because of Ted this time but because of
her.
“Would
you not do that, please? Not while you’re looking right at me. It bugs me.”
Roc
shrugged. “We have a deal. I help you, and in exchange I get to feed off you.
You’re upset, that’s food for me. I’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
“You
think that because you have all the empathy of a piece of newspaper. I mean it,
Roc. Feed off me if you must, but do you have to let me see you do it? It’s
weird.”
“You
feel it anyway. What difference does it make?”
Her
arms tightened around her, an unconscious hug that she stopped the moment she
realized what she was doing. Yes, she did feel
it now. She hadn’t before, but now she did. One of the dubious joys of her
new . . . demon-ness? Whatever. “I just wish you didn’t enjoy my
personal problems so much.”
“Hey,
it’s not like you’ve been awash in misery lately. I take it where I can get
it.”
“I
watched Schindler’s List for you the other night! And cried. Which I
hate doing. Just because you said you were feeling light-headed.”
“Yeah,
that was good. Maybe tonight we can do it again?”
He
was impossible. No, he wasn’t; that wasn’t really fair of her. Roc was what he
was, and, in a way, so was she. As she looked at him, a little warmth that
could only be fondness stole over her heart.
He
frowned. “You’re not playing fair. That’s useless to me, you know.”
“Fine.
I’ll think about Ted some more, if you promise not to look at me. He’s gotten
himself mixed up with one of those exorcists. A faith-healer type.”
Roc
giggled. “Really?”
“It’s
not funny, Roc. He could get hurt. He honestly believes he’s possessed, that
some demon is, I don’t know, stealing his strength or whatever. When I read
him, he seemed to think it was dragging him down somehow.”
Roc’s
wizened little face wrinkled even further as he fought his grin. “You do
realize—”
“Yes,
but not like how you guys do it. He thinks of it as something inside him that
controls him. He thinks he doesn’t have a choice.”
Roc
finally stopped smiling. “But choice is the most important part. If there’s no
choice there’s no victory, and if there’s no victory it’s
like . . . like cookies without frosting.”
Not
exactly the tack she was hoping he would take, but at least he was getting the
point. Mostly. “Right. But I’ve seen these guys on TV before. It can be really
dangerous, even without the psychological damage it can do. Some of those men
tie their subjects down, they don’t feed them or give them water for hours on
end . . .
I think people might have died, if I remember correctly.”
She
was sure she did. Something else she’d seen on that TV newsmagazine? Perhaps
that was why they’d done the story to begin with?
She’d
google it later. Thinking about being tied up without food or water made her
think of torturous interrogations, which made her think of the FBI. Which
didn’t make her happy, which also caused the slight shiver down her spine that
told her Roc knew she wasn’t very happy and was having himself a nice little
snack. Ugh. The less she thought about that, the better.
Having
Roc around was rather like eating nothing but fast-food French fries and ice
cream for dinner. Not a problem until she really stopped and considered it.
Then it made her want to scour out her insides with steel wool. Which wasn’t
appealing either.
“What
else are you thinking about?”
“A—an
FBI agent came here. Right before Ted. She wanted to ask me about the meeting
next week.”
“An
FBI agent? Really? Did she have a big shiny badge like the last one? Did you
see her gun? I—”
“Yes
and no.” Agent Reid had certainly had a gun, but Megan hadn’t seen it. She
hadn’t looked. On purpose. “And that’s not the point. The point is, she knows
about the meeting. The FBI knows about the meeting.”
Roc
tilted his head to the side. One papery ear moved faintly in the current of air
from the vent; with temperatures outside approaching one hundred, the air
conditioning was working overtime. “What did Lord Dante say?”
“I
haven’t told him yet.”
“Why
not?”
“Because
he’s working all day, and I don’t want to bother him. It’s not an emergency.
I’m going to see him in a few hours anyway.”
“Oh,
right. You’re taking tomorrow off. I forgot. Should I go pack your bag?”
“No.
I have to pack for the whole week, so I’ll do that tonight.”
“Suit
yourself. Is Erica coming today?”
“Yes,
in . . . half an hour.”
“I’ll
stick around. I wanted to check in with Altarus anyway.”
She
nodded. Altarus was one of Erica’s demons, one Roc seemed to particularly like.
Megan had a sneaking suspicion Altarus was female, but frankly, she didn’t want
to think too much about how her demons reproduced. It was enough to know they
did and that when they did, she had to congratulate them. The mechanics of the process were not her concern, and she was
exceedingly glad of that.
Of
course, that might not have been the reason Roc wanted to check in with
Altarus. He often did hang out during her appointments, pulling her patients’
demons aside to chat with them and see how things were going, then reporting to
her later. As much as she hated to admit it, it was a big help, a way to keep
track of her demons and make sure they were obeying the rules while still
having some freedom and enough to eat. If “eat” was the correct term, which it
really wasn’t, but “feed” still gave her the willies. Especially as it related
to her patients.
Her
cell phone buzzed from the depths of her purse, distracting her from the narrow
and pitted little alley of her thoughts. It took her a minute to dig the damned
thing out, especially after she banged her forehead on the edge of the desk.
“Hello?”
“Oh,
hey, Megan. I thought I’d be leaving a message.”
Her
spirits rose. A little. “Hi, Brian. No, my patient—my appointment got canceled.
What’s up?”
Silence.
Hmm, that probably wasn’t good. Brian Stone was an investigative reporter for
the city’s largest paper, as well as her friend. As well as someone with a
habit of pausing and considering his words very carefully when he had bad news
to impart.
“Brian?”
“Yeah,
sorry. Actually, I don’t really want to talk over the phone. I was thinking maybe
we could meet later?”
Okay,
definitely not good, then. And she had a sneaking suspicion she knew what it
was about too. Brian had plenty of informants and pals in law enforcement, not
least of whom was his girlfriend of nine months. “My last appointment ends at
four. If you want to be at my house around four-thirty?”
“Will
Greyson be there?”
She
sighed. “Does it matter?”
“Well . . .
not normally. But this time, yeah.”
A
lie. It always mattered, and she’d given up. “He won’t be there.”
“Okay.
I’ll see you around four-thirty, then.”
After
they’d hung up, she stared at the phone. Bad news from Brian. At least she
assumed it was bad news; it was entirely possible it wasn’t, but she didn’t
think he’d be so damned cagey on the phone if it was. People didn’t usually
refuse to share things like “I just won the Pulitzer!” over the phone. And they
especially didn’t check to make sure one would be alone when they imparted such
news. Hell, if Brian ever won a Pulitzer, he’d want to make sure Greyson was
there, so he could rub it in a little.
That
wasn’t entirely fair. The two men didn’t hate each other. They just didn’t like
each other much. Silliness.
If
Brian was going to tell her about the FBI agent or
that
there was some sort of big investigation happen-ing . . . that
could be a problem.
Her
previous FBI visits had been taken care of easily. She told Greyson; Greyson
sent someone—she didn’t know who and she didn’t want to know—over to “discuss” the situation with the agent. Which probably
involved hypnotism or some other sneaky psychological trick if it didn’t
involve outright bribery, but did not, as far as she knew, involve any
bloodshed.
But
her previous FBI visits, and the ones she knew the other Gretnegs dealt with on
a semiregular basis, involved one or two agents acting on a tip or a hunch or
whatever. Easy to tie up the loose ends when only a few people were involved.
If this was getting big enough for Brian to have heard about it, it probably
wouldn’t be so easy to clean up.
Not
to mention that Brian was psychic too, which meant Brian was not easily
hypnotized. Brian wouldn’t forget the investigation. And Brian hated her
involvement with the demon world.
Because
Brian was sensible. Because Brian was able to be objective. So Brian could see
how the merest hint of impropriety could destroy her career. She had a public
image to protect; she had a weekly radio show. She didn’t particularly enjoy
the radio show but it certainly provided her with much-needed income, or,
rather, the income from it enabled her to charge her patients based on their
incomes rather than a flat rate. Which she enjoyed. The radio show also enabled
her to provide at least some form of counseling to people who really needed it
and wouldn’t have gotten it any other way.
All
that could crumble if the public discovered she was involved with a criminal.
The
sensible thing to do would be to end that in volvement.
Well, no. The sensible thing to do would have been to end that involvement back
when it started. Back when she really realized what she was getting into, back
when she really realized she wasn’t just having fun, wasn’t just enjoying a
casual and extremely satisfying physical relationship but
was . . . emotionally involved. And that those stupid emotions
could destroy everything she’d worked so hard for.
So
much for sensible.
Chapter Three
Brian
shifted in his seat. “So . . . yeah, I thought you should know.”
“Thanks.”
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. And one more for good measure. Yes, Brian was there
about the FBI investigation, and worse. Brian was there because in this
instance, at least, it seemed the FBI was working casually, getting background
information, from local law enforcement.
In
the person of Brian’s girlfriend, Sergeant Julie Richards, among others.
“Megan,
I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah.
I know you are.” She managed a smile, one that almost made the furrow in his
brow disappear. He looked tired, she noticed; shadows lurked beneath his blue
eyes, and his light-brown hair stood out in little tufts at the back of his
neck. He needed a haircut. “Brian . . . Julie wouldn’t exactly
be pleased if she knew you told me this, would she?”
“No.”
“Right.
So why, then? If you don’t mind me asking.”
He
shrugged. Looked away. “You’re my friend. And it really isn’t about you, you
know. I mean, nobody thinks you’re—”
“Yeah.
I know.” Oops, that came out a little too sharp. Why did the idea that everyone
thought she was some sort of innocent bystander bug her so much?
Especially
when that’s what she was. She didn’t know what sorts of crimes were being
investigated. She didn’t know what sorts of crimes were committed, at least not
beyond minor ones like the casino.
But
she wasn’t involved in them. She wasn’t some sort of moll. The very idea was
laughable. She wasn’t busty enough to be a moll. Oh, and she doubted most molls
had PhDs, although she supposed it was possible.
Perhaps
that was it. Everyone assuming she had no idea whom she shared a bed with, who
he really was, was basically the same thing as them all patting her on the head
and telling her they knew she was just a silly little woman, easily taken in by
a handsome face, a flashy car—although that wasn’t fair; Greyson’s Jaguar
wasn’t really flashy—and some expensive gifts.
She
did know who he was. She’d never been under any illusions about that, not ever.
But
she knew who she was too. Part demon. In charge of a gang of little personal
demons who spread misery everywhere they went, or at least tried to. Someone
not perfect, in other words. But someone who felt perfect when she was with
Greyson.
“Hey,
I’m not trying to—” Brian started, but she cut him off.
“I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. This whole thing just puts me on edge.”
“I
guess that’s understandable.”
“Yeah,
but it’s not fair of me to take it out on you, especially not when you’re
trying to help. It’s just been kind of a shit day, really, what with— Hey. Do
you know anything about exorcists?”
Brian’s
eyebrows shot up. “I think if you’re planning on breaking up with Greyson, you
could find a less dramatic way to do it, don’t you?”
“Ha
ha. No, I mean for real. Or not real, I guess.”
“Oh,
it makes so much sense now.”
The
laugh felt good, and sharing it with someone felt even better. Laughter wasn’t
a rare occurrence in her life, it had just been a particularly bad day. “One of
my patients thinks he’s possessed. Apparently he’s found one of those
faith-healer guys, you know the ones I mean?”
“Oh.
Right. That kind of exorcism. Not Catholic.”
“No.
Sorry, I probably should have said.” She’d actually forgotten for a second that
Brian was Catholic, a regular mass-goer and everything. Of course he’d be
picturing chanting and pea soup or whatever.
Brian
leaned forward, grabbed his almost-empty Coke can and twisted it in his hands.
Without speaking Megan got up, opened the sliding patio doors, and handed him
the heavy glass ashtray she kept in the liquor cabinet.
He
blinked. “Oh. No, that’s okay, I—oh, what the hell.”
Megan
smothered her smile and sat back down as he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a
cheap plastic lighter out of his pocket. Brian claimed not to smoke. And true,
he didn’t smoke a lot; she’d spent entire days with him in which he didn’t even
reach for a cigarette. But she’d never met an
actual nonsmoker who smoked as much as he did.
Still,
she let him have his illusions. She, of all people, understood what it was like
not to want to admit things to oneself.
“I
don’t know a lot about it,” he said after he’d lit up. “Catholic exorcism is an
ancient ritual. I mean, it’s been around almost since the beginning of the
church. But it’s—well, you know, I’m sure. It’s not something they do on a whim
or anything. I don’t think what you’re talking about has the same kind of caution
behind it.”
“No.
At least not this guy.”
“I
remember something about it, a few years ago, maybe? Someone died, and it was
because of a botched pseudo-exorcism.”
“Right.
That’s what I thought.”
“Did
you google it?”
“Not
yet.”
He
nodded. “Give that a try. What’s the guy’s name, do you know? I can ask around,
check the paper’s archives and stuff if I have time.”
“Thanks,
I’d appreciate it.”
He
stood up, ready to go, but she stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.
“Brian . . . I really do appreciate it, you know.”
“I
know.” He smiled. Not for the first time, she wished she’d been attracted to
him. Things would have been so much easier if . . . Well, no,
actually. They wouldn’t have. She might not have had the FBI at her door, but
Brian wouldn’t exactly have been happy when she had to get out of bed in the
middle of the night to deal with a problem with
her demons. He certainly wouldn’t have had a snack waiting for her when she got
back, the way Greyson always did—some cheese and crackers, usually, or warm toast
or cookies, whatever was on hand. Something light that didn’t require a lot of
effort, but it was the thought that counted.
Brian
wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t have understood what she was doing and why.
Wouldn’t have hung back and only offered advice when she asked for it or held
his tongue when she did things he didn’t agree with—which was often.
So
no. A relationship with Brian couldn’t have worked. But, as always, she was
glad for his friendship. In fact—she’d forgotten. “Oh, hey. Come with me.”
“What?”
He
followed her into her small kitchen and waited while she opened the fridge and
took out a Tupperware container.
“Here.”
She handed it to him. “I made peanut-butter cake yesterday. Two of them.”
His
eyes lit up. “For me?”
“Yes,
for you. Just bring back my Tupperware when you’re done.”
“And
this is why I help you,” he said, lifting the lid of the container and reaching
in. “You bake.”
“Such
journalistic integrity.”
“Hey,
I’m like any other guy. I can be bought.”
“No,
you can’t.”
“No,
I can’t,” he agreed through a mouthful of cake. “But it’s tempting when you
make me stuff like this.”
“Just
save some for Julie,” she said, ignoring the little twinge
that ran through her at the mention of Brian’s girlfriend. Brian’s girlfriend,
who was currently assisting an investigation that could conceivably put Megan’s
boyfriend—for lack of a better term—in prison.
She
didn’t think it would actually happen. But she didn’t want to think about it
anyway.
What
she did want to think about was the packing she had to do and the week ahead.
And a bit about Reverend Walther. So she closed the door behind the
still-chewing Brian and headed for her bedroom.
She
was still thinking about all of those things an hour later when she loaded her
luggage for the next week into the car. The July night smothered her like a hot
blanket; the air barely moved. A week and a half into a heat wave and no relief
in sight.
She
slammed the trunk down on her suitcases and turned back toward the house, only
to have her blood run cold.
It
was some relief from the heat but not the kind she was looking for. Someone was
out there. No, not someone. A demon. She felt it, those shivers up her spine
like when Roc fed off her. But it didn’t feel like Roc. Wasn’t Roc.
Who,
then? Who was out there, reaching out to her but not speaking? Tasting her,
reading her?
Trees
lined her street. Silent cars hunkered like bugs in driveways. So many hiding
places, and suddenly she was aware of them all, aware of the road stretching
before her eyes and the houses full of people. People living their own lives, watching TV or having dinner, or
whatever it was they were doing as the sky faded above them. Darkness came late
this time of year, but even with the sun barely set, the shadows were long and
deep.
Reflexively
she lowered her shields. Yes, lots of people in their houses; she felt them
all, saw what they saw, a flood of information easier than it should have been
to control. Psyche demons—which the demon inside her now was, fully and
completely—assimilated that information without hesitating, without thinking,
and so did she.
But
none of these people were responsible for that shivery feeling. Something else
was out there, watching her, and threat hung heavy in the still air. It
quivered against her skin. This was not just a visit. Whatever was out there
wanted to harm her; it felt malevolent. Wrong.
It
took every bit of strength she had to lift her foot and take one step toward
the front door. Not all demons were visible all the time. Was it standing right
beside her? Right behind her? She spun around, her breath loud and harsh in her
own ears, searing her lungs. She couldn’t get enough oxygen from the hot, thick
air. It choked her.
The
soft dusk light blinded her, turned everything gray in a way she normally
loved. Now it was as though the street, her house, everything around her was
wrapped in dusty shrouds. She wanted to see and couldn’t. Wanted more light,
but the sun was rapidly setting, and she was alone.
And
only fifteen feet from her house. This was silliness. Summoning as much courage
as she could, girded by the glow of her own
windows, she took another step, trying to look unconcerned.
Another
shiver up her spine. Stronger this time. Her casual act was only giving her
tormentor—or whatever it was—confidence; it was getting closer to her.
Her
front door was unlocked. She couldn’t just get into the car and go. Even if she
sent Malleus, Maleficarum, or Spud—Greyson’s guards—back to lock it up, it
would still be open for close to an hour. An hour in which her unknown lurker
would have full access to her home. Her belongings. Everything.
A
scrape, the faint tinge of metal against pavement. Again she spun around. Again
she saw nothing. Her head pounded almost as hard as her heart.
Whoever—whatever—it was out there had to know she knew it was there. And it
hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t stepped forward, even though she knew her fear was strong
enough to taste, to feel. Her watcher knew she was afraid and wanted her that
way.
Which
pissed her off, and that was a good thing. Someone wanted to lurk in the
shadows as the sun went down and intimidate her? Fuck that. She straightened
her spine, forced her head high. The simple act of looking unafraid grounded
her.
One
step toward the house, and another. The air around her thickened, pressing like
a hot iron against her skin. Danger. Danger. The word echoed in her
head, vibrated through her body.
Her
flip-flops slapped impossibly loudly on the sidewalk, announcing every step she
took. She tried to ignore it, just as she ignored the sweat trickling down her spine and temple. It didn’t work. Hidden in that
hollow flapping sound, in the too-loud beat of her heart, were whispers and
giggles, the sound of her watcher’s footsteps or breath.
She
stopped, spun around again. A flicker of movement this time. A shape? Or her
panicked imagination? She had no idea which. All she knew was at any moment a
hand would close over her arm or her mouth; any moment someone would grab her
and drag her down.
Pain
erupted in the back of her calf, a stinging horrible pain. She stumbled. Shit,
what was that? No time to look. She kept going, but her next step felt as if it
was taken through seaweed, and her hands and feet tingled in a way she didn’t
like.
The
door in front of her wavered, tilted at an odd angle. Why wasn’t it upright?
Another
sharp pain in her leg. She opened her mouth to try to scream, but she couldn’t
seem to make any sound come out except for a queer, muted gurgle.
Panic
started taking over. She could feel her blood racing through her veins, faster
and faster. Could feel her palms hit the hot sidewalk. She’d fallen. She’d
fallen and her sweaty hair clung to her neck and her mouth wouldn’t close and
something icy touched her leg where it hurt. The last thing she saw was a flash
of impossibly bright light bleaching the front of her house.
Chapter Four
Why
did she always have to throw up?
It
seemed as though in every time of stress, every time of worry or fear, Megan’s
overly sensitive stomach was the first thing to rebel, spilling its contents
into or onto whatever happened to be handy.
Worse
than that, these days it seemed as if she always had a fucking audience. And
worst of all, yet again it was Greyson.
“I’m
sorry,” she croaked. Sweat still dripped from her hair and into the toilet
bowl, but not from the heat. At least not from the heat outside; they were
safely insulated from that by the walls of her house and the low whirring of
the air conditioning. No, this was from her internal temperature: boiling hot
yet freezing, while her muscles quaked and her head threatened to split open.
Why not? Her stomach already had. She would have been thankful it was empty if
it had mattered even the tiniest bit.
“Don’t
be ridiculous.” Greyson wiped at her forehead with the cool washcloth again; it
felt so good she sighed. “Litobora venom is horribly poisonous. Anyone
would be sick. If they survived.”
“If
this is surviving ?” she started, then stopped when
the corner of his mouth turned down. Right. This was something to be taken very
seriously. And she intended to, as soon as she was able. At that particular
moment she was too busy and semidelirious to focus on anything.
The
cloth moved around to the back of her neck. “Want to try getting in bed?”
It
took her a few seconds to answer. “I’d nod, but I’m afraid to move my head too
much.”
His
soft laugh comforted her. So did the heat of his body as he gently helped her
up off the floor—her stomach gave a warning twist but held—and back into her
room. Her legs felt rubbery beneath her.
“How
about if I carry you?”
“No.
No, I can make it.”
She
did, barely, and collapsed onto the bed with piteous gratitude. But the sheets
were icy. The whole room was suddenly frigid, worse than standing outside in a
swimsuit in the middle of winter.
“I’m
cold.”
A
few seconds of silence, just enough time for her to wonder what he was doing,
and then his bare skin pressed against hers, bringing with it the faint scent
of smoke and his aftershave. Oh, that was good, both the heat and the smell. As
a vregonis demon—a fire demon—he had a body temperature that was
perpetually elevated. It had made the summer interesting and accounted at least
in part for the meat-locker-esque temperatures at which she usually kept her
house. She’d gotten into the habit of cranking the air up half an hour or so before she expected him to arrive, and at that
moment, sick or not, she half expected to see ice crystals forming in the
untouched glass of Sprite that Greyson’s guard Malleus had set by her bed.
But
as much as Greyson’s overly warm body had to be worked around and compensated
for in summer, at that moment she was eternally and ridiculously grateful for
it. She almost thought she heard her own skin sizzle when it came into contact
with his; some of the cramping in her muscles relaxed.
Only
to tense up again when she saw, through her half-closed eyes, Greyson’s second
guard and Malleus’s brother, Maleficarum, advancing on her with a hypodermic
needle. Something clear squirted ominously from its sharp silver tip.
“Oh,
no,” she managed. “You are not giving me a shot.”
“’Sonly
under the skin, m’lady. You’ll barely even feel it, honest.” Maleficarum’s
features did not do “innocent” well; he looked like a serial killer trying to
hide a severed head behind his back. Not his fault. It was simply the way he
was made. Bald head, horns, large frame, beady eyes. It was a good thing he was
a guard demon, because his appearance would have been an issue in most
professions. Megan couldn’t imagine, for example, Maleficarum as a
pediatrician. Or either of his brothers. Spud, the third brother, was probably
prowling around outside.
“I
don’t want—”
“Let
him.” Greyson rubbed her arm. “It’s basically just an antivenom. And something
for the pain.”
“And
that’s why I don’t want it. I need to tell you what happened today.”
“It
won’t put you to sleep. Just let him give you the shot. Please?”
She
hesitated. On the one hand, she wasn’t at all sure she believed him when he
said it wouldn’t put her to sleep. On the other, something to kill the
tremendous crashing ache in her head and the stabbing pains in the rest of her
body sounded good.
Finally
she nodded. “Go ahead, then. But if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”
“And
your vengeance will be terrible indeed, I imagine.”
“Yes,
it will.” She squeezed her eyes shut as Maleficarum wiped at her arm with an
alcohol pad and slid the needle in. It didn’t really hurt—she wasn’t bothered
by needles much anyway—but the necessity of it . . . that, she
didn’t want to face.
A
demon attack. A litobora demon, a poisonous psyche demon. Had Greyson
and Malleus not shown up when they did—had they not been on their way to her
place already—she would have died. As the pain in her body eased, that simple
fact drilled itself into her head, crashing through every other thought and
leaving her with nothing else.
“Somebody
sent it, right?” she asked, dreading the answer. “I mean, that demon didn’t
just show up here by chance.”
Damn
him, and damn Maleficarum too, now sneaking out of the room. Her eyelids were
getting heavy; whatever was in that shot was most certainly going to put her to sleep. But along with that came an easing
of her nausea and the relaxation of her muscles, so she really couldn’t
complain too much.
“I
would think so, yes.” He snuggled her more closely to his chest. “A lion
doesn’t just show up on your doorstep without help. Neither do litobora.”
“So
somebody is specifically trying to kill me?”
Pause.
Long pause, while his body tensed against hers. “I would think so, yes.”
“Shit.”
Once again she knew she should care. Once again she couldn’t quite bring herself
to; whatever was in that syringe was powerful. “Who do you think it is?”
“I
don’t know.”
“But
you’ll find out, right?”
His
lips on her forehead felt like a kiss through cotton. “I’ll certainly try.”
“I’m
not sure I like the sound of that ‘try.’ ”
He
sighed. “I’m not either.”
“Why
would someone want to kill me?”
“Do
you really want to discuss this now?”
No,
she didn’t. But there didn’t seem to be much choice. Despite the gentle tugging
of sleep, despite the peace finally settled in her limbs and stomach, she still
felt the faint sting on the back of her calf. Still couldn’t quite forget the
terror of those few minutes standing outside, alone but not at all alone.
“I
don’t. But I’m kind of thinking we should.”
He
helped her shift around to face him; the world spun for a second when she
rolled over but settled again when her gaze found his face. Those sharp
features, that dark hair and deep brown eyes, so familiar now, calmed her, but the look in those eyes didn’t. He was
worried, and seeing him worried shook her.
He
waited for her to settle comfortably before he spoke. “I suppose there are lots
of reasons someone might want to kill you. Anyone in a position of power is
also in a position of vulnerability. As you know.”
Yes,
she knew. This was an old, old discussion. Her job—seeing patients and, to a
lesser extent, the radio show—put her at risk. But what was she supposed
to
do?
Three
choices, none of them appealing. The first was to take a piece of the
undoubtedly crime-filled action the other Gretnegs offered her. Lucrative, but
she had to be able to face herself in the mirror every day. The second was to
let Greyson support her. Keep her. She didn’t even want to think about how she
would face herself if she did that, let alone how she would fill her days.
The
last was doing more with the radio show. Taking speaking engagements. Appearing
on television. She didn’t want to do it, and she was pretty sure Greyson would
practically have a heart attack if she suggested it. The semipublic nature of
the show already made him antsy, she knew, although thankfully the media blitz
the station orchestrated when the show first aired had died down. Going on TV,
well, things didn’t get much more public. And there was that whole pesky
public-image-dating-criminal issue.
Three
choices. None of which she wanted to make. But at some point she would have to
make one, especially now. That the attack had occurred at her home didn’t
matter much. Neither did the fact that it was demon-related.
She was vulnerable, and she knew she was, and she’d been hoping to put off
having to do something about it, but it looked as though her days of putting it
off were coming to a close.
But
first things first. The knock at the door gave her the opportunity to veer off
subject, and she was glad for it. “Come in,” she said, and was not remotely
surprised when Rocturnus slunk sheepishly through the door.
“Megan,
I’m sorry.” If he’d possessed a hat, she had little doubt he would have been
turning it in his anxious fists at that very moment. As it was, he twisted his
long-fingered hands together and stared at the carpet. “I should have been
here.”
“It’s
okay, Roc. You didn’t know.”
“You
didn’t call me.”
“I
thought it might—oh, never mind. It’s not like you would have been able to do
anything about it if you had been here anyway.”
He
straightened up, insult written all over his face. At least so she assumed. Her
vision was a little bleary, haloed around the edges. “I could have helped. I
could have done something.”
She
sighed. “Right. Of course you could have. I’m sorry, Roc.”
“Do
you think it’s to do with the FBI?”
“No,
they wouldn’t—” she started, but Greyson cut her off.
“FBI?”
Oh,
right. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet. “They came to see me today.”
“What,
the entire Bureau?”
She
would have laughed, but her body didn’t seem to be capable of it. She settled
for a sleepy smile. “No, just one agent. She came about the Bellreive. Offered
me immunity.”
“In
exchange for what?”
“Testimony.
About what happens at the meeting, I guess.”
“What
was her name?”
She
told him. “Oh, and one of my patients quit because he’s going to have an
exorcism instead.”
“What?”
She
repeated it, or at least started to. Halfway through the story she had to stop;
he was laughing too hard for her to continue, and Roc was practically falling
on the floor.
“Stop,
it’s not funny. Well, maybe it’s funny. But no, don’t laugh, you’re shaking the
bed.”
That
plea, at least, had an effect. With obvious difficulty Greyson got himself
under control; she didn’t think she’d ever seen him laugh that hard. Roc
continued to giggle, a subtle, bizarre backdrop as she shut her eyes again.
“Exorcism?
Darling, your patients never cease to amaze me. Exorcism, of all things.”
“Ted
could really get hurt.”
“And
that’s the choice Ted made. He’s a grown man. If he wants to do something
incredibly stupid, that’s his prerogative. I somehow think we have more
important things to worry about right now, don’t you?”
She
opened one eye—opening both seemed like too much effort—and glared at him. As
much as she could with one eye anyway. “I’m
trying not to think about it.”
“Right.
Well. Enjoy one last night of not thinking about it, then, because tomorrow we
need to get to work. In more ways than one.”
“The
meeting.” She sighed.
“The
meeting,” he said. “And the fact that whoever it is who’s trying to kill you
will probably be there.”
Chapter Five
The
antivenom or antiallergen or whatever it was Maleficarum had given her was
effective. Either that or the effects of the litobora venom were
short-lived.
Either
way, by the following afternoon she felt fine, at least physically. Mentally?
That was another story.
Although
she had to admit, feeling lousy in a luxury suite at the Bellreive beat the
hell out of feeling lousy in her own home. It even almost beat feeling lousy at
Greyson’s place, the massive white mansion that was his official residence as
Gretneg of his Meegra. Ieuranlier Sorithell was beautiful, and more than that,
it was familiar, and some of her stuff was there. Not a lot of stuff, but some
things, a toothbrush and bottles of all her shampoos and such, a few spare
items of clothing kept in a drawer.
But
hey. Some of her stuff was there at the hotel, spilling out of her suitcases,
and the hotel had a stunning lake view that not even the Ieuranlier could match,
especially as the sun went down. She stood on the balcony with the door open,
letting the cold blast from the very efficient hotel air conditioning cool her
back while the warm breeze brushed her hair from her face.
It
was hard to believe, when watching the bright tur quoise
pool fourteen floors below with its yellow and white fringe of deck chairs and
the rippling lake beyond turn pink in the sunset, that someone in this hotel
was probably trying to kill her.
Movement
by her side; Greyson rested his forearms on the rail beside her. Beyond his
sharp profile the landscape blurred, as though he was the only real thing
against a blue screen in a movie.
“What
do you think?”
“I
think it’s beautiful.” She picked up the gin and tonic Spud had made for her
off the iron table beside her and took a sip. Perfect. “I still can’t believe
we’re here, though. Especially after what Win said this morning.”
He
shrugged. “Nobody’s particularly worried about the FBI, and everyone wants the
meeting, so . . . not many acceptable options on such short
notice.”
“But
they went to Win’s house. To his wife. I can’t believe he isn’t more upset.”
“Oh,
he’s upset. He just isn’t going to show it, any more than the rest of us would.
Remember who we’re dealing with.”
“Right.”
Demons were very into appearances. Powerful demons, Gretnegs, were even more
so, and Winston Lawden—Win—was Gretneg of House Caedes Fuiltean, the blood
demons. “I don’t suppose we could just stay in here tonight? Get room service
and watch pay-per-view?”
He
smiled, and the golden light hitting his skin as he did made her breath catch
in her throat.
He
noticed. She knew he would. Reddish light that had
nothing to do with the sunset flared in his eyes. “We have some time before
dinner,” he said softly, drawing her close. “It would be a shame to waste it
standing here, wouldn’t it?”
“I
don’t think I’d call it a waste,” she started, but she was only joking and they
both knew it. She let him interrupt her without protest, let his kiss draw her
away from any other silly ideas about talking. He was right. It would be a
waste of time.
And
a waste of the beautiful balcony, where the breeze lifted her hair from her
shoulders and neck so his mouth could find her bare skin more easily. What the
wind didn’t do his hand did, gathering the loose strands and twisting them
gently at the back of her head.
Her
own hands were busy as well, finding the buttons of his shirt and opening them
one by one, slowly, savoring the unwrapping. The night before had, of course,
been a chaste one; work had kept them apart for a few days before. It felt like
longer, much longer.
Power
rushed through her, smooth and warm like melted chocolate. Greyson’s power,
tinged with fire and smoke, igniting her nerve endings. She let it dance along
them like tiny sparks before sending it back, colored with her own power.
His
sharp breath made her push harder. Made her give him more, energy she knew
smelled like her, tasted like her. The demon powers that had been a dubious
Christmas gift had one clear benefit, and she used it, sending the essence of
herself into him and feeling him accept it. Feeling his breath grow hotter, his
kisses more urgent, his body harder as he drew more of it in.
They
swayed back inside, both aware that even private balconies weren’t necessarily private.
He swung the French door shut behind them with his foot and pulled her hips
closer, pressing her against him. Pressing more power back into her, a circuit
that did not stop, until she couldn’t be entirely certain whose power was
whose. They didn’t exist as separate entities anymore, not in her head or in
any of her senses.
Orange
with flame and dark with secrets, the energy they created together burned
through her, sparked with desire. She gave herself over to it, pulled it into
her the way her hands pulled at him and his at her.
Cold
air played over her skin, goosebumps rising on every newly exposed inch of it.
His palm slid over them, soothing them with heat, making her tingle in a
different way when he pushed off her top, let her bra fall to the floor. His
strong arm behind her was all that kept her from falling when he bent down to
take her nipples into his mouth and his free hand slipped between her legs.
“Missed
you,” he murmured into her throat.
She
wanted to reply but couldn’t; she was too busy tugging down his zipper and
trying to keep herself from exploding. All that energy buzzed inside her, so
intense she shook from it, and when she fed it back to him, he shook too.
They
shook together. Their clothes lay in heaps on the floor. His warm skin rubbed
against hers, little shocks everywhere they touched. Flames glowed from the
ceiling, adding their own intimacy to the blazing golden sunset light bathing
the room and their bare bodies.
In
the center of the bedroom stood an enormous four-poster bed, its white sheets
crisp and cool. They fell onto it in a tangle of arms and legs, of searching
hands and soft words.
“I
missed you too,” she managed to say, but he was beyond that. His body slid into
hers, his power slid into hers, stronger than before. Strong enough to make her
cry out and dig her fingers into his skin, strong enough to make her fight to
give it back and drive him as high as he drove her.
His
soft moan, the faint buzz as he took what she gave him, told her she’d
succeeded. He moved faster inside her, his back shifting under her hands, and
returned it.
It
was her turn to be overwhelmed. Her turn to drown in him, to turn his energy
into her own and keep it. To let their passion feed her. The intimacy of it,
the sense of holding him everywhere in her body and mind, made both her human
and demon hearts pound.
She
flipped him over, looked down at him through half-lidded eyes. Over the last
eleven months she’d probably spent more time looking at him than she’d ever
looked at anyone else; she’d probably spent a couple of solid weeks of her life
doing nothing but looking at him. It didn’t feel long enough.
She
shifted her weight, rocked back and forth. He reached out to cup the back of
her neck and pull her face down to his, giving her more power, taking more. Her
entire body tensed.
They
rolled over again. No more playing. With a low, soft
sound, a few words in the demon tongue, he sent power shooting through her
body, coursing through her blood. Too much for her to handle, and that, coupled
with his relentless movements inside her and his mouth on hers, sent her over
the edge.
Her
last coherent thought was to give it all back to him; her last willful act
before her body took over was to do so. They drifted together, riding the waves
until the flames in the air disappeared and the world came back into focus.
Winston
Lawden— or Win, as she’d grown used to calling him—was the first person she saw
when they entered the dining room an hour and a half or so later, and she was
glad. She didn’t know any of the other Gretnegs very well, except for Greyson,
and Win had always been kind to her. Had always seemed to be on her side.
“Seemed”
being the fly in the ointment. She’d never had any reason to distrust Win. But
that didn’t mean she necessarily trusted him; she liked him, but she wasn’t
stupid, and in the demon world, at least, her natural skepticism stood her in
good stead. If “Trust
no
one” was a good blanket policy for life among humans, it was doubly good when
dealing with demons.
Winston
greeted them with such enthusiasm Megan wondered if he’d been drinking. Or
drinking more than normal, to be accurate; a roomful of demons could make
liquor disappear faster than virtue.
But
when he kissed her cheek, she realized he was simply
happy. Perhaps a little nervous but mostly happy. His blue eyes danced in his
ruddy face. “Megan, have you met Sarita?”
“No,
I haven’t.” She started to smile, started to hold out her hand to the lovely
dark-haired woman he clasped tightly at his side. Halfway through, she realized
what she was doing, realized who Sarita was.
Too
late to pull her hand back. So instead she went ahead and shook hands, smiling
with as much friendliness as she could muster while her stomach churned. The
woman wasn’t a fellow Gretneg. She could have been one of Win’s rubendas,
members of his Meegra, sure.
But
what she undoubtedly was was Winston’s girlfriend. Mistress. Whatever. She was
not Winston’s wife was the point, Winston’s wife, Alvia, whom Megan knew. Whom
Megan had cooked for one night when she had a little dinner party and who had
cooked for Megan in her home when she did the same thing. Alvia, who knitted
and made her own pasta, who had raised Winston’s four children, and who had a
sweet smile and looked at her husband as though he were a god.
“Nice
to meet you.” It wasn’t the girl’s fault, she tried to tell herself, ignoring
the little voice in her head that said it most certainly was. Win wore a
wedding ring, for fuck’s sake. He was a Gretneg, he was a person—demon—of
standing in the demon world. People knew who he was, they knew his sons and
daughter, and they sure as fuck knew his wife.
Instead
she forced herself to listen to the more effective voice that told her it was
none of her business. It wasn’t. How Win chose
to run his personal life, who he spent time with or shared his bed with, were
emphatically None of Her Business. And if a little something inside
her—something that had nothing at all to do with her inner demon—squirmed at
the thought of keeping a secret like that, of giving his scummy philandering
her tacit approval simply by keeping her mouth shut, there wasn’t much she
could do about that.
What
she could do something about, or at least say something about, was the warm
greeting Greyson gave Sarita. The kiss on the hand. The brief conversation that
made it clear he already knew the woman.
“How
do you like the place, Megan?” Win smiled at her, just as if he hadn’t put her
in a totally awkward position and presumed her discretion without asking. What
in the world had she ever said or done that would make him think she’d be okay
with that?
She
gave him a tight smile, didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s lovely.”
He
and Greyson said something else to each other. She didn’t know what it was,
because while not meeting Win’s eyes, she’d caught sight of Gunnar Ryall,
Gretneg of House Aquiast, the water demons. They were a smaller house—not as
small as hers but small nonetheless—and they kept to themselves more than the
other Meegras did.
But
she’d met Gunnar. And she’d met his wife. Who was decidedly not the young woman
at his side, his hand resting casually on the small of her back.
What
the hell was going on?
Her
attention was dragged back to the people before her
when Greyson gave her hand a squeeze. Right. She had to smile and make nice.
Especially
as a new person had joined the circle. A new woman, to be more exact, and Megan
almost did a double-take. That was simply her distraction, making her think for
a second that Tera was standing there; on second glance the woman bore very
little resemblance to Tera, the witch who was Megan’s closest friend. Her only
real female friend. What would Tera make of all this?
For
a moment Megan wished violently that Tera were there. Then she remembered where
she was. The animosity between witches and demons was ancient and seemingly
insurmountable, and Tera’s presence wouldn’t be good for anyone.
But
the woman standing at Win’s side was slim and blond, like Tera, and just as
pretty. More important, she had the same impeccable coolness Tera had, the same
confidence. There stood a woman whose lipstick never smeared, whose stockings
never ran, whose hair never frizzed. Unlike Megan’s, although she had to admit
that since the day she’d discovered that Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud were
incredibly talented makeup artists and hairstylists—the result of centuries of
guarding high-ranking ladies—those weren’t problems she had much either.
The
difference was that Megan couldn’t get used to that and always rather expected
the smear, the run, or the frizz. Even on a night like this one, clad in a
black silk evening gown with iridescent dark green feathers— dark green was one of her House’s colors—edging the
irregular hems of layers of taffeta overskirt. Even with the diamond necklace
and earrings Greyson had given her for Christmas. She still couldn’t quite
accept that she looked the way she looked.
Win
smiled and put his arm around the woman. Jesus, how many girlfriends had he
brought? “Megan, this is my daughter, Leora.”
Right.
That’s why the girl looked vaguely familiar. The resemblance was there in the
deep blue eyes and the fine, straight nose. Megan had met both of Win’s sons
but hadn’t met—wait, his daughter? He’d brought his daughter along to a
gathering to which he’d also brought his girlfriend?
Too
unsettling. She didn’t want to stand there anymore, while Leora told Greyson
something about her recent trip to Washington, D.C.—his hometown—and Sarita
leaned against Win. No matter how tightly Greyson held her hand or how
reassuring that firm grip was, she wanted a drink, and she wanted not to have
to smile politely at a man who was cheating on his wife. Publicly.
Greyson
must have noticed she wasn’t making much conversation. “Meg, shall we go get
ourselves a couple of drinks?”
She
nodded; he led her away, toward the bar but not actually to it. They stopped a
little more than halfway there, by one of the large marble pillars supporting
the high arched ceiling. It really was a hell of a room, a small and intimate
reception area before the private dining room,
but those high ceilings and the pale walls and floors gave it a sense of light
and space. At the apex of the ceiling stretched grids of tiny white lights. The
glow they cast reminded her of the walls in their bedroom earlier, and some of
her anger drained away.
Some
but not all. She didn’t think a bath in a vat full of gin would be able to wash
it all away.
“What’s
wrong?”
“What?”
In trying not to speak too loudly, she accidentally hissed the word; luckily it
seemed lost in the leafy vine wrapped around the pillar. She tried again, with
more success. “What do you think is wrong? I just had to stand there and
pretend it doesn’t bother me that Win’s here with some woman who isn’t Alvia,
and I know Alvia. How can I look her in the face after this?”
Confusion
spread over his features. “Alvia? Why would you—”
“Yes,
Alvia. Win’s wife. You do know her. And look, they all have girlfriends with
them. Am I supposed to—”
“Okay.
Okay, calm down, please, before they really start to get curious.” His arm slid
around her shoulders, bringing their faces and bodies closer together and
affording them a bit of privacy. A bit more when he shifted them around so
their backs were to the small crowd.
It was
a small crowd; aside from the Gretnegs and the girlfriends, there were
assistants. That was it. Something struck her about that, but she filed it away
for later.
“You
can look Alvia in the face after this because she is fully aware of what Win is
doing and who’s with him. You don’t think he’d
bring his daughter into a situation that would divide her loyalties like that?”
“What?
She knows?”
He
nodded. “All the wives know. It’s a—a status symbol. Their husbands are wealthy
and can afford to keep a mistress. The prettier she is, the nicer her home and
car . . . Come on, bryaela. You know the story.”
Uh-huh.
She sure did. Appearances again. “And his daughter ?”
“Leora’s
known Sarita for years. Since she was a child. They all know her. She and Alvia
exchange birthday gifts.”
She
examined his face, tried to persuade herself to believe him. Well, no. She did believe
him. She just didn’t want to, because to believe him would send her thoughts
running down alleys she had no desire to enter.
“These
guys are the old guard, Meg. Their marriages were arranged. Win and Alvia are
lucky, you know. They’ve always liked each other. Templeton and his wife
usually had a good time. But they’re not all lucky like that. It’s just the way
things are done—the way they were done.”
Memory
dinged in the back of her head. Templeton Black’s wife, teary at his funeral.
And something else too. “Your parents hated each other.”
“Right.
With a deep and fiery loathing.” He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Come on,
let’s get you a drink. You look naked without one.”
“I
do not.”
“Maybe
I just wish you were.”
She
returned his smile. Returned the sentiment be hind
it too; she really didn’t want to be there, not when that big bed upstairs was
empty. “Maybe later you’ll get your wish.”
“Now,
that,” he said, taking her hand and heading toward the bar, “is something to
look forward to.”
Chapter Six
Five
minutes later, nicely fortified by a cold gin and tonic and a kiss, she spotted
Roc sitting in a chair against the wall. Of course; everyone was supposed to
have met in the room at nine, but she and Greyson had been a few minutes late.
Beside
him sat Carter Slade, Greyson’s assistant. Well, “assistant” wasn’t quite the
right word; after Templeton Black—the old Gretneg of Greyson’s house—had died
and Greyson had become Gretneg, Carter had taken Greyson’s old job, which meant
he was a sort of advisor/assistant/second-in-command.
Both
of them rose when she and Greyson approached. Only one of them met her eyes.
Carter kissed her hand, made an appropriate greeting, but didn’t look at her.
He never did. She didn’t know if it was some kind of respect thing—she’d never
heard of it, but she kept forgetting to ask—or if it was a particular issue of
his, but a tingle of annoyance rose up her spine just the same.
Much
like the tingle when she realized what had been missing from her discussion
with Greyson by the pillar.
She
was at the meeting as a Gretneg, an equal. What if she wasn’t? Would he have
brought her anyway, even though she wasn’t a
demon? Or would he have brought . . .
someone
else?
“I
have those papers for you to sign, Grey.” Carter started to gesture, as if he
was picking up his briefcase, only to discover it wasn’t there. Just as well.
It would have spoiled the perfect lines of his tuxedo, his perfect appearance
in it. Carter’s dark hair never seemed to grow; his olive skin never flushed. Typical
for a demon, really, but still.
When
had she become so surrounded by cool, immaculate adults?
Except
Roc. Bless him. Or whatever one did for demons. She smiled at him. Being who
and what they were, they didn’t have important business to discuss that couldn’t
even wait until after dinner. People were unhappy; her demons fed off it; that
was pretty much it.
“They’re
in my room anyway,” Carter went on. “And tomorrow morning you have a meeting
with Lord Lawden.”
“Can’t
you delay that?”
Megan
couldn’t read demons, at least not very well. Since the events of the previous
December, she’d occasionally been able to get flashes—usually from Greyson when
they were physically close—and she’d always been able to feel demon anger like
an icy breeze over her skin. But this time she absolutely felt Carter’s desire
to glance at her, felt him resolutely avoiding doing so. Why?
“I
really think it’s best you get it over with quickly,” he said, and a shiver ran
down Megan’s back that had nothing to do with the fact that she was standing
directly beneath an air vent.
“I
seriously doubt it will be the last discussion I have to have with him,”
Greyson replied.
“No,
but—”
“I’d
rather you delay it. I need a few more days to prepare.”
Carter
shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”
“It
is.”
Megan
and Roc glanced at each other. Greyson hadn’t said anything to her about a
meeting with Win, but then they didn’t discuss his business, so why would he?
It didn’t concern her, and one of the best things about their relationship—one
of the best things on a list she thought was rather embarrassingly long—was
that they didn’t invade each other’s privacy.
Private
business apparently dealt with, they all headed into the dining room. Megan
barely managed to suppress a gasp on entering; demons were into formality and
luxury and didn’t believe much in the character-building powers of self-denial,
but even some of the grandeur she’d seen in the last eleven months faded when
compared with the room before them.
Candles
floated above the table, courtesy of the air demons—House Caelaeris—led by
Baylor Regis. At her feet were flower petals, strewn from ivy-covered wall to
ivy-covered wall.
Ivory
damask tablecloths peeked out from beneath an enormous silver centerpiece
loaded with ivy and white roses; silver plates waited at every chair,
surrounded by crystal glasses and solid silver cutlery. Demons liked to eat.
She had no doubt this would be a meal to remember.
And
it was, but not for the reasons she expected. No sooner had they sat down than
Justine Riverside, Gretneg of House Concumbia, turned to her, her succubus
smile spread all over her perfect features.
“So,
Megan,” she cooed. “We’re all dying to hear about your plans for your Haiken
Kra. When will you be doing it?”
Had
someone dropped a pin, Megan felt certain she would have heard it. She wished
someone would. It would provide some distraction.
But
no one did. No one made a sound. Shit.
“I
don’t plan to do it, actually. There’s really no reason for me to, at this
point.”
Justine’s
perfectly arched eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline. “No reason? I
certainly think—”
“Justine,
Megan will make the decision she feels is right,” Winston cut in. Megan shot
him a grateful smile, which he returned. “It’s not our place to say what she
should do.”
“It
is! Just the presence of a human here creates a problem for us. Her mind is
weak.”
“She’s
a psychic,” Greyson said. He squeezed her thigh beneath the table. “Nobody’s
going to hypnotize or entrance her.”
Justine
frowned. “I think we should take a vote on it.”
“Excuse
me,” Megan said. “I don’t think it’s up to any of you. I don’t actually believe
it’s any of your business.”
“Human
vulnerability is our business when it affects us.” Justine flicked her long
hair, shining black in the candlelight, off her
bare shoulder. “Look at that silliness going on in the hotel down the road,
that flea-pit whatever-it’s-called. That ridiculous man claiming to heal
possessed people. And they believe him. They flock to him. They give him
money—hmm. Maybe that’s something we should look into.”
A
ripple of appreciative laughter flowed around the table at this. Megan didn’t
join in. “Wait, what? What man?”
“Some
reverend man.” Justine’s shudder turned into a graceful undulation when the
servants—not the hotel’s, but demons handpicked by each House—brought the first
platter, loaded with appetizers, and started parceling them out. Apparently
being seen to react horribly to something was not on Justine’s list of
acceptable things. “He’s holding some sort of weekend prayer meeting at that
hotel over there.”
“The
Windbreaker?”
“That’s
the one.” Justine picked up her fork and twirled it in her red-tipped fingers.
“Why, are you planning on joining them?”
“No,
I—no. No, I’m not.” Damn it! She should have told Justine to go fuck herself,
something she’d been dying to do for some time. She’d never forgotten her first
glimpse of the woman, though they hadn’t been officially introduced. It was the
day Megan was forced to remember the Accuser, the demon who’d infected her with
a piece of him almost seventeen years before. The day she’d been forced to
watch Greyson tortured, chained, and whipped with an iron-tipped whip.
Justine
had been there. She’d enjoyed the show. Megan
would never forget it. Would never forget that Justine had enjoyed the show
despite the fact that she’d also enjoyed having Greyson in her bed at one time.
Or
several times. He’d never really given Megan details, and she’d never asked. It
was enough to know that it had happened, and that it wasn’t happening anymore.
Wouldn’t happen again. When he was Templeton Black’s second-in-command, Greyson
had been called on to perform such acts, payback for favors, little treats to
sweeten deals. As Gretneg he no longer had to.
She
supposed that was Carter’s job now. Although she preferred to think it wasn’t
anybody’s.
Except . . .
Greyson had asked his friend Nick to do something for him, back at
Christmastime. Something he didn’t want to do, something involving a woman.
Could that have been ?
But
what favor would Greyson have been paying back then, when he’d been Gretneg for
barely twenty-four hours?
Fuck
Justine, and fuck all this stupid demon crap. The implication that Megan’s
silly human brain was so easily manipulated, that she would be just as likely
to run off and join up with a fundamentalist exorcist as to do anything else,
rankled. The implication that because she was human she didn’t belong there,
that simply hurt. As much as she didn’t want it to, it did. She did want to
belong there. She did want to fit in. She just didn’t want to give up her
humanity entirely, to lose things she considered valuable and important.
Allowing
the demon to grow inside her, to become more of a part of her so she would be
genetically demon, might not change that. But
she couldn’t be sure. And nobody could give her a truly compelling argument for
doing it, so why should she? She’d thought it wasn’t a problem.
And
now with one little conversation all that had changed.
Food
was put on her plate, and she picked up her fork without thinking, only to be
stopped by Greyson’s hand on hers. “Don’t eat that one.”
“Why?”
Shit, she didn’t want to sound bitter and pissed off, but she couldn’t help it.
She hated feeling like an outsider. “Is it made of human flesh or something?”
He
looked at her strangely. “No. Bell peppers.”
“Oh.
Right. Thanks.” Oops. She was allergic to those.
“Is
everything all right, bryaela?”
She
tried to smile. It didn’t turn out too well. “I’m just—I’m fine.”
His
palm stroked her thigh now, gliding up and down over the silk of her skirt as
he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Watching you stand up to Justine was
awfully sexy.”
“I
don’t think I stood up very well.”
“Oh,
I do. Very few people ever even attempt it, so you get points just for that. I
don’t think I’ve ever seen her so surprised.”
This
time her smile did work. True or not, it was nice to hear. “Really? I would
have thought you’d managed to surprise her a few times over the years
yourself.”
“No.
She never got my best stuff.”
“Well,
didn’t she miss out.”
“I
like to think so. But such is life. Unfair.”
She
looked up at him, into his eyes. The rest of the room turned into nothing but a
discordant hum in the background, a blur of ivory and green, a set painting.
“Sometimes it isn’t too bad, though.”
“No,
sometimes it certainly isn’t.”
She
didn’t know how long they sat like that. Not long, she didn’t think. Not in
such a public place, in such a small group where everyone at the table could
watch and probably were. But it was long enough to remind her exactly why she
was still there, why she still wanted to be there. Long enough to know he
wanted her there too.
“I
was thinking,” he said finally, giving her thigh another squeeze and taking a
sip of wine with his other hand. The sound of the room rushed back, the others
talking, the faint tinkle of silverware on plates. More servants moved in with
larger trays, delivering what looked like pheasant. “We haven’t been back to
Italy. Want to go, week after next?”
“For
your birthday? Oh . . . shit, I can’t. I can’t take more time
off so soon, and the rest of my vacation time at the station is booked for
Christmas. I’m sorry.”
He
shrugged. “No problem.”
“I
took your birthday off, though. And the day after.”
“Oh?
Planning something?”
“Maybe.”
Actually, she was; she’d found a nice hotel on an island off the coast, just a
few hours’ flight away, and had booked the night before and the night of, with
a late checkout the day after. Malleus had helped her plan it; she’d needed him
to check Greyson’s appointments.
He
started to reply but stopped when someone said his name. Winston’s daughter,
Leora, sat at his left side; Megan hadn’t noticed before. The seating around
the table was arranged boy-girl, with Win on Leora’s other side and his
girlfriend—Sarita, right?—on his other side. The assistants, exclusively male,
sat at the end closest to the kitchen doors in a ring.
Gunnar
Ryall from House Aquiast sat at her right. While Greyson turned to Leora, she
spoke to him, making desultory conversation. No other kind could be made with
Gunnar, at least not in her experience. He liked to talk about fish. A lot.
Her
pheasant was placed in front of her. With gratitude she turned to it and
accepted another cocktail as well, instead of wine. Her stomach practically
screamed at the sight of the food; she’d hardly eaten all day, and while full-blood
demons could subsist for long periods of time simply on energy like what she’d
exchanged with Greyson earlier, she couldn’t.
Not
that demons wanted to subsist purely on energy—they wouldn’t be such big
eaters if they did—but they could. And they could eat enormous amounts without
gaining weight, because of faster metabolisms. It was almost enough to persuade
her to make the switch, but then, anorexics lost plenty of weight too, and that
wasn’t exactly healthy. Giving up her humanity in exchange for extra helpings
of pie didn’t seem like the greatest deal.
Although
she could be tempted when the food was this good. The pheasant practically
melted in her mouth, dark and rich and—what was that?
A
shiver, almost like the one she’d felt the night before when the litobora
was nearby. Tasting her.
This
wasn’t a demon, though. It was a human, nearby. A human where a human shouldn’t
be. Megan’s responsibility. Her Yezer were guarding all of the entrances
leading to this part of the building, making sure it felt so gloomy, creepy,
and just plain scary that any person walking near it felt the sudden urge to be
elsewhere.
If
there’d been a problem, it would have been communicated to Roc. Should have
been communicated to Roc.
So
why the hell hadn’t it been? And oh, shit, how long would it be before the
others sensed an intruder as well and decided she’d had something to do with
it?
Chapter Seven
They
all knew she’d been visited by the FBI the day before. Most of them knew of her
friendship with Tera. Some of them knew about her friendship with Brian, and if
they knew that, they might very well also know that Brian’s girlfriend was a
police officer.
She
turned to look for Roc just as he appeared on her shoulder, and she jumped
slightly. Expecting to find empty air over your shoulder and instead finding a
small dark green demon floating there would make just about anyone jump.
“There’s
a human nearby,” he murmured. “Ariago and Hefferus tried to stop it, but it
would not be deterred, and they couldn’t get its Yezer to talk to them.”
“Its?”
“They
didn’t say.”
“Shit.”
She stood up, trying and failing to keep her chair from scraping the marble
floor, and set her napkin on the table. “Sorry, everyone. We’re having a small
issue in one of the hallways, I’m just going to go and have a look.”
“Shall
I come with you?” Greyson touched her hand.
“No,
no. Stay and eat. I’ll be right back.”
Her
heels clicked on the floor, too loud in the ensuing
silence.
Everyone was watching her leave, with her dress swirling around her feet. The
dress was a compromise; most Gretnegs wore their House’s colors, but her
House’s colors, dark green and orangey gold, didn’t particularly flatter her.
Besides,
Greyson liked her in black. And so did she.
She
loved the dress but couldn’t help wishing instead for a pair of tennis shoes
and jeans, as she let the servants close the doors behind her and reentered the
ballroom in which they’d had cocktails. Her heels still made noise, and the
last thing she wanted to do was announce her presence to anyone, so she slipped
them off, cringing a little when her stocking-clad feet hit the cold floor.
Well,
at least she wasn’t barefoot.
The
empty ballroom kicked the faint rustling sound of her skirts and her feet on
the floor back at her. Unsettling. Almost as unsettling as her worries about
what might be waiting for her.
A
human, sure. No big deal; Megan was human. But how exactly was she supposed to
deal with the situation? She hadn’t really tried hypnotizing people demon-style
yet. It felt unethical, like a step down the road to inhumanity. And if she was
going to take one step, what would stop her from taking another? And another?
And suddenly there she’d be, eating pie like there was no tomorrow.
When
she hit the doors leading back to the hallway, she stopped, dropping her
shields. Best to get an idea of what she was in for.
Trickles
of curious energy flowed from her, feeling their way through the doors and
along the hall. Even the walls here contained
echoes of emotions and events; most hotels did. How could they not, really,
with so many lives, so many events, taking place in them? Hotels were
microcosms of life, and intense emotions could leave imprints that lasted
decades.
The
human who’d gotten past her demons felt triumph. Excitement. She was—oh, shit.
She was the FBI agent, Elizabeth Reid.
For
a moment Megan froze. She couldn’t speak to the woman, couldn’t even let the
woman see her there, not after denying any knowledge of the meeting.
Then
relief flooded through her. This was the Bellreive, and the private rooms had
been rented for the week for an exorbitant price. She’d call the management and
ask them to eject the intruder.
Yes,
Elizabeth’s ID would probably make a difference there. But it would delay her
at least long enough for Megan to inform the others what was happening.
It
wasn’t a great plan, but it was a decent plan. Megan had just turned to head
for the courtesy phone planted unobtrusively on the wall in an alcove when she
felt the other presence.
Not
human this time. Demon. Following Elizabeth Reid very closely. What the hell?
If
something happened to Agent Reid, if she was attacked or even killed, they’d
all be questioned. Their presence would be discovered. Agent Reid wasn’t the
only one who suspected their little group was more than the gourmet club they’d
told hotel management they were. It would be an unholy mess.
She
headed for the courtesy phone, keeping her shields
down, and reached into her black silk evening bag for her cell.
A
bored receptionist answered the courtesy phone, her mind almost completely
occupied by thoughts of the BDSM fun she’d get up to with her boyfriend later.
Megan got a few very interesting images before she managed to shut the pictures
down. Hey, it wasn’t as if she was anyone to judge or had any interest in doing
so. “I’m with the Gastrique party in the Moonlight Dining Room, and there’s a
woman screaming outside the main doors. Could you please send security
immediately?”
The
receptionist—her attention fully diverted by Megan’s story—promised to do so.
Megan hung up and scrolled through the numbers on her cell with her other hand
until she found the one she wanted.
“’Ello,
m’lady. Wot you need?” Malleus sounded, as always, alert and ready. She
pictured him pacing the floor with the phone in his hand, just in case he was
called.
In
reality he was probably watching Dancing with the Stars or some such
tripe with his brothers. It didn’t matter. He’d be at her side as soon as he
could get himself down the stairs.
“Hey.
I need someone down here. There’s a demon in the hall, and I don’t know what it
is.”
“We’re
coming.” The dial tone almost cut off the final syllable.
Okay.
Security was on its way, and the brothers were too. She felt a little safer.
Not much—she was acutely aware of the empty room behind her, of the demon
getting closer—but a little.
She’d
just turned to head back into the dining room and alert the others when the
scream came through the double doors, loaded with terror so thick her own
heart—both of them, actually—skipped a couple of beats. It was Agent Reid’s
voice. Agent Reid was in the hallway with a demon of indeterminate appearance
and intent.
Megan’s
feet were moving before she thought of it. Whatever the consequences, they
could be dealt with; if she couldn’t hypnotize the agent, she’d get one of the
others to do it. Security wasn’t fast enough, the brothers weren’t fast
enough—they had fourteen floors to get down, damn the damn luxury top-floor
suites—and if she crossed the room to get the others, the agent could be dead
by the time they got there.
Of
course, she could find herself dead, which was not a great thought. But she
didn’t have much choice, not when another scream rent the air, worse than the
first.
A
heavy thud came through the doors a second before she flung them open. Could
she still feel Agent Reid? Yes, she could. She focused on her, and—wait. Reid
was moving away from the doors; her thoughts were a bit jumbled, but she didn’t
seem particularly frightened. Had the demon, whatever kind of demon it was,
altered her memories?
Too
late to stop and think about that, to consider the implications. The doors were
open, banging against the walls and bouncing back at her, the sound of them
hitting the plaster loud in the heavy silence.
And
it was silent. Dead silent. Empty, except for a thin,
horrible streak of red on the wall that she knew was blood, could smell was
blood. Human blood.
A
flicker of movement at the end, a figure disappearing around the corner. Agent
Reid. What the hell had happened? Was she injured?
Injured
or not, she was beyond the point where security would find her. Megan had two
choices, neither of them right. To follow the agent and make sure she was okay
would be the moral thing to do but would get her busted. To ignore the agent’s
possible injuries and head back to her dinner as if nothing was wrong wouldn’t
be the moral thing to do. It would be the negligent thing to do. But probably
the correct thing.
She
hesitated for a moment, then took a step forward. She’d follow, but she’d hang
back. That way she wouldn’t be spotted, but if Reid collapsed or something, she
could—
Something
slammed across the back of her legs, knocked her down before she even had time
to feel the injury. Her shocked body moved of its own accord, scrambling to get
away, already anticipating the next blow.
It
didn’t come. Instead a heavy hand tangled in her hair, yanked her up. The scent
of—what the hell? Roses?—filled her nose, so strong and sharp her eyes watered
even more than they were already from the pain.
Through
them she barely made out the delineation between ivory wall and dark hallway
carpet before the hand moved, closing tightly over her mouth and twisting her
head further, up toward the ceiling. She tried to struggle, kicking back,
jerking her torso, but an arm like iron closed
around her waist, trapping her arms. Her bare feet, encumbered by heavy layers
of taffeta, did no good at all.
Her
ears rang. Dimly over the sound she heard something else, a low, thick voice
like sandpaper. She couldn’t make out the words but felt them. They vibrated
over her bare skin, through it into her soul.
Magic.
She’d been around Tera enough to recognize that feeling. Had even been able to
do some energy manipulation herself, back before she’d attached herself to the
Yezer. That connection made it difficult for her to do such things; their
energy tended to color her experiments and send them in bizarre directions, so
she’d given up trying.
But
she still knew what it felt like. Wasn’t likely to forget. And the person who
held her—a man, she knew without thinking—was definitely doing magic.
She
would have known that even if the wall behind them hadn’t suddenly opened and
swallowed them up.
Her
head was still spinning when they stopped. Wind whipped her hair into her eyes,
pressed her skirts to her body. She had one dizzying glimpse of stars whirling
above her before she realized where she was, where they were.
On
the roof of the Bellreive, fifteen stories above the ground, and her captor had
her in what she was pretty sure was a literal death grip as he shoved her
toward the low wall surrounding the gritty, rubbery tar beneath them.
He
was going to push her off. Holy shit, he was going to throw her off the roof, this
was it, she was going to die—
No! She struggled with all the
strength she had, kicking, wriggling, trying to bite the hand over her mouth.
He let go and moved his hand down to her throat. Shit, that was worse; he
squeezed her throat so she could hardly breathe.
There
had to be a way to get out of this. To save herself. The edge of the roof
loomed before her, so bright and sharp against the city lights. She had to do
something. Wind in her hair, so strong it was hard to think. If he would just
wait a second and let her think.
He
said something else, his voice slicing at her ears. The wind strengthened. Was
he calling it? Controlling it? Witches were strong, they were powerful, they
could manipulate elements as easily as she could read one of her radio callers.
They manipulated energy. She read people. She couldn’t read witches, generally,
but she hadn’t tried in a hell of a long time either, had she?
She
went limp, dropping her head, letting her arms fall slack at her sides. She
couldn’t do anything about her pounding pulse, as much as she wished she could.
Both of her hearts were beating furiously against her ribs, as if they knew
what was coming and wanted to try to jump out and survive on their own. Which
at least one of them could very well be capable of. She ignored that thought
and focused on being heavy, limp, boneless like a heap of rags. Forced herself
not to move even when he kicked the back of her leg. Her captor made a surprised, impatient sound and paused to readjust his
grip on her.
She
struck. Not with her body but with her energy, with all the power she
possessed, forming it into a knife in her mind and driving it into his chest.
The
shrieking triumph in her head drowned out his screams. He filled her;
she couldn’t think of any other way to put it, and it didn’t matter anyway. He
filled her with power, with light, with something that made her want to laugh
and cry at the same time.
He
let go of her and clutched at his chest; she felt him trying to expel her
energy weapon, her psychic blade that was still embedded in him. Felt him grow
weak. Watched him fall to his knees as she spun away from him on nimble feet.
The height of the roof seemed to be nothing at all. The stars above shone down
just for her, blessing her, as she filled herself with him and he crumpled
closer to the edge of the roof—
He
was going to fall. Because she was stealing his life.
Horrified,
she tried to pull away, but the weapon was too bloated, too pure and full and
strong to collapse. Her hands scrabbled at his shoulders, trying to yank him
back away from the edge, but he struggled against her as if her touch burned
him.
Which
it might be doing; her skin glowed where it touched him, and energy pulsed up
her arms from him. Feeding her. She was trapped in him, terrified but elated.
Terrified because she was elated. It was beautiful and glorious and
ecstatic and horrifying, and she gritted her teeth against it and threw
everything she could into her shields,
envisioning them snapping into place with a thick, heavy clang.
They
did. The weapon broke. The man—the witch, whatever he was—gasped and struggled
to stand, pushing himself away from her.
Wrong
move. He stumbled, pitched forward. And fell over the ledge.
He
didn’t scream as he fell.
Chapter Eight
“I have to call—Spud, cut it out, damn it!” She batted his
eyeshadow-wielding hand away from her eye and glared at him. The glow from the
lights behind him surrounded his cap like a bizarre halo. “It doesn’t matter
how I look, because nobody is going to see me but Tera, and even if they do, I
was just attacked and almost killed, and I think—maybe I’m crazy—but I
think perhaps that gives me license to have smudged mascara!”
“Bryaela, we can’t—”
“No. No, don’t you dare bryaela me. He almost threw
me off the fucking roof, Greyson. And I—I—” Shit. She couldn’t finish
the sentence, because it hit her again, the way she’d fed off him, sucked out
his energy. The way she’d gloried in it.
“You did what you had to do,” he finished for her. He stood
a foot or so away, his arms folded and his brows drawn down, with his hair
moving in the breeze. After his initial clutching and holding he’d stepped
away, and she was glad. If he’d touched her just then she would have broken
down, and she did not want to do that. Not yet. The inner workings of the
Vergadering—the witches’ organization, a sort of magical law-enforcement
agency, for which Tera worked—were pretty
shadowy, but she was pretty sure that she’d need to hold on to as much of that
grief and horror as she could for when they showed up.
Just in case it made a difference. She had no idea if it
would.
When she didn’t reply, he said it again. “You did what you
had to do, Meg. It was you or him. You did the right thing.”
Shit.
“I didn’t.”
“You did. If you hadn’t done whatever you did, you’d be dead
right now, and I can assure you that would most definitely not be right.”
Without meaning to, she glanced to her left again, at the
spot where he’d fallen. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at it; it pulsed in
her vision, glowing. “I killed him.”
“And that’s why you’re still here. Look, I don’t mean to be
insensitive, but we need to get back down to dinner immediately.”
“I can’t go back down to—Spud, if you come at me with that
thing one more time I am going to stick it right up—”
“Spud, why don’t you give us a minute?” Greyson cut in
smoothly. “Go wait over there with Malleus.”
Spud looked from him back to her, his heavy features
sorrowful like a basset hound’s, before nodding and lumbering away across the
roof. Damn. Now she’d hurt his feelings.
“Meg. We have to get back to dinner now. Right away. Before
the others start wondering what’s going on.”
“But—”
“No. We have to. One of two things has happened here. Either
this witch attacked you of his own accord, in which case there’s no point in
freaking the others out, or one of them paid him to attack you, in which case—”
“The only way to make them sweat is to act as if nothing
happened,” she finished.
“Right.”
“But what if he didn’t act of his own accord? What if he was
hired by someone else who wants to kill me, and it’s not one of them at all?”
“Again. If you don’t go back to dinner, you’ve shown them a
vulnerability. A weakness. You may give them ideas, if they don’t have them
already. They will take advantage of any weakness they can find, darling. Anything.
Please, come back to the table with me now.”
She hesitated. He was right. She knew he was.
But how in the world could she go back down to that table
and finish her meal as if nothing had happened? And what about— “What about the
body?”
“I told Carter to take care of it.” Seeing her look, he
continued, “He’ll stow it away until we decide what to do. He won’t incinerate
it yet.”
She didn’t really like the sound of that “yet,” but there
wasn’t much she could do. “I still want to call Tera.”
“And you can. As soon as we get through this meal, you can
call anyone you wish. But we have to get through it. You have to get through
it, Meg, and I know you can. Come on.” He reached out and pulled her into the
protective circle of his arm, tight at his side. His lips brushed the top of
her head.
She wanted to call Tera, wanted to go back to the room and
crawl under the covers and sob. She’d killed a man. And she’d liked it; well,
no, she hadn’t liked killing him, but she’d certainly liked what came before.
She’d gotten used to the occasional strange craving. Gotten
used to—more than used to—trading energy with Greyson, as a way to keep from
having to take energy from the negative emotions of humans. Well, she traded
energy with Greyson for a few reasons, but one of them was that it meant she
didn’t have to feed off anyone or anything else. She didn’t require a lot of
energy anyway.
And she’d gotten used to the fact that taking that energy
felt amazing. But taking it the way she had—she’d attacked him, stolen from him.
It was a hideous thing she’d done.
She’d had to kill him. She hadn’t had to like it.
She shuddered and circled her arms around his waist. For a
long moment she just held on, feeling his body warm and solid beside hers and
his grip on her tighten. Later. Later they would talk about it.
The ringing of his cell phone cut into her thoughts, sliced
them apart like a pair of rough hands. He took a step away, held the phone to
his ear. “Carter. What’s—what? Are you—okay. Right. Shit. Yes, get back
in there. We’ll be there in a minute.”
“What’s wrong?” Malleus and Spud had descended on her with
brushes and lipstick, but when Spud lowered one beefy arm, she saw Greyson
staring at the phone as if he’d forgotten what it was.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“There’s no body.”
“What? Ow!” She’d started forward without thinking, and
Malleus had practically ripped a chunk of hair out of her head.
“Sorry, m’lady. But you know you oughter not move when
we’re—”
“There’s no body,” Greyson said again. He slipped the phone
back into his pocket and crossed the remaining feet of roof between them.
“Carter checked everywhere.”
“So what does that mean?” Nothing good, she imagined.
Although . . . “Did I not kill him?”
“You’re sure he went over the edge?”
Ugh.
“I watched him.”
“All the way? Did you watch him hit the ground?”
“No. No, I . . . I couldn’t. I didn’t. I just
saw him fall.” Watched him tumble off the roof, his body disappearing over the
wall . . . she shuddered.
Malleus’s finger tapped her lips, magically setting her
lipstick. She ignored it. If the man—the witch—was still alive, if she hadn’t
killed him . . . it was a relief. At least it was until she
realized that if he wasn’t dead, he’d be coming back for her.
Greyson must have thought the same thing. “No more going
anywhere alone. Nowhere. We’ll need someone . . . hmm.” He
checked his watch. “We need to get back down there. We’ll discuss this later,
okay? Meanwhile, nothing happened. We’ll figure out a story in the elevator.”
* * *
Dessert
was some incredibly rich chocolate raspberry thing that Megan couldn’t even
come close to finishing. Even if her stomach hadn’t been alive with nerves she
wouldn’t have been able to finish it.
She
could finish her cocktails, though. Several of them. One good thing about the
energy she’d taken from the witch, it allowed her to drink a hell of a lot more
without feeling anything more than a pleasant buzz. She’d probably pay for it
the next day, but at that point she didn’t care. Everyone rose from the table
and started milling around. Dinner was over. Thank God, dinner was over, and
soon she’d be able to go back to their room and figure out what was going on.
Or at least try to figure out what was going on.
The
luxurious setting made everything even more unreal. What was she doing there?
Yes, fine, she’d admit it. She’d gotten rather used to luxury over the last
eleven months or so. How could she not, when she spent a few nights a
week—okay, every weekend and several midweek nights—in a mansion? A real one, with
servants. When her costume jewelry had slowly but surely gathered dust because
she wore real diamonds now, real sapphires and rubies, all gifts from her very
wealthy boyfriend?
But
the dining room wasn’t what she was used to. It wasn’t simply a very fine
restaurant or the Ieuranlier. It buzzed with energy, with demon voices and
laughter. As if she was on a stage in a very bizarre play. She watched Greyson
light Justine’s cigarette with his fingertip. Watched
Winston and his daughter add a little blood to their wine from the flask in
Winston’s pocket. She stood in a room full of demons, nonhuman beings, and
earlier that night another nonhuman being had tried to kill her, and she
thought she’d killed him but his body had somehow disappeared.
Brian
had once commented on how unfazed she’d seemed to be by the news that demons
actually existed. And that had not disturbed her but concerned her, until she’d
realized that a large part of the reason was that deep down she’d remembered.
Remembered being possessed by the Accuser, remembered everything.
That
didn’t explain how she was still standing, still accepting the attempts to kill
her or the fact that, upset as she was about taking a life, she was more
worried about the disappearance of the body and the idea that she hadn’t
actually been successful in her murder.
That
was where the unreality came from. It was the feeling that she was being
watched, that eyes lurked behind those lovely ivy-covered walls or peeked at
her from inside the air vents. Her skin tingled as if she were naked. Totally
exposed.
Not
comfortable, not at all. So she stood up and headed for Greyson, smiling when
she saw Roc perched on his shoulder. The two were deep in conversation with
Carter; she imagined they were discussing what had happened to her earlier, but
that didn’t dissuade her. Just being near them would give her strength.
Leora
Lawden stepped into her path, a shy smile on her pretty face. Funny, Megan had
never thought Winston’s features would look right on a girl, but they did.
“Megan,”
Leora said, “I was hoping maybe we could talk.”
Megan
plastered on a smile and forced herself not to shoot a longing look at Greyson
and Roc. Leora would see it, and the girl looked so . . . not
out of place, but eager somehow. How old was she? She couldn’t have been out of
her early twenties at the very oldest. “Sure, of course. Is something wrong?”
“No,
I just ?” Leora sat down at the table. Megan did the same. “My father always
speaks so highly of you, and he thought it would be a good idea. I guess he
figures it will be easier on me, all of this, if I have someone to talk to. And
if it’s you, that’s even better.”
“I’m
flattered,” Megan said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “I like your
father.”
Leora’s
face glowed. “He’s wonderful. Everything he’s done for me—”
“Attention,
everyone!” Speak of the devil—er, demon. Winston Lawden had raised his full
glass. “We’ve had a delicious meal, and I’m sure we all look forward to a
productive week. But I think we must all pause now to remember one among us who
is no longer here. I would like to propose a toast to Templeton Black. Long
live his memory.”
“Alri
neshden Templeton Black,” everyone said, and drank, their arms lifting in
unison.
Everyone
except Greyson.
Chapter Nine
“Why didn’t you drink to Templeton?” she asked him later,
once they were back in their room.
“Hmm? Oh. It’s not appropriate, since I took his place. It
would be disrespectful.”
“Really? Huh.” Gently buzzed but more tired, she turned
around so he could unzip her gown and waited for the little bra-strap tug. It
always made her smile, but tonight she had something more serious on her mind
too. “So . . . I still want to call Tera.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
She almost fell over. “What?”
“What?” He hung his tuxedo shirt up and reached for his
belt. “If a witch came after you tonight, getting Tera involved is the smart
thing to do. She may have information we don’t. She may be able to track him
somehow in a way we can’t.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I’m not playing around here, darling. Someone
is trying to kill you. I don’t care with whom we have to deal or what we have
to do, we’re going to find out who it is.”
He’d turned away from her while he spoke, slipping off his
pants and putting on a pair of plain black ones, but
the emotion behind his words came through loud and clear just the same.
She stopped with her silk nightie above her head, trapped in
her arms. “You . . . you really mean that.”
“Of course I do. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“No . . . I just, I’m just surprised.”
Maybe it wasn’t fair of her, but she was. It wasn’t that she
didn’t think she was important to him; she knew she was. But important enough
for him to purposely involve witches in a demon situation, especially with all
the other Gretnegs there? To purposely deal with witches at all?
Especially Tera. She may have been Megan’s best friend—well,
no “may” about it—but Tera also had a sister; actually, she had three sisters,
but only one of them mattered. Lexie. And Lexie mattered because she’d dated Greyson
briefly, and it had not ended well. Something about a spell on his car and a
near-death experience. Megan didn’t have all the details. All she knew was,
talking about Lexie in front of Greyson amused Tera, who was not the most
empathetic or socially adept person in the world.
So to encourage her to call Tera ?
“You really are worried,” she said. Her nightie swirled
around her ankles, its black silk the only thing moving in the room.
He glanced up at her, then looked again. Standing still, his
hands loose at his sides. “Yes.”
“Me too.”
His lips quirked. “I can imagine you would be. Now call
Tera. I’m going to order some room service. Do you want anything?”
She did, actually. It didn’t seem possible she could be
hungry, especially with her notoriously weak stomach. But she was. Hungry for
food. Hungry for all sorts of things. It occurred to her then that she really
had been at death’s door and had emerged unscathed—at least physically. That
she had won and that there was joy to be had in that winning.
It may have been awful. It was also normal, as she would
have counseled any one of her patients who’d come to her with the same sort of
issue. Human nature was what it was.
In the morning, she had no doubt, she would feel awful
again. But being there, alone in the room with him, looking over a menu full of
hopefully delicious food—she’d had too much experience with room service to
assume that it would be of the same quality as found in the dining room—and
anticipating eating it with him in the big white bed . . . She
was just glad to be alive.
Even with someone after her. Even with the FBI—shit.
“Greyson, I saw that FBI agent earlier, in the hall. She was
the disturbance, you remember, the one I left for.”
“She’s here?”
She nodded.
“Shit.” He sat down on the bed, still holding the thick
leather menu he’d grabbed. “Okay, that’s—actually, that might not be such a bad
thing, come to think of it. If she’s here alone—”
“No, hold on.” She sat beside him. “She is here alone; at least she was in the hall alone. But the witch, or
whatever he was, attacked her too. I heard her scream. That’s when I left the
ballroom, but she seemed okay. Just kind of spacy, if you know what I mean. She
was wandering down the hall. I started to follow her, and that’s when he—that’s
when he grabbed me.”
He squeezed her arm, hard and fast, like an involuntary
muscle spasm. “She walked off on her own?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t really make sense, does it? If I’d
been attacked, I wouldn’t just stroll away.”
“No, you’re right.” He was silent for a moment, staring at
the menu. “But a witch might very well have bespelled her. She might not have
felt whatever injury he gave her—if he did injure her—or even remember what had
happened or why she was there. Which could be good for us, if you think about it.”
“Greyson.”
“What? I can’t help the fact that it would benefit us all if
Little Miss G-Man would go away or the fact that if he did erase her memory, he
simply saved us the trouble of doing it ourselves. But . . .
damn.”
He shook his head. Megan, used to his look of concentration,
waited.
“If he did kill her,” he said. “If he injured her badly
enough to kill her, and she’s found dead here, that could be a problem for us.”
Megan sighed and stood up, stripping the nightie back off
her head and reaching for the jeans she’d had on earlier. He was already
opening the bedroom door, calling for the brothers in the suite’s other
bedroom.
* * *
It
only took a minute to get Agent Reid’s room number from the highly susceptible
desk clerk, and another minute to obtain her key as well. She was on the fourth
floor, in one of the smaller single rooms.
“Figures,”
Greyson said, fitting the key into the door. “The FBI can’t be bothered to pay
for a decent room.”
By
Megan’s standards the room was decent; better than decent, actually. It
certainly beat anything she’d stayed in at one of the chain motels dotted along
the highways. But then, she hadn’t grown up in a Georgetown mansion watching
her parents dress for inaugural balls either.
Malleus
and Maleficarum entered the room first, with Spud staying outside to keep
watch. Roc was still questioning the demons who’d allowed Agent Reid past them
earlier to see if they’d seen anything, and would meet them when he was done.
With something to report, Megan hoped, though she wasn’t counting on it.
The
room was empty. At least empty of humanity, empty of a body. It was far from
empty in every other way. Fast-food containers littered the unmade bed; papers
littered the floor. Clothes hung off the back of the chair and lay in limp clumps
on the floor.
“Ugh.”
Megan wrinkled her nose and stepped over a greasy hamburger wrapper. “It smells
funny in here. Like—”
Like
blood. Not demon blood. It lacked the faint tangy, smoky scent of that, the
whisper of power carried even in the fragrance. Megan
had never sampled any demon’s blood, although several times she’d allowed hers
to be sampled, once under duress. But she knew the way it smelled. She was
attracted to the scent of it; it was part of her demon powers, part of what the
piece of demon in her chest gave her.
This
was human blood. Old human blood too, in that it was drying.
Megan
turned with the others to see the bathroom and grabbed Greyson’s arm so hard
she thought her fingers might break off.
Blood
everywhere. It streaked the mirrors. It dotted the floor. A sodden towel hung
over the edge of the counter, a blotch of violent crimson against the white
tile.
“God.”
Her voice shook. “There’s so much of it.”
“Not
that much, I don’t think.” Greyson’s fingers covered hers. “A little blood
spilled can look like a lot. And there’s no body. No blood outside this room.”
“How
is that possible?”
He
shrugged; she felt his muscles move through his shirt. “I guess she cleaned
herself up.”
He
and the brothers moved through the room, picking up papers and stashing them in
Malleus’s big black bag. Greyson looked at her. “These are her files.
Information on us.”
“Right.”
Or wrong, rather, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t much she could say about
it, except that she thought they’d better hurry, but they were moving quickly
enough.
“So
where is she? If she’s not dead, and she’s not here ?”
Greyson
pulled one last sheet of paper from under the desk and handed it to Malleus. “I
have no idea.”
“Maybe
them down at the front desk’d know,” Malleus suggested. “Maybe she went by
there.”
That’s
when Megan saw the other thing, the thing they’d missed. She bent down and
picked up the key ring, half hidden under the bed by the fallen sheet. “She
left her room key, so unless she has another set ?”
Her
eyes met Greyson’s. Faint circles etched the skin beneath his; she imagined
hers looked even worse. He nodded. “Let’s go back down to the desk.”
Chapter Ten
At
least the breeze was cool, even if feeling it across her brow reminded her a
little too forcibly of her ordeal on the roof earlier. The wind he’d kicked up,
how could he—oh, right. Dumb question. Witches could do just about anything.
She was so used to thinking of powers as specific skill sets that didn’t
translate; fire demons like Greyson could burn anything and had some basic
mental powers but couldn’t read people the way she could or the way any psyche
demon could, for example.
But
witches weren’t bound by any of that. They dealt with energy, with the
molecular structure of things, and could make almost anything bow to their
will. It was one reason they kept such a rigid hierarchy.
Tera
answered on the third ring. “Hey! I thought you were away.” She sounded awfully
chipper for one in the morning, but then she’d probably still been awake; Tera
never seemed to need sleep.
“Yeah,
I am.” Megan bit her lip and, feeling a little guilty, turned her back on Spud,
who had come out with her to keep watch. “I’ve, um, I’ve got a little bit of a
problem here, and I was wondering . . . I was hoping you could
come. Here. I’m at the Bellreive Hotel.”
Pause.
“What kind of trouble? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,
yeah, I’m okay, but . . . it seems someone is trying to kill me.
And I could really use your help.”
“One
of the demons? Do you need me to bring soldiers? How many? What—”
“No,
no, don’t do that.” Megan wanted to roll her eyes at the idea of Tera showing
up with an army of witches ready to blast holes in the Bellreive’s stone walls,
but she couldn’t. The truth was, it warmed her heart. The truth was, Tera would
do it in a second too. “It’s . . . I hate to say this, Tera, but
I think it’s a witch. Or at least it was a witch earlier. He tried to throw me
off the roof.”
“No.
Why would a witch try to kill you? Why throw you off the roof? One of us could
kill you just like that, you know. There’s so many easier ways to do it. We
certainly don’t need—”
Megan
shuddered. “Yes, thank you for that reminder. But it wasn’t a demon, and he did
magic. He did a spell to get us on the roof and another one to control the
wind. He made the wind blow harder.”
“Shit.”
Tera paused, for so long Megan wondered if she was still there. “Weather magic
is very difficult. He must be incredibly skilled. How did you manage to
escape?”
She
explained and added, “But there’s no body. His body, it just isn’t there. So if
you—please, Tera. We really need you here. Can you come? For a few days?”
“We?”
“Greyson
and I. He told me to call you and ask you to come. I mean, I said I wanted to,
and he said he thought it was a good idea and that you should.”
“Greyson
wants me there?”
“Yes.”
“To
stay there, at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.
I guess this really is serious.”
Megan
was prepared for what Tera said next, even allowed herself a small smile. It
was exactly what Greyson said she would ask, and Megan answered the questions
the way he’d told her to. “Yes, he’ll pay for your room. Yes, a big room, at
least a double, and he’s trying to get you a view. Yes, he’ll cover all your
bills while you’re here. Yes, all of them. Even pay-per-view. And the bar and
the boutiques, sure. No, I don’t need to double-check, he said all, and that
means all.”
Finally
Tera asked, “You do know I would come anyway, right?”
“Yes,
I know.”
“But
if he’s offering to pay, I just want to be sure I know what’s covered. I mean,
demons are pretty well known for trying to get around their promises.”
“Sure.”
Megan glanced back inside. The clerk was on the phone; Malleus saw her looking
and gave her a thumbs-up. He was the only person she knew who still did that.
“Okay.
I can be there in an hour or so. What room are you in?”
“Fourteen—
Hold on.” The glass lobby doors parted with a faint whir; the men stepped out
onto the dark green carpet that lay just past it.
“The
FBI agent’s gone to the Windbreaker Hotel,” Greyson said. He didn’t look happy
about it; she could sense his tension.
Not
surprising that he would be tense, really. Of all the places for their
wandering FBI agent to have wandered, that was the last place Megan would have
expected. “Where the exorcism thing is happening?”
He
nodded, his face grim. “She told the clerk she had to help Reverend
What’s-his-name rid the world of demons.”
The
contrast between the Bellreive and the Windbreaker couldn’t have been sharper
had it been etched with a razor blade. Where the Bellreive’s lobby was a wide
expanse of gleaming marble and shining wood, with suited bellhops and desk
staff, the Windbreaker’s lobby was muggy and loud with ancient air
conditioning. The desk, a cheap slab of veneered pressboard, was empty;
yellowish lights shone from the ceiling.
“We’re
going to need to roust a clerk,” Greyson said. “I seriously doubt the good
reverend is playing with his snakes this late at night. He’ll be in his room.”
“We
should have waited for Tera.” Megan hugged herself tighter; the buzzing at the
base of her neck was growing. Something wasn’t right there, not right at all.
There was an . . . an emptiness in the building, somehow.
“Roc
will get her here,” he replied. His knuckles made a hollow sound on the
desktop. “If our friendly G-girl is in mortal danger, it’s best not to waste any
time. We have enough to do this week without getting involved in some silly
police business.”
“Right.”
The goosebumps on her arms refused to be soothed away, no matter how hard she
rubbed. There was really no reason for her to be
so nervous, none that she could see. Whatever the odd emptiness was, that blank
sort of pressure she felt, it didn’t threaten. The brothers stood around her
and Greyson, their poses confident and prepared; she didn’t think a moth would
be able to get past them, much less anything else.
Malleus
caught her looking around. “Don’t you fret none, m’lady. Nowt’ll ’appen wiv us
around.”
“Yeh.”
Greyson
knocked on the desk again. “What a rathole.”
She
felt the clerk coming before she saw him, the stirring of thoughts and emotions
in a back room.
Wait.
How did she feel that? She wasn’t open. Wasn’t focusing. Usually in order to
sense people in other rooms, she had to lower her shields a little. She’d had
to earlier, when she felt Agent Reid and the wi—
No.
That wasn’t what she’d felt; at least it hadn’t been what she thought she felt.
She’d thought it was a demon. But why?
The
clerk, a large man with dandruff dusting his cheap suit and the shiny look of
someone who’d been sleeping rough, ambled out from behind a wall. “What do you
need?”
“I believe
you have a guest here by the name of Walther? Reverend Walther?”
“I
can’t give out that information, man. Our guests are—”
Greyson
leaned forward. Megan felt his power slide through the air. “I think you can,”
he said softly. “Why not tell me his room number? That’s all I need. It’s not so much to ask, is it? No. Of course not. It’s the
right thing to do, really. So why not?”
A
moment of silence, Greyson’s power curling in the air. Megan shivered, and not
just from the weight of it. That power was everything she felt in the hidden
hours they spent together, alone, and her body responded. Couldn’t help but
respond.
His
free hand reached for her, stroked her arm. The touch whispered through her
body; she felt it spread through his as well, but he didn’t look at her. He
couldn’t, she knew. To break eye contact with the clerk would break the hold on
him as well.
“Room
three thirty-three,” the clerk said finally, in the slightly dreamy tone of
someone asleep.
“Has
he had any visitors this evening? Anyone ask for him?”
“A
woman came, half an hour ago. The reverend came down and met her. They went
back to his room.”
“Has
she left?”
“Didn’t
see her leave.”
“Thank
you. You can go back to sleep now.”
The
power snapped away as Greyson turned. They left the clerk, already shuffling
off back behind his wall, and headed for the elevators.
Megan
stopped halfway there. The emptiness was stronger there. She felt it like
stepping into a cold draft. “Hold on.”
They
stood outside a nondescript brown door. The thin plaque on the wall beside it
informed them that this was the entrance to the Flower Ballroom.
“What
is it?” He’d taken her hand as they walked away
from the desk. Now he gave it a faint squeeze. “You look a little pale, bryaela.
Are you okay?”
“Yeah,
I’m just . . . it feels weird in here.”
He
examined her for a second, his gaze sweeping over her face and resting on her
eyes. “Want to go in?”
She
didn’t, actually. But she didn’t want to admit that. She wasn’t scared,
necessarily. It wasn’t fear making her heart beat a little faster. It was that
emptiness, that sensation of nothing. She hadn’t felt that in a while. Or
rather, she hadn’t felt that outside Ieuranlier Sorithell, a houseful of demons
she couldn’t read.
She’d
never felt it out in the real world, the human world.
So
she nodded. Even as she did so, she was aware that they could be walking into a
trap, but she did it anyway. “The room feels empty.”
He
glanced up, nodded at the brothers. The secret sound of knives being drawn from
pockets and sheaths filled the air around them before Maleficarum opened the
door.
The
room wasn’t empty.
What
the hell?
How
had she not been able to feel them? They were just people. Three hotel
employees, two maids and what looked like a maintenance man, tidying the room.
They glanced up when the door opened. Quick movements beside her were the
brothers tucking their weapons behind their backs.
“C’n
I help you?” The man plucked a screwdriver from his pocket. The brothers tensed
around her, but he simply held it. Beside him
were exposed wires and a wall sconce half dangling like an open seashell.
“We
were looking for Reverend Walther,” Greyson said smoothly, as if he’d expected
to find people in the room. People she hadn’t sensed. People she couldn’t read.
“He’s
not here now.” One of the maids picked up a chair, started carrying it to the
stacks against the wall. The room was set up as for a seminar of some kind,
with a table at the far end and rows and rows of chairs lined up to observe it.
About half the chairs appeared to be gone, waiting against the wall for the
next day. Or so she assumed.
“Bless
him,” the other maid said. “He must be just exhausted from what he did here
earlier. You should have seen it. He was amazing.”
“He’s
touched by the angels,” the maintenance man agreed.
“I’ve
never seen anything so amazing.” The first maid turned around and headed back
to the row of chairs. Her gold necklace caught the light and flashed at Megan
before she bent again to grab another chair. “He truly has the power of Jesus
behind him.”
“We’re
lucky he’s here,” the maintenance man informed them.
“We’re
all blessed by his presence,” said the second maid.
Megan
and Greyson glanced at each other. His eyes were troubled; he cut them
sideways, back at the chair-stacking maid, and raised his eyebrows.
Megan
looked again but didn’t see anything. He shrugged. “Well, thank you. What time
does the show start tomorrow?”
The
maintenance man frowned. “It’s not a show. He’s saving lives.”
“Of
course. What time does the life-saving start tomorrow?”
None
of the room’s occupants—none of the human occupants—seemed to like that
comment, but finally the first maid spoke. “Eleven. Eleven in the morning, and
he won’t leave until everyone is clean.”
“Until
they’re all free from the demon scourge,” added the other maid.
Malleus
snickered.
Greyson’s
lips twitched. “Thank you.”
They
barely got the door closed behind them before the demons started giggling.
Megan understood their amusement but couldn’t bring herself to share it. “Why
couldn’t I feel them?”
Greyson
stopped smiling. “Did you try while we were in the room? While they were
speaking?”
“No,
I—no. I don’t know why.”
He
reached for the doorknob. “Do you want to try again?”
“Careful
now, Lord Dante.” Malleus had not stopped smiling. He looked like the Joker.
“There’s a demon scourge about, there is.”
Maleficarum
slapped him on the back. “Aye, there is! Fink we oughter be scared? Nobody’s
safe wif demons about.”
For
once their humor didn’t go completely over Me gan’s
head, but for once she didn’t feel at all like laughing. The only people she’d
ever failed to read had not been people at all. They’d been demons. But the
three inside the Flower Ballroom had most certainly been human. Since Christmas
and the consolidation of her powers, she’d been more easily able to tell the
difference. Demons had a certain feel to them, a power signature that humans
simply didn’t have.
Even
as she thought it, though, something else occurred to her. No. There had been
another human she couldn’t read. Not a witch either; witches were also difficult
to read but had a certain feel to them.
She’d
had a radio caller just before Christmas, just before things with her demons
and Ktana Leyak—a leyak demon, the one who’d created the Yezer—had
gotten truly out of hand. The caller had called because of problems with her
mother or something—Megan couldn’t remember the details very well. She wouldn’t
have remembered the details at all if not for the fact that the woman had been
unreadable.
Megan
had suspected possession herself at the time. But perhaps . . .
perhaps something else was going on?
Shit.
The last thing she needed was for her powers to start going wonky again.
“That’s
enough,” Greyson said, dragging her back to reality and dragging them all
toward the elevator. “We need to find that FBI agent, and we need to figure out
what exactly the reverend is up to. I don’t like this one bit.”
“Yes,
what were you looking at, by the way? You raised your eyebrows at me.”
“The
maid’s necklace,” he said, and pressed the button. “Didn’t you see it? There’s
clearly something off happening here.”
“No,
I didn’t see it, why?”
The
elevator doors opened. They all stepped inside. “She was wearing a Star of
David.”
Chapter Eleven
“I
don’t—” she started, then stopped. Oh, right. “Most Jewish people aren’t
testifying about the power of Jesus.”
“Correct.
So unless she converted and forgot to remove her jewelry, we could have a
problem here. You couldn’t read them?”
She
shook her head. “The room felt empty. And not even empty. More than empty, if
you know what I mean. Like there was . . . an absence. A
vacuum.”
The
elevator stopped, and the doors slid open, revealing a nondescript hallway
empty of anything but doors. The patterned carpet made Megan think uneasily of The
Shining.
They
all stood for a second as if the opening of the elevator doors was an event
they couldn’t possibly have anticipated. Then the brothers exited, peering
around the wall first, checking to make sure nothing and no one lurked in wait.
Greyson
took her hand and led her into the hall, the dim light lost in the darkness of
his hair. She hadn’t noticed before how tired he looked, how the shadows under
his eyes weren’t just caused by the horrid plastic- covered
fluorescents clinging to the ceiling, casting a greenish glow on everything.
But
then she was sure she looked exhausted. She certainly felt exhausted, as if
someone had attached heavy weights to her limbs. Being almost killed hadn’t
exactly pepped her up either; all the energy she’d taken from the witch on the
roof had dissipated, worn away by fear and worry and the desperate search for
answers.
Not
that she really expected them to find any here. That would be too easy. The
idea that Reverend Walther would open the door and announce, “There you are!
I’ve been trying to kill you for days!” was a tad far-fetched.
But
then the idea that he had anything at all to do with this was a tad
far-fetched, even with the proof—circumstantial though it was—staring her right
in the face.
“They
were definitely human,” Greyson said as they started walking down the hall.
“So
maybe they were possessed?”
He
shook his head. “I don’t think so. They didn’t feel like demon at all. Did you
see their Yezer?”
“No,
I—no, I didn’t. But they’re supposed to keep hidden, so I wouldn’t.”
“Your
Yezer are supposed to keep hidden. If they belong to someone else, they might
not.”
True.
She nodded. “I’ll ask Roc.”
They’d
reached Walther’s room at that point, an unassuming door like all the others,
dark wood, with light showing in the slight gap beneath. The brothers stepped
back, out of the way, and Greyson knocked.
After
a moment a voice came through the door. “How can I help you?”
Shit.
Megan hadn’t even thought of what they might say, what sort of cover story
they’d need.
Greyson
apparently had. When he spoke, his voice had a hesitant twang. “Reverend, we’re
looking for our friend?”
He
glanced at Megan; she whispered, “Elizabeth.”
“We’re
looking for our friend Elizabeth? She left a note saying she was coming to see
you, but that was a while ago, and we’re getting—”
Shadows
moved across the light on the floor. The door opened.
Megan
wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Some John Knox–esque character with raving
eyes and a flowing beard, perhaps, or a slick Benny Hinn type with shellacked
hair and an oily smile.
Reverend
Walther was neither. Pale blue pajamas, frayed at the hems, covered his medium
frame and gapped slightly at the front where his belly widened. Silver hair
topped his head; his eyes were small and brown and full of what appeared to be
honest concern.
“You’re
friends with that girl?”
Megan
didn’t listen to Greyson’s reply. She was too busy lowering her shields,
reaching out to see if she got anything from the man, unsure if she hoped she
would.
She
did. A church interior. Heads bowed over books. A wife and three daughters at
home, dressed in exceedingly modest high-necked, ankle-length dresses. Roast
beef and station wagons. Soup kitchens.
And
beneath it all something that genuinely scared her,
a force that sent cold chills all the way to her toes. Not because it was
demonic or otherworldly but because it wasn’t. The reverend was a fanatic. He
truly believed in what he was doing, honestly thought he had the power to expel
demons and that God wanted him to do so, and he would do anything to obey that
command.
Greyson
had told her that the Christian God had very little to do with demons anymore,
that there was no Hell, and that the concept of a good-versus-evil battle was
outdated and silly. Or, rather, that the concept of a good-versus-evil battle
being based on religion and the power of God was outdated and silly. Yes,
demons did lead humans astray whenever they could, but that was for fun and
profit. For power. Not because some devil told them to.
Walther
believed the exact opposite, and just standing in the presence of someone with
that much self-justified rage and self-exaltation made her twitch.
The
other thing she got from him, the last thing, didn’t help either. He didn’t
know who she was. Thought she looked familiar but didn’t know her. Didn’t know
who or what Greyson and the brothers were.
“—but
she left about fifteen minutes ago,” Walther was saying when she snapped back
to reality. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that.”
Megan
took a deep breath and reached for him with her mind again, focusing on
Elizabeth Reid this time.
Yes.
Okay. There was Elizabeth, her dark hair a little mussed, her eyes wide and
hopeless. And she . . . Wait. She looked fine. Well, not fine;
she looked upset, a little spacey. But she
didn’t look injured. Her bare arms and exposed throat were free of marks.
So
where the hell had all that blood come from?
“I
talked to her for a few minutes and told her to come back tomorrow.”
“When
you do your exorcisms,” Greyson said.
“When
God works through me to cast the demons out,” Walther corrected.
“Of
course. Thanks for your time.”
“God
bless you,” said Walther, and closed the door.
They
walked in silence back to the elevator. Megan didn’t want to speak; too many
thoughts circled in her head, too many unanswered questions. Plus, she was
afraid Walther would hear. She pictured him with a cheap plastic hotel cup
pressed to the door, spying on them. Probably a silly image but one she
couldn’t shake, and she didn’t feel like trying to read him again to confirm or
refute it.
But
the others may have shared her discomfort or caution, because Greyson didn’t
speak until the elevator had started to descend. “Well. That was
anticlimactic.”
“She
weren’t even there,” Malleus agreed. “’Ow’d she get out right past us?”
“Maybe
she left out a different exit, or while we were in the ballroom.” Megan leaned
against Greyson, who wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “It doesn’t really
matter. She’s alive and well anyway. She didn’t even look injured.”
“You
saw her? So you could read him, then.”
She
nodded without opening her eyes. Exhaustion was starting to hit her hard; her
head buzzed with it. Without thinking, she
reached out along the psychic line connecting the Yezer to her and gave it a
little tug. The energy helped, but she still needed sleep. “He’s kind of a
kook. I mean, he’s a fanatic. He really believes what he’s doing. But he’s not
evil. Not in an Accuser sort of way, at least.”
“But
just as dangerous.” Greyson’s arm tightened around her. “Fanatics always are.”
“That’s
so cheering.”
“Hmm.
What’s even more cheering is that we have to come back here tomorrow and watch
his little show.”
“Right.
She wanted his help.” Megan stood up straight, her eyes opening. “She said she
thought they could help each other. She didn’t identify herself as FBI; he had
no idea who she was. I mean, he figured she was just another wanderer—that’s
how he thinks of them, wanderers—looking for spiritual aid.”
“She
didn’t say how she could help him?”
“No.
But he told her to come back tomorrow morning, and she said she would.”
He
sighed as the elevator doors slid open again to reveal the shabby lobby. “And
you’re sure whatever attacked her is what came after you?”
“No.”
The clerk was sleeping again. The lobby felt too big, too cold; that spot of
emptiness still hung around the ballroom door. Megan held Greyson’s hand a
little tighter and felt his answering squeeze. “But I feel like it was. What
else could it have been? And—oh! I meant to tell you. When I sensed her and
whatever attacked me, I thought it was a demon, because it didn’t feel like
anything. It felt empty, like the maids did in there.”
Hot
air blasted them when Malleus opened the lobby doors. The night waited outside,
wrapped itself around them as they crossed the gritty sidewalk. “If she
suspects she was attacked by something not human,” Greyson said, “we have a
much bigger problem. Why don’t we head back to her room? We can erase the whole
thing from her head. No, better yet, Tera can do it.”
Megan
hesitated. “I didn’t see whoever it was who attacked me. Maybe she did.”
“You
can read her first, then. See if you get anything.”
He
was right. She knew he was. But she was so damn tired; her hands were cold
despite the heat, her eyelids heavy, and the entire night had been reduced to
nothing more than a confused jumble of images. Nothing more than a body falling
off the roof, dark against the city lights, that moment of utter silence when
she’d watched a man die.
At
least when she’d thought she was watching a man die. And being fervently and
purely grateful that it wasn’t her.
“Can’t
we do it in the morning?”
He
stopped walking, touched her cheek. “You’re that tired?”
She
nodded.
“I
guess it— Actually, that might be better. We’ll keep an eye on her. Maybe we
can . . . hmm.”
“What?”
They’d
reached the car; not Greyson’s Jaguar, which was back at the Bellreive, but the
Mercedes SUV the brothers had driven to the hotel. Spud opened the door, then
closed it behind them and climbed into the back. Malleus
and Maleficarum sat up front. Megan had gotten used to it, the feeling of
always being under observation, but she’d also gotten used to saving some
discussions for later, when the brothers weren’t around. One of those popped
into her head as she fastened her seat belt. She made a mental note not to
forget again.
“I
was just wondering,” he said as they left their parking spot. The air
conditioning kicked on, reviving her a little. At least, instead of feeling
like her limbs were overcooked pasta, she felt fairly al dente. “Why a demon,
or a witch, would want to get what’s-her-name involved with some silly faith
healer.”
Megan
had been wondering it too, but in an abstract kind of way. Now she realized it
was the biggest question, the one she should have been asking all along. The
answer she came up with sent cold chills down her spine and woke her up far
more than she’d thought possible. Without much hope, she asked, “Because they
thought it would be funny?”
He
smiled. It was too dark in the car to see his eyes, but she could picture them
just the same, that combination of pride and amusement that flooded her with
heat every time. “I do wish that were the case. But I somehow doubt it is.”
“So
do you know why?”
His
hand found hers on the seat, closed around it tightly, as if he was trying to
keep it from escaping. “No. But I intend to find out.”
Chapter Twelve
By
mutual consent, they didn’t discuss the subject anymore, sticking to lighter
topics such as which drive-through restaurant to go to, since Megan had
effectively missed dinner and they didn’t want to wait for room service. The
food revived her a bit, as did the call from Tera informing them that she was
all checked in and asking if they needed her to come down now, but Megan still
felt half dead. She told Tera they’d see her in the morning and slipped between
the sheets on the big, soft bed.
Perhaps
“half dead” wasn’t the best analogy. She shivered. Outside the wide picture
window lights glowed yellow against the dark sky, like candles in a cave.
Walling them in, watching them.
Greyson’s
arms closed around her, pulled her tight against his warm chest. They’d turned
the thermostat down earlier; she didn’t think it was necessary. It didn’t feel
as though anything could truly warm her. The entire night since those frantic
minutes on the roof seemed to have taken forever and yet less than the space of
an eyeblink at the same time.
She
was too tired to sleep; her entire body hummed with
nervous tension. He wasn’t sleeping either. His breath stirring her hair was
too shallow and fast for it.
For
a second she considered slipping off the little nightie, letting him take her
mind off what happened. Probably make it easier to fall asleep too.
But . . . shit. She didn’t want to, she realized, because she
was afraid of what might happen if they let their attention drift, if they
weren’t alert and aware, ready to go after anything that tried to slip through
the walls and into their room.
They
weren’t safe there. They weren’t safe anywhere. A being that could fall off a
roof and somehow disappear before landing, that could get from the first floor
to the roof in a thick tangle of words and magic, could get her anywhere. Her
body tensed, ready to jump off the bed and hide if the room’s energy changed,
if the witch—if it was a witch—came after her.
“Spud
is on the balcony.” Greyson brushed her hair back from her face. “Malleus is in
the hall. He won’t get to us.”
She
relaxed a little. Not just from reassurance but because she didn’t want him to
feel her tension. She didn’t like to think she’d been so obvious. Even after
almost a year, she hated looking weak in front of him, even knowing he didn’t
see it that way. Didn’t see her that way. It was oddly difficult to get used
to, the way she couldn’t quite adjust to calling a servant to bring her a snack
instead of invading the Ieuranlier’s big kitchen herself.
“But
a witch could still beat one of them, right? Didn’t you tell me once—”
“We’re
not sure it’s a witch,” he reminded her. “Unless you’ve remembered something.”
“What
else could it be? I mean, are there demons that can walk through walls?” She
bit her lip, unsure what reply she was looking for. If it was a demon, she
wouldn’t worry so much. The hotel was full of demons; surely some of them would
help out—although now that she thought of it, she doubted Greyson would approve
of her asking them for help, and he’d be right. If looking weak in front of him
made her uncomfortable, after eleven months of . . . well, of
having a fantastic time and spending more and more time
together . . . if that made her uncomfortable, the thought of
looking weak in front of the other Gretnegs made her skin crawl. Greyson would
never take advantage of her weakness. They would, the way a cat would take
advantage of a mouse with its tail caught in a trap.
“No,
not as far as I know,” he said. “But I can’t figure out why a witch would carry
you onto the roof and attempt to throw you off. A witch could—”
“Yes,
I know. A witch could kill me with just a few words, a snap of the fingers, or
whatever. Tera told me.”
“I
imagine she did.” The amusement in his voice slid over her bare skin, as
intimate as a kiss. “That sounds like something Tera would say.”
“You
don’t sound as irritated as I expected you to sound.”
“Well,
she’s here. Of course, she didn’t come for free—I shudder to think what that
bill’s going to be like.”
“No,
you don’t.”
“You’re
right, I don’t give a shit. I hope she hits the damn jewelry store downstairs
and buys herself a diamond tiara. It’s worth it if she can help.”
Megan
shifted her position, lifted her head to kiss him. The hair at his nape was
soft and smooth under her fingers; in the room’s half-light his eyes glittered
faintly when she pulled away, the barest tinge of red visible.
It
wasn’t that kind of kiss, though. Not that kind of moment. At least not yet.
“Thank
you,” she said, sitting up to face him.
He
held her gaze; his hands slid up her arm, so lightly it was more like the
suggestion of a touch. “I figured out some time ago that you and Tera were
something of a package deal,” he said. His smile made her heart give a little
leap in her chest. “Since I don’t plan to give you up, I’m stuck with her.
Might as well make the best
of
it.”
“You
don’t plan to give me up, huh?”
His
eyes reddened a bit more. “No.”
“And
you think it’s up to you?” She leaned forward, scraped his throat lightly with
her teeth. “Don’t I have a say in it?”
“Hmm?
No. No, I don’t think so.” His hands moved with more purpose, over her
shoulders and collarbone, down to caress her breasts through the silk. “I think
it’s best if you let me make those decisions, don’t you? You just smile and
look pretty, and I’ll buy you more diamonds and a car.”
She
gasped, a sound halfway between laughter and something
else, as his hand moved farther down her body and found its way under the hem
of her nightie. “A car? Aren’t you afraid I’d leave?”
It
was a flippant joke, nothing more. A joke in the middle of a joking
conversation, like the ones they had often. She didn’t expect him to stop, to
place his hands firmly on her upper arms. The red light left his eyes as if
she’d flipped a switch. “Yes,” he said.
The
change of mood was so abrupt it took her a second to catch it. She’d been so
focused on forgetting, on moving back to a place she felt confident and safe,
it didn’t occur to her at first that he wasn’t flirting anymore, wasn’t joking.
It didn’t occur to her—and when it did, she was ashamed that it hadn’t—that
he’d just seen two attempts made on her life in as many days and that had their
positions been reversed, she would have had a hard time speaking at all.
Her
own smile disappeared. She sat back, resting her bottom on her feet. “I’m not
going anywhere.”
“I
sincerely hope not.”
“You’re . . .
you’re kind of freaking me out now.” The words came out hushed, expelled from a
throat gone dry.
“Meg.”
A heavy cut-crystal glass of scotch sat on his bedside table; he took a
deliberate sip, his serious gaze never leaving her face. “I know it’s not a
subject you enjoy discussing, but I think it’s possible you’d be safer if you
did the ritual.”
“The—how?
How in the world would that make a difference?”
“You
heard Justine at dinner. They don’t like that you don’t
plan to do it. Any one of them could have decided that if you’re going to
remain human—”
“Not
any one of them. Not Win, right? And I doubt Gunnar cares or—”
“Any
one of them,” he repeated. “Don’t make the mistake of trusting them.”
Had
she thought the room was cold before? It felt like a meat locker; she rubbed
her arms with her hands.
“I
doubt Win’s behind it,” he continued. “But any one of them could have reasons
we’re not aware of. This is your life, darling, I don’t want to take any—”
“If
I do the ritual, it won’t be my life anymore.” She said it without thinking,
but even if her education and training hadn’t taught her that such moments
usually brought the truth rushing to the fore, she would have recognized it.
Since the night she’d done her first radio show, the night Greyson and the
Yezer Ha-Ra had entered her life, she’d been desperately holding on to what
little remained of her old life.
Doing
the ritual would end it permanently. There would be no going back. There would
be no leaving the Yezer behind, no moving forward simply as a woman with an
interestingly different sort of lover—or boyfriend, for lack of a better term.
The piece of demon in her body would grow, would spread its dark wings through
her bloodstream, into her organs. Whatever she might gain or lose, whatever
remained the same, she would be unalterably, permanently Different.
“It
will be,” he said. The urgency in his voice sent a nervous chill up her spine;
she’d never heard that from him before, at
least not when discussing a subject other than how quickly her clothing could
come off. He’d never tried to talk her into doing the Haiken Kra before either.
So why the hell was he so concerned about it now? “Very little will change, but
you’ll have that protection; they won’t be able to see you as an outsider
anymore. Your powers will strengthen again. Perhaps that thing wouldn’t have
been able to sneak up on you earlier if you’d—”
“Are
you saying it’s my fault?”
“Fuck,
no, I’m just saying you might be safer, and right now your safety is—”
“More
important than my happiness? Than what I want?”
“Maybe
it should be. Are you seriously telling me you’d rather die than do it? Is
becoming demon really a fate worse than death to you?”
She
hesitated. Was it? She’d never thought of it in those terms before. Of course,
she hadn’t had any reason to. Her life hadn’t been in danger, not like this.
And
she’d never thought, either, of what effect her decision might have on him or,
rather, of how he might feel about it. On the few occasions when the subject
had come up, he’d told her it was up to her and he wouldn’t get involved. She’d
never doubted that he wanted her to do it but never dreamed it was that
important to him.
“There’s
no guarantee it would make a difference,” she reminded him. “You said yourself
you don’t know. We don’t know who’s behind this. It could have nothing to do
with—with what I am. Right? And if I do this just
because someone’s after me, and it turns out to be totally
unrelated . . . it just doesn’t seem like the right way to make
a decision, does it?”
His
gaze slid away from her face, down to her hands resting on his flat, smooth
stomach. “No,” he said, his voice flat. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
“I
know. I mean, I’m worried too. But you just told me we’re safe in here. And
really, it’s not exactly the way I want to think, but if they’re going to get
me they’re going to get me, aren’t they? We’ll find out what’s going on. And
Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud will keep me safe. You’ll keep me safe. I took a
chance earlier. I shouldn’t have gone into that hall by myself; I should have
let you come with me. I won’t do that again. Now that we know it’s here, I’ll
be more careful, I promise. I just—I don’t want to rush into anything.”
“I
didn’t realize it was that important to you. Staying human.” His hand covered
hers, turned it palm up; he examined it with that same incurious stare. “I
always assumed . . . I understand if you’re scared, but I’d be
there with you. It’s not—”
“I’m
not scared. I just don’t want to. I don’t see a good reason to.”
He
looked up at her, his eyes shadowed. “Isn’t the—no. Never mind.” His expression
cleared, as if he’d wiped it clear with a cloth. “This is your decision,
darling. If it’s not something you want to do you’ll never be happy with having
done it, will you? I’m not going to try to talk you into it. If the possibility
of death isn’t enough, I don’t see what I could offer.”
The
whole conversation felt wrong; her earlier ex haustion
came roaring back, along with the odd certainty that something she didn’t
understand had just happened.
Something
she didn’t understand but should. She’d had that feeling before, hadn’t she?
Something lurking in the back of her mind, a memory she couldn’t pin down.
Hell, a memory she wasn’t sure was there at all.
And
she was exhausted, and she had survived a murder attempt and had spent fifteen
or twenty minutes convinced she’d killed a man. So it was entirely possible she
was reading something into it that didn’t exist, spooking at shadows in her
mind.
Not
to mention the abrupt change of mood. And if she were honest, the fact that she
didn’t think he’d ever been that direct about his feelings in regard to her.
That
she was important to him she didn’t doubt, hadn’t in months, in almost a year.
That he wanted her, wanted her company, she didn’t doubt. And although he’d
never said it, she didn’t doubt that he loved her.
It
wasn’t as odd as it might have seemed, the fact that he hadn’t said it. She
hadn’t either. She’d never really felt the need. Actions worked better, said more;
they both spent so much of their time talking, both at work and to each other,
that it had simply never seemed necessary. Their Christmas together, when he’d
given her the diamond necklace now sitting in her jewelry box on the dresser
and told her he’d tried to find one as beautiful as she was but it had been an
impossible task. The things she cooked for him and gave to one of the brothers
to slip into his desk drawers or leave in his car when he wasn’t looking, so
he’d find them and know she was thinking of
him. The day he’d told her it was silly of her not to keep things at his place.
The day she’d found her radio show on his iPod, because if he couldn’t listen
to it live, he’d record it for later.
Those
memories stood out, but there were hundreds of other, smaller moments that
stood out just as much, that warmed her when she remembered them and made her
feel secure. Words were lovely, but they were just words. They couldn’t always
be trusted; she of all people knew that.
She
didn’t always trust words. She hadn’t always trusted Greyson. But since that
Christmas, she had, and he trusted her. That trust between them had been
something solid enough, strong enough, to support them both.
So
the feeling that she had failed him somehow, that she’d misunderstood
something, made her skin colder than it had been before. She ran her palms up
his chest, leaned forward and rested her head on it, listening to the steady
beat of his heart with her eyes closed; after a moment his hand came to rest on
her hair, warm and reassuring.
“You
should get some sleep,” he said. “If I know Tera—and I do—she’ll be banging on
the door at some ungodly hour, wanting you to go out and play tennis and have a
makeover or something.”
“As
if I’d let her talk me into that.”
“And
thank God. The last thing I want is for you to wander around looking like a
Tera clone. I happen to think you’re quite lovely the way you are, despite your
crankiness and violent streak.” He shifted position so she
could stretch out more easily beside him and she did so, relieved. Whatever had
changed in the air changed back; everything was normal again.
“Am
I?”
“Cranky
and violent? Yes. I hardly think that comes as a surprise.”
She
smiled. “No. I mean the other thing.”
“Ah.
Fishing for compliments is never an attractive behavior in a lady, you know.”
“Humor
me. It’s been a rough night.”
He
was silent for a moment, absentmindedly stroking her thigh. Or perhaps not so
absentmindedly, after all; his fingers kept inching higher and higher, urging
the silky fabric out of the way.
“It
has been rather rough.” His other hand found her chin, lifted it to look in her
eyes. “I think I know a way to salvage it, though.”
“Really?
That doesn’t sound like humoring me, I have to say.”
“Oh,
I think you’ll be very pleased when I’m done. In fact, I believe I can
guarantee it.” His hand moved with more deliberation, eliciting a sharp little
gasp from her. “See?”
She
managed to nod.
“And
to answer your question, sheshissma ?” His voice was none too steady
itself; she’d managed to find a use for her own hands. “I think you know very
well what you do to me, and how very much I hope you’ll keep doing it.”
“Show
me,” she said.
And
he did.
Chapter Thirteen
The
knock on the door did indeed come bright and early; the clock by the bed
informed Megan that it was quarter past eight. On a workday she would have
already been up and moving, but then on a workday she wouldn’t have been awake
until almost three the night before.
Either
way. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep, and despite her fondness for
Tera and her utter gratitude that Tera had come, she wasn’t in the mood.
Along
with the sunlight slicing a path through her brain came the unwelcome memories
of the night before. Yes, there were one or two very welcome memories in there
as well, but for the most part . . . ugh.
Chief
of all of them was the conversation she’d had with Greyson. She wanted to
believe his sudden interest in getting her to do the ritual was related solely
to her safety, but convincing herself of that was more difficult than she’d
expected it to be in the hard sharp morning. Having the subject brought up
twice in one night seemed a little much for coincidence.
It
didn’t matter. She grabbed her robe off the chair and slipped it on, while the
pounding continued. Tera could sit and order some room service or something while she took a shower; judging from the closed door
and the sound of water running, Greyson was already in there.
Of
course, he could have simply leaped in when the knocking started in order to
avoid Tera.
She
tied the robe’s belt around her waist and turned the knob. “Hi, Ter—Nick!”
Before
she could even finish saying his name his arms were around her, squeezing her
almost as tight as she squeezed him. Nick Xao-teng was one of Greyson’s oldest
friends and probably his closest, and had become one of hers as well. But Nick
didn’t have anything to do with the Meegras; he was, he’d once told her, “an
independent contractor.”
She hadn’t
asked him what exactly that meant.
“What
are you doing here? I mean, I’m glad to see you, I just—”
He
kissed her soundly on the cheek, gave her one last squeeze, and dipped into a
flourished bow. “At your service, hon. Grey called me last night.”
Right.
“You’re here to guard me.”
Nick’s
eyebrow rose. He hadn’t changed since she’d seen him last, two months before,
but he never did. Descended from a Chinese half-succubus mother and a
part-psyche-demon father of whom he never spoke, Nick was devastatingly
handsome, with an aura of raw sexual energy that he used to full advantage.
Except
around her. At least not after their first meeting, when she’d gotten a taste
of what it felt like to be seduced by an incubus. He hadn’t realized she was
with Greyson, and Greyson had arrived before she’d been able
to do much more than lose a little breath—along with dignity—but still. She
didn’t think she’d ever forget that feeling, or how angry she’d been.
She
was glad she’d forgiven him, though.
“I
am indeed here to guard you,” he said. “Although ‘escort’ is really more the
way Greyson put it. He said he has some meetings and stuff and asked if I would
mind making sure you’re never alone.” He set down his suitcase and closed the
door behind him. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
“I
should hope not.” Greyson emerged from the bedroom, with his hair damp and his
shirt untucked. “Not after what a last-minute ticket from Miami to here cost
me.”
“Like
you can’t afford it,” Nick replied. “Have you traded in the Jag for a solid-gold
Rolls yet?”
“You
could have one yourself, you know, if you’d—”
“Don’t
even start.”
Megan
smiled as the men embraced. That was an old discussion, one they seemed to
engage in out of habit. Greyson wanted Nick to move from Miami and work with
him, to do Carter’s job; Nick resisted. If she’d heard them talk about it once,
she’d heard it a hundred times.
She
slipped away while they conversed and hurried through a shower. Seeing Nick was
a pleasure. Imagining the two of them sitting alone with Tera wasn’t, and she
had no doubt Tera would be there any minute.
Sure
enough, the witch’s voice floated through the closed bedroom door when she
emerged fifteen minutes later. Megan tossed on a plain dark dress—if they were
heading over to see Reverend Walther later, which they were,
she wanted to look as unobtrusive as possible—and opened the door.
Tera
was sitting in the dark leather armchair, a tray over her lap loaded down with
food. She barely looked up from her plate when Megan entered. “Hey. Any new
information?”
“I
was kind of hoping you might have had some ideas.”
Tera
shook her head, making nodding wait-a-minute motions while she forced down an
enormous bite of muffin. Witches never turned down free food. Or really
anything free. Finally she swallowed. “I did a quick check through the
Vergadering mainframe last night, but I couldn’t find anything about you, or
this hotel, or any indication that someone on one of the watch lists is in
town.”
Megan
raised her eyebrows and settled on the couch next to Greyson, who rested his
hand on her thigh. “Watch list?”
“Yeah,
you know. Known assassins, criminals for hire . . . There are a
few mercenary witches out there, and we keep tabs on them as best we can.”
“As
opposed to simply arresting them,” Greyson said.
“We
don’t know exactly where they are,” Tera said, through another chunk of muffin.
“We would if we did. We just get rumors about them being in specific cities,
specific places. We do what we can.”
“Funny.
You always manage to know the exact location of any one of us who got a parking
ticket at any given time.”
Tera
made a sour face. Megan squeezed Greyson’s thigh
hard and cut in before either of them could make it worse. “Thanks for
checking, Tera. Is there any chance you just don’t know whoever-it-was is in
town?”
Tera
glared at Greyson for another second or two before answering. “Of course it’s
possible. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m the only witch in the
building at the moment. And I’m going to do a little something for you, so
you’ll be better able to tell if any of us are around you.”
“You
can do that?”
“Of
course.” Tera tossed her head. Her long, straight blond hair caught a ray of
sunlight and glowed for a moment before falling obediently behind her right
shoulder. She gave Greyson and Nick a significant look. “Actually, it’s
something we picked up from them.”
“What
do you—”
Greyson
leaned forward. “You’re going to do a betchimal ?”
“You
know what it is, then.”
“Of
course I know what it is. I don’t know how to perform it, since you witches
stole the knowledge, but—”
“Oh,
will you give me a fucking break, Grey? It’s not like you’re so poor and
downtrodden.” Tera gave the walls around them, gleaming pale in the morning
light, a significant look. “I didn’t personally steal anything, okay? It’s not
my fault you guys lost.”
“No,
but you work for—”
“Okay.”
Megan stood up. “That’s enough, you two. Can we get back to something that
actually matters here? You know, someone trying
to kill me? Someone who attacked an FBI agent and made her go seek out an
exorcist, for whatever reason? I think we have bigger things to concern
ourselves with than some centuries-old war. Don’t you?”
Silence
hung heavy in the air for a second. Neither Tera nor Greyson bothered to blush
or look sheepish, but she knew them both well enough to know that had they been
a little less self-contained, they would have.
Then
Tera spoke, her expertly colored lips curving into a smile. “FBI agent? What’s
the FBI doing here, Greyson?”
Greyson
smiled back. Megan could practically see the halo over his head. “How in the
world would I know?”
“It
doesn’t matter,” Megan said. She realized she was still standing, as if she was
about to break into song, and plunked herself back down on the couch. “What
does matter is that she’s here, and I think the thing—the witch, if it is a
witch, which I guess it is—attacked her, and then she ran to the hotel to talk
to the exorcism guy. I have no idea why, or why he would be involved in all of
this, but I’d like to find out.”
Tera
finished her muffin. “And where is this FBI agent now? Do you think she knows
what attacked her?”
Megan
shook her head. “She’s probably in her room, and no, I don’t think so. We went
to see the reverend last night—”
“Reverend?”
“Reverend
Walther, the exorcist. We went to see him last night, and I read him and saw
his conversation with her. She wanted to join
his crusade or whatever, but she didn’t mention demons or witches or anything
specifically.”
Tera
frowned and popped a piece of melon into her mouth. “Walther. That name sounds
familiar. And don’t you think it’s possible that she wanted to join him because
she knew what had come after her?”
“Yes,
it’s possible, but I don’t think that’s the case. She
seemed . . . kind of dazed. And she said she could help him. I
don’t really see why she would offer to help him, if she knew she’d been
attacked by something, well, not quite human. Or whatever.”
“A
superior being,” Tera said.
“Hey!
I’m human, remember.”
“Oh,
I remember. Okay. I think the best thing to do is head down to her room. I’ll
do a little spell so she’ll forget the attack, and we can wipe our hands of her
at least.”
Greyson
leaned forward. Had innocence been a tangible thing, like chocolate, he would
have been brown from head to toe. “Perhaps it would be better to remove her
memories of all of us and send her away. We wouldn’t want her getting in the
way and being hurt again, would we?”
Tera’s
eyes narrowed. For a long moment they all sat, silent, while she chewed her
melon and thought whatever it was she was thinking. Megan suspected it had
something to do with wishing desperately that Greyson’s idea wasn’t a good one
and trying to think of a way to get out of doing what he wanted.
“I
guess you’re right,” she said finally. “But I think you’re going to owe me a
favor.”
“Done.”
“Okay,
then.” Megan stood back up, this time for a reason. She wanted to get down to
Agent Reid’s room as quickly as possible, and not just because it was nearing
nine o’clock. She could never be sure how things were going to go when she had
Greyson and Tera both in the same room; sometimes they got along just fine,
even managed to joke and at least put on a good enough show of enjoying each
other’s company. Other times they were like a couple of sharks fighting over
the same tasty innocent victim. This was clearly one of the latter occasions.
Could
she blame them? Perhaps they weren’t as edgy as she was—they weren’t the ones
who’d almost been killed—but again, if either of them had been, she wouldn’t
exactly have been in a chipper mood. The thought of something happening to
either of them, of the hole that would leave in her life . . .
She shuddered as she slipped on her shoes.
Eleven
months ago she hadn’t known either of them existed and hadn’t really had anyone
in the world, except her patients, who would even have noticed if she’d
disappeared. Perhaps Althea—one of her old partners in the group practice—would
have worried. Althea had kept in touch, sort of, but Megan hadn’t heard from
her in a couple of months. Nobody else. She’d been alone, completely and
totally, not even speaking to her family.
Now
she had friends. A man she loved, who she knew loved her. A real family, even
if they were a bunch of little demons who fed on human misery.
All
that in less than a year. And the thought of some thing
happening, of losing one of the people who’d enriched her life so much, sent a
stab of fear straight to her heart. She shivered again, harder.
“Meg?
You okay?” Greyson must have seen her shudder. When she turned around, he was
watching her, his brows drawn together.
“Yeah,
I’m fine.” She gave him a bright smile. What the hell was her problem? Well,
stupid question—someone was trying to kill her, after all—but where was this
silliness about losing someone coming from? Tera had taken time off
work—probably called in sick, but Megan had no idea what Vergadering’s vacation
policies might be like—and come to stay at the Bellreive just to help her. And
yes, Greyson was paying for her room and everything else, but she would have
come anyway.
And
Greyson . . . was buying things for a witch, had actually
requested Tera’s presence. That’s how much he cared, how much he wanted Megan
to be safe. He’d flown Nick up here on a moment’s notice, to protect her. And
Nick had come—another person who cared about her.
So
why, then, did she suddenly have the horrible feeling that it was all about to
disappear, the way the body of her attacker disappeared over the edge of the
roof, plummeting away from her so fast she couldn’t stop it?
Greyson
was still watching her. “Are you sure? You look a little pale.”
“Yes,
of course.” The smile was starting to make her cheeks ache. “Goose walked over
my grave, is all.”
It
was not the right cliché to use.
Chapter Fourteen
“So,”
Tera said as they walked down the hall. “What’s the deal with this FBI person?”
Megan
hesitated. She glanced at Nick, walking beside them, but he just raised his
eyebrows. No help there.
“I
don’t know,” she said finally. This, more than the bickering, was the one thing
she truly hated about being friends with Tera. Tera worked for Vergadering. If
Tera had any proof that Greyson or any of the other Gretnegs were involved in
criminal activities, she could haul them off to prison. And from what Megan
understood, a regular human prison was Club Med compared to Vergadering prison.
She
couldn’t allow that to happen. Not simply because she couldn’t but because if
she did, her life wouldn’t be worth a dime. Demons may have devoted a lot of
their time to figuring out how to cheat people, but they took honor very
seriously. A demon’s word meant a lot; a demon’s silence was something worth
dying for.
So
as much as Megan would have liked to have told Tera what Agent Reid had said to
her and what the woman’s suspicions were, she couldn’t. Mentioning that the FBI
was investigating Greyson and the others wasn’t proof of a crime, of course,
and wouldn’t exactly surprise Tera, but
Vergadering could get all sorts of information. As Tera had pointed out the
night before, witches were powerful. Any one of them could dig into the FBI’s
files and find who-knew-what.
“She’s
just here as a guest, I guess. I only know she’s FBI because we were behind her
when we checked in.”
“And
she got attacked last night?”
Megan
gave her a carefully edited version of the story. “There was blood all over,”
she finished. “Bloody towels . . . it didn’t look like she’d
just cut herself shaving or anything. But when I read Walther, she looked just
fine, at least to him. So I don’t know where all the blood came from.”
“Huh.
Weird. How are you feeling? Still woozy?”
“No.”
The betchimal Tera put on her had sent her running for the bathroom,
certain she was going to be sick. She hadn’t been, but it was a close call.
The
nausea had only lasted a couple of minutes, though. And the spell certainly
worked; Megan could feel Tera beside her, like a spot of heat seen
through infrared goggles. “Just wishing we didn’t have to do this.”
“Yeah,
I guess this isn’t how you want to spend your birthday, huh? Maybe it will all
be over by then.”
Megan
blinked. She’d forgotten about that.
“It’s
your birthday?” Nick asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“Not
for another couple of days. It’s no big deal.”
“Why
do you think someone is trying to kill you?” Tera asked, as if birthdays and
murders were normally part of the same conversation. “I mean, have you thought
about it?”
Megan
shook her head. “I can’t imagine. It’s not like I’m particularly important or
anything.”
“Probably
something to do with Greyson.”
“Hey!”
Nick said. Was it her imagination, or did he sound nervous? An edge seemed to
lurk behind his voice that she’d never heard before. “You don’t know that.”
Tera
shrugged. “What else could it be? You heard her. She’s not important. Nobody
seems to be after her little demons, but as far as I know, you guys are always
trying to kill each other for one reason or another, and with Greyson being in
charge now—”
“All
the more reason why this probably has nothing to do with him. What could anyone
possibly gain if Megan died?”
“I
am still here,” Megan said. “I’m walking right between you.”
“Who
knows what they might gain? But it’s hardly possible someone wants to kill
Megan just for herself. It’s got to be connected to Greyson somehow.”
“You
act like he set this up or something. Don’t you think—”
“What
I think,” Tera said, “is that being with him puts her in danger, and she should
get out. Out of this whole thing. It’s not like they’re going to get married or
anything. She—”
“Stop
it!” Megan grabbed them both by the arms and forced them to halt. “Just stop
it. Tera, what the hell is with you? Why do you keep picking fights?”
“I
don’t want to see you get hurt.” Tera’s cheeks were flushed; Megan had never
seen her so emotional. “You’re my friend, and I don’t want to lose you. And you wouldn’t be in this situation if you hadn’t
gotten so mixed up with them.”
“Them?” Nick’s expression was close
to a snarl. “Mixed up with them? Jesus. You witches are all the fucking
same, aren’t you? Thinking you can just order us around, telling Megan she
should leave—”
“I’m
not going anywhere,” Megan said, loudly and slowly. “Except on to this woman’s
room. And you two are coming with me, and you will keep your mouths shut, or
I’ll— I don’t know what I’ll do, but you won’t like it. Okay?”
Pause.
Then they both nodded. Megan would have laughed if she hadn’t been so angry.
“Good. Now, let’s go.”
She’d
taken about two steps down the hall when it occurred to her to wonder why Tera
had sounded so certain that she and Greyson weren’t going to get married. Not
that she expected to—well, no, that was a lie. She did expect to. Hoped to. At
some point, not yet; they hadn’t even been seeing each other a year, but then
she was going to be thirty-two in a few days, and he’d be thirty-eight a few
weeks after, they weren’t getting any younger ?
Whatever.
If it happened, it would happen. She wasn’t getting younger, no, but neither
was she in a hurry, and she refused to start worrying about a subject she could
honestly say she rarely thought about. They were happy the way things were, and
she looked forward to the future but wasn’t in a rush. Period. So she was not going
to start wondering why her best friend seemed so damn confident that she was
going to be single forever.
Besides,
what did Tera know? Her longest relationship had lasted a month.
Perhaps
it was a little mean of her to think that way, but Tera was the one who started
it. And after the way they’d behaved, both Tera and Nick deserved to have some
mean thoughts being thought about them. So she kept doing just that, focusing
on Tera’s pickiness and Nick’s buffet approach to women, until they reached
Agent Reid’s door.
The
woman who opened it looked like Agent Reid. Sounded like Agent Reid. But Megan
had the unsettling sense that Agent Reid had in fact left the building;
emptiness haunted the woman’s eyes. “Yes? Dr. Chase, can I help you?”
Okay.
For a second Megan had considered the possibility that Agent Reid was
possessed. It didn’t happen a lot, but it certainly did happen, as she knew for
a fact, having been possessed herself at the age of sixteen. But she didn’t
feel like a demon to Megan; since the consolidation of her powers, she’d been
better able to—wait. No, she could feel demons.
She’d
thought the thing outside in the hall, the thing that had attacked the agent,
was a demon. It had felt like a demon. And yet it had been able to
perform witch magic.
Fuck,
that could not possibly be good.
“I
wondered if I could come in and talk to you.” Megan kept a bright, vacant smile
on her face.
Elizabeth’s
face didn’t even change. If Megan hadn’t already known in every cell in her
body that something was wrong, that would have told her. The Elizabeth Reid who’d come to her office had been bright and driven,
so much so that she’d taken an enormous risk like tipping off the subjects of
an investigation. Now here Megan was, and for all Elizabeth knew she was ready
to spill her guts or snitch or blab or whatever the terminology was these days,
and Elizabeth looked as if she’d unwrapped a Christmas gift and found a pair of
old sweat socks inside the box.
But
at least she was still herself enough to shrug and step back, admitting them to
the room. “If you like.”
Megan
lowered her shields and reached out as she passed Elizabeth, steeling herself
for whatever darkness she might receive.
Nothing.
No,
worse than nothing. Tera’s damned spell, which was supposed to be so helpful,
interfered with what Megan actually felt, the kind of emptiness she usually
associated with demons but something stronger, more sinister. Something that
didn’t feel like demon but didn’t not feel like demon either, and it certainly
didn’t feel like witch. Tera practically vibrated in Megan’s mind. Elizabeth
did not.
She
felt human. Just unreadable. Just with something extra around her, something
soft and solid that resisted Megan’s attempts to see it. She tried using her
power as a weapon, tried pulling whatever it was back to herself. It stung
where she touched it, but she felt humanity behind it, hiding there. If she
could somehow push through whatever it was, past it, she could find out what
was really going on.
Something
screamed in her head when Tera bumped into her,
hard enough to make it obvious she’d done it deliberately. “Are you okay?”
“What?”
Megan looked around. Nick was sitting in one of the small bucket chairs by the
room’s little desk, with Elizabeth on the bed. They looked settled, as though
they’d been there for a few minutes already.
The
door was closed behind her. How long had she been standing there, trying to
fight her way through that thick dull veil surrounding Elizabeth?
Tera
inspected her from head to foot, which made Megan want to slap her more than
she had before from the stupid bickering in the hall. “Did you get anything?”
Megan
glanced at Elizabeth, then realized it didn’t matter. Tera was going to remove
the entire incident anyway. They could speak as freely as they wanted.
“No.
It’s like there’s some kind of cloth or barrier wrapped around her. Maybe it’s
a spell or something. Could he have cast a spell that deadened people? Hid them
behind a psychic or magical shield?”
Tera
shrugged. “Of course. If it was a witch. I don’t think a demon could do
something like that.”
“What
in the world are you people talking about?” Elizabeth wasn’t completely gone
after all. She’d half risen from her perch on the sage-green patterned
bedspread and assumed a defensive stance, ready to fight.
Tera
waved her hand. Elizabeth subsided.
Nick
glanced at her. “A psyche demon might be able to do something like that, but
not that strong.”
“Can
you feel it, Nick?”
He
nodded, with his eyes on the floor. Nick’s father had been part psyche demon,
she knew, but only be cause Nick had used the
bit of power his heredity had given him to help her back at Christmas. Aside
from that she knew nothing about his family, except that both of his parents
were dead. He never spoke of them.
She
knew there was a reason for his reticence. She didn’t know what it was, but
every once in a while something would happen, she’d feel his energy just a
little too strongly, and it would blow her away with the injury of it, the
anger and pain and fear lurking beneath everything else. It didn’t scare her.
But she was aware of it, always.
So
she didn’t press him. “I don’t know, Tera. I’ve never felt or seen anything
like it before. I can’t get anything from her at all.”
“So
you can’t see what she saw, what attacked her.”
Megan
shook her head.
Tera
sighed. “Okay, well, look. I’ll see if I can get anything from her, but the
longer we let these memories sit around in her head the stronger they get, as
you know. And the longer she holds on to a false memory the more she’ll come to
believe it. So every minute that goes by ?”
Megan
nodded. It was pretty basic knowledge, how memories were created and the
difference between short-term and long-term. Someone who’d suffered a head
injury and been knocked unconscious wouldn’t remember how it happened; the
brain wouldn’t be able to “set” those memories.
Tera
took a deep breath, shooting a glance at Nick. Megan caught his eye and jerked
her head to the right; he got up.
That
was the last thing that seemed clear in what happened next: the image of Nick,
his body strong and graceful, lifting from the chair and moving silently to the
left. A shaft of light caught his black hair and gleamed like the wing of a
raven. Tera said something under her breath at the same time, and a cool wave
of energy hit Megan, rocked her gently.
Then
it exploded.
Megan
fell, down to the carpet, through the carpet. The air left her lungs as if a
giant hand had wrapped around her chest and squeezed, an iron band that refused
to yield. Pain, pain so sharp and fierce it blinded her, tore into her chest,
into her head, bright white and terrifying.
She
tried to scream but nothing came out; she had no air to scream with. She was
going to die. She was going to die here, on the floor of a nice hotel room, and
she would never even know why or what killed her.
The
thought sent a wave of rage all the way to her toes. That was bullshit, utter
bullshit. It was almost her goddamn birthday, for fuck’s sake, and— She reached
for her demons, needing their strength, knowing that if she had it she might be
able to fight back, to push at whatever it was that squeezed the life out of
her on the carpet.
The
Yezer were attached to her by an invisible thread, one she saw in her mind’s
eye but not with her physical ones. She grabbed the thread with every bit of
strength and will she had left, sent her panic and fear along it.
A
second to send it out. A second of waiting. And back it came, thick, strong
power, filling her up. She was air; she was
lighter than that. She’d never taken this much from them, not even the awful
day of her father’s funeral when she hadn’t realized they were feeding her.
She’d been high then. Now she was somewhere in the stratosphere.
Without
her consciously doing anything about it, the band around her chest eased, then
disappeared completely. She was left alone on the floor, with energy still
coursing through her body and her hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks in
sweaty, itchy tendrils. She wanted to scratch them but didn’t dare move, afraid
that if she did, she would either fly off the floor and into the sky or
collapse in a sobbing heap.
It
took a second for the spinning room to stop. When it did, she saw Tera leaning
against the wall, her face pale but composed. Nick hunched on the floor a few
feet away, eyes wide, but also alive, which was Megan’s chief concern.
It
wasn’t until Tera took a step toward her that Megan realized how shaken she
was; the hand she wiped her forehead with trembled. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,
I— What the hell was that? Nick, are you okay?”
His
face shone with sweat. “Okay,” he said, but Megan didn’t like the weakness in
his voice. He sounded as if he was very far away, rather than a few feet across
the pale green carpet.
“Whatever
it is that’s got her, it resisted me.” Tera jerked her head toward Elizabeth
Reid, who still sat on the bed as if nothing at all had happened.
Okay,
that was weird. Well, obviously, it was all weird— it
had been some months since life had been as bizarre and full of attempted
murder as this, and Megan could honestly say she hadn’t missed it a bit—but it
seemed especially weird, particularly weird, that any person, much less an FBI
agent, would watch someone else have a fit on the floor and still be sitting
there, smiling faintly. Which was exactly what Elizabeth Reid was doing.
“How?
I mean, how did it resist you?” Her legs felt rubbery. She forced them to move,
pushing herself off the floor.
“I
don’t know. It was stronger than me. Or whatever the spell is around her, or
the aura or whatever, I didn’t have the right way to break through it.”
“So
she remembers everything. She knows we were here, she heard you, everything.”
Tera
raised her eyebrows. “Does she look like she cares?”
“Good
point.” Okay, her legs really would support her. They didn’t want to, but they
would. If she couldn’t control her own legs, things were at a pretty sad pass.
She used them to cross the room to Nick, then let them collapse beneath her
again to join him against the wall.
She
reached out to touch his arm. He looked so dazed. “Nick. Hey, are you sure
you’re all right?”
“Whatever
it was ?” he said, and she realized it wasn’t the physical attack, or whatever
it was, that had so shaken him. “Whatever it was, it affected us because of
what we are.”
“It’s
really bad for psyche demons, you mean.”
He
nodded. “It felt . . . I could feel it. It didn’t manage to do
exactly what it wanted to because I’m not en tirely
psyche. It didn’t manage to do it to you because you’re human still. And Tera’s
not demon at all, which is why she’s still standing.”
“I
felt it, though.” Tera joined them on the floor. They sat there like a trio of
early-morning drunks with their legs stretched out before them, Elizabeth Reid
in her simpering catatonia essentially forgotten. “It got me; I mean, that
really stung.”
Silence
fell heavily. Megan knew what they were thinking, what they didn’t want to ask
or even think about. But she couldn’t help but think about it. She asked, “So
what the hell was it?”
“I
don’t know,” the other two replied in unison, followed by equally weak smiles.
“It
was beautiful,” Elizabeth said.
Megan
didn’t know which surprised her more, what Elizabeth said or that she so
obviously meant it. Her entire demeanor had changed. Where she had been
affectless, she was animated. It sent cold chills creeping up Megan’s spine.
“What
was it, Elizabeth?” No point bothering with “Agent Reid”; the woman obviously
didn’t care.
“It
touched me.”
“Yes,
but do you remember what it looked like? What it is?”
Elizabeth
looked at her watch. “I have to go.”
The
three on the floor exchanged looks, basically all variations on what-the-fuck.
Then Megan caught on.
Her
own watch told her it was almost ten. Reverend Walther’s little psychological
freak show—maybe she shouldn’t think of it that way, but she did—started at eleven, he’d said. So if Elizabeth planned to be
there, she’d want to start getting ready.
Which
meant they needed to get ready. Megan’s entire body felt sticky; her hair was
drying against her cheeks. She wanted another shower and a change of clothes.
She wanted a stiff drink—who gave a damn how early it was—and she wanted to
tell Greyson what had happened. He was bound to know something or have some
idea how to proceed beyond following Elizabeth over to the Windbreaker and
simply watching what happened.
They’d
have to watch either way. But she’d feel a hell of a lot better if he was there
too, and she knew he’d want to go.
She
stood up, noticing with some pleasure that her legs felt almost normal again.
“Come on. We have to go see this.”
Chapter Fifteen
Unlike
the previous night, the lobby of the Windbreaker teemed with people, hiding the
generic wallpaper and grubby carpet. The crowd overwhelmed Megan; she still
didn’t quite have her equilibrium back, psychically speaking, and she clung to
Greyson’s hand a little harder than normal.
He
glanced at her. “They are a bit much, aren’t they?”
She
rolled her eyes in response, not quite trusting her voice while she locked her
shields as tightly as she could. The despair in this crowd, the anger and
misery and fervor that could only be described as
bloodthirsty . . . It wasn’t that she was afraid of their
emotions touching her. It was that her body, still worn and woozy and a little
buzzed from what her demons had given her and the gin she’d downed in the room,
instinctively wanted to keep going. To keep feeding. She hadn’t felt her demon
this strongly in months; for a moment all she saw were negative emotions
coloring the air and making it taste like wine. All she felt was the desire to
open up and take it all in.
Greyson
returned the pressure on her hand. He didn’t look at her, too busy scanning the
crowd, but she knew he knew, that he was simply
there waiting until she had won her battle and was ready.
It
only took a minute; she’d gotten much better at controlling it. And now that
she faced it without the crippling fear and shame of months before, it was much
easier to handle. Sort of like getting her first period as a teenager, several
years after all the other girls did. A completely alien thing the first few
times, gradually becoming just a nuisance.
Beside
her Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud giggled and elbowed each other, with Roc’s
little head bowing and dipping as he joined in from Spud’s shoulder. She didn’t
think she wanted to know what they found so amusing.
The
ballroom doors opened; the crowd pushed forward. “It’s like a wave of stupid,”
Tera said behind her. In her hand was a Coke can frosted with cold.
Megan
jumped. “You got a drink already?”
Tera
shrugged. “I can get through crowds pretty easily if I need to.”
She
still looked a tad pale, troubled. Megan didn’t know how powerful Tera really
was. She’d always figured Tera was pretty damn powerful, considering her job.
But she’d never known her to use that power among humans. Keeping the existence
of the supernatural secret was one of Tera’s highest priorities.
Well,
hell, if Megan had been able to mutter a few words and get herself a cold Coke
faster, she probably would have too. The last thing she wanted to be doing at
that moment was getting ready to join the throng of humanity
spreading like an oil slick into the ballroom.
She
started to anyway, but Greyson held her back. “Let’s let the others get
themselves settled first. We’ll stand in the back in case we have to leave.”
“Do
you think we’re going to have to leave?”
He
shrugged. “I’d rather be able to escape this ghastly horde as quickly as we
can, wouldn’t you? We’ll probably catch ringworm or something if we spend too
much time with them.”
But
the joke wasn’t quite working. Shadows lurked beneath his eyes, the kind she
rarely saw, and his smile didn’t reach them; he wasn’t the type to walk around
wringing his hands but the signs of worry were there for anyone who knew where
to look. She squeezed his hand a little harder, leaned into his side. “I’m more
worried we’ll miss lunch.”
“Think
the reverend will mind if we order pizza on his time?”
“Well,
if we’re there, and he’s there, that makes it our—”
“Grey,”
Carter cut in, “I just got a text from Win. He said he has an opening around
three, you guys can meet then?”
“No.
Tell him I’ll call him when I have an opening.”
They
were alone in the lobby, except for a few stragglers messing about with tissues
and hard candies just outside the door. The brothers shoved themselves forward,
peering into the ballroom as though it were a top-secret nuclear base under
fire from aliens, and motioned the others forward. Great. That didn’t attract
any attention at all.
And
the brothers were so unobtrusive to begin with, in their black caps and
clothing, gold glinting on their wrists and fingers. They looked like extras
from On the Waterfront.
Of
course, she’d forgotten for a moment what the rest of the crowd looked like.
Sure, it was a mix. She’d seen enough with her own patients to know that just
because a person was religious, that didn’t mean that person was stupid; she
would never make such an assumption or generalization, not when faith had so
many positive aspects and was so valuable to so many people. And she of all
people couldn’t judge those who believed demons existed.
But
the desperation of these people, the sadness in the air, set her teeth on edge
at the same time as it made her demon heart skip a little beat. These people
needed help; they had real problems. And yes, while it was true that some of
their problems may very well have been—okay, absolutely were—caused by demons,
not all of their problems were. Who knew what kinds of issues they were dealing
with?
And
instead of something that would really help them, would give them the tools to
cope with their lives and feel good about themselves, they were being given
gobbledegook about being possessed. As if all of their problems stemmed from
that and once they exorcised whatever was living inside them, they’d be
perfectly happy, and everything would be fine.
Life
didn’t work that way. One of the ways she was able to reconcile what she did
for a living with what she did as Gretneg of House Io Adflicta was that without
the negative emotions, people couldn’t
appreciate the positive. Someone who never made a mistake, never put a foot
wrong or did something he or she was ashamed of or regretted later, wasn’t
emotionally healthy so much as sociopathic or a chronic shut-in.
People
made mistakes; they erred in their judgment or acted rashly or whatever. Coping
with and learning from those mistakes was what made them stronger and
healthier. Blaming all of those mistakes on circumstances beyond one’s
control . . . well, it might be all the rage, but Megan found it
very difficult to approve.
Not
to mention that she had no idea how much Walther was charging these people. And
quite a few of them looked as if they had to sell plasma in order to eat.
Painfully thin arms stuck out from beneath threadbare thrift-store shirts with
missing buttons. Too-short pants rode up to expose pale ankles, incongruous
against arms so deeply tanned they looked as if they’d been imported from other
bodies. Vinyl shoes covered feet, cheap polyester covered legs, sunburned skin
covered shoulders.
Not
all of them, of course. Scattered through the crowd were a fair number of
people who looked as if they could buy and sell the others. No, there was
really no way to stereotype the crowd, only a way to pity them.
She
and the others found a place against the back wall, not far from the door, to
settle. A chair would have been nice, but she couldn’t have everything, and she
didn’t dare mention it. One of the brothers would have attempted to make her
sit on his back; it had happened before. Being in the room with a gang of
demons was bad enough. Having one of them drop
to all fours so she could use him as a bench would be unthinkable.
To
take her mind off both the anger building in her stomach at the crowd being
taken advantage of and the absurd desire to start giggling from the memory of
the demon-bench incident, she settled herself against Greyson and said, “Is
everything okay? Did something happen with you and Win? Something I should know
about, I mean.”
He
shrugged, his gaze still wandering restlessly over the crowd of obedient heads
before them. “He wants me to do something for him, and I don’t particularly
want to, and he’s being rather adamant. Not a problem, simply an irritation.”
“Anything
I can do?”
He
smiled and looked at her, the worry gone from his face. “I can think of a few
things, yes, but nothing that would be appropriate here.”
Her
reply was lost in the general uproar as Reverend Walther entered.
The
meek, pajama-clad man she’d seen the night before had disappeared. Instead
Megan stared at a man who looked like a cross between Liberace and Wyatt Earp.
He wore a black broadcloth suit, and his hair swooped up in a pompadour to
rival the highest horn-hiding demon hairdo. It gleamed with oil or shellac or
whatever the hell he used to keep it in place. Instead of a white shirt he wore
a hot pink one, with a black string tie in an enormous bow at his throat; it
was tied so tightly his collar wrinkled. His head appeared to erupt from the
bright fabric like a mushroom from the mud.
Most
different of all was his aura, his energy. It waved around him, so thick Megan
felt it whisper over her skin and so strong she shivered. It wasn’t drugs or
alcohol or anything like that, turning him from a man into something like a
high-powered light. It was his fervor, his fanaticism.
The
crowd, perhaps too awed to continue speaking after their first enthusiastic
burst of welcome, hushed almost immediately. The atmosphere in the room
changed. It was as if Walther’s energy filled it, and the audience’s answered,
as if he’d pulled something vital out of them to flavor the air.
But
along with that flavor was fear and sadness. Emotions Megan recognized and
forced herself not to want to absorb. Roc, of course, had no such compunction;
she saw his beady little eyes darken.
Did
Walther’s do the same? Did he somehow—no. No, he didn’t. The man was nothing if
not human.
Greyson
must have been thinking the same thing. “He’s certainly an energetic little
cur, isn’t he?”
“I
didn’t think he’d feel anywhere near that powerful,” she agreed. “He certainly
didn’t last night.”
“Hmm.
He apparently wasn’t as powerful as this, even a few months ago. Basically came
out of nowhere back in June. He’d been doing the exorcisms and dabbling in some
faith healing, if you can believe the ridiculousness of that, but in June he
started to catch on. Attendance at his bizarre little church rose, donations
jumped up, that sort of thing. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“How
do you know that?”
He
shrugged and settled himself more comfortably against the wall. “I looked him
up online after you fell asleep last night. And made a few phone calls.”
“You
didn’t sleep?”
He
shook his head.
“Did
you sleep at all?”
“Eventually.
Don’t worry about me, darling. The point is, he was a quiet, dull little nobody
until recently. Now he’s filling the ballrooms of horrible budget motels. Why
do you suppose that is?”
“Did
he make a deal with the devil?” she asked, only half joking.
He
smiled, squeezed her hand. “Not with any I know. But . . . hmm.”
“What?”
“No,
nothing. I just wonder . . . no. There has to be some other
explanation.”
“But
what were you thinking?”
“I’ll
tell you later. I think he’s about to start banishing demons to Hell or
whatever silliness. As if he could do anything of the kind.”
Megan
looked back toward the front of the room. Greyson was right. Walther was
preparing to begin; at the same moment she looked up, the rest of the room
bowed their heads, and Walther began intoning a long, wordy prayer so
histrionic it made Megan nervous. He was a true believer, she knew he was, but
the speech was so devout it felt fake.
She
let her mind drift and the words turn into nothing more than a rush of sound in
the background, rising and lowering in volume
and pitch like a song on a far-away radio. She’d been so busy trying to settle
herself to wonder if anyone in the room was readable, or if they all had that
horrible emptiness the hotel employees had had the night before. She hadn’t
thought to check if any of her demons were in attendance either.
Roc
still sat on Maleficarum’s shoulder, having a whispered and, Megan imagined,
highly amusing conversation. Certainly the two of them looked as if they were
about to burst into hysterics. She’d never seen Maleficarum’s eyes so bright.
“Roc,”
she said, “ask them to show themselves. I want to keep an eye on them and make
sure everything is okay.”
Actually,
she wanted to see if perhaps some of the people in the room were without Yezer.
As far as she knew, every human being in the world had one; she’d killed hers
at sixteen and had thus been without one for fifteen years, but although Roc
didn’t attempt to lead her astray, he was technically hers.
But
being without one had made her an anomaly. She wondered if somehow Walther
really was banishing Yezer, and the hotel employees the night before had been
without them, and that’s why they’d felt so bizarre.
If
her Yezer—those in her Meegra—had been banished somehow, she would know about
it. But they weren’t all hers.
Those
who were began appearing, exploding into existence like bizarre and incredibly
unattractive popcorn popping. Okay. Most of the people in the room appeared to
be local, and their Yezer were hers.
“Good
idea,” Greyson murmured. “Gives us a better idea what’s happening.”
She
smiled again, pleased, but the smile faded when Walther finished his prayer
and, without warning, yanked a man out of his chair and dragged him to the front
of the room.
“You!
I can see the demon at work in you! What is your name, and what has been done
to you?”
The
Yezer on the man’s shoulder gave Megan a cheery wave. Beside her Maleficarum
snorted.
“I—I’m
Matt. I’ve been gambling. I can’t stop.” Tears thickened the man’s voice; his
pain reached out to lick at Megan’s hands. She’d been torn between laughter and
calling the police herself. Now the first emotion disappeared, washed away by a
red tidal wave of fury. How dare this man take advantage of these people, how
dare he damage them—
“You
haven’t been gambling. The demon has been gambling. What did he make you do,
Matt?”
“I
bet on horses. On sports. On how many seconds before a light turns green, on
which elevator will come first, I play cards ?”
“That’s
not you doing it, Matt. It’s that beast inside you. It is the evil being which
has attached itself to you and wants to send your soul straight to Hell!”
Several
audience members gasped; Walther had, as he shouted the last few words, made a
sweeping motion with his arm, his finger pointed as if he was condemning the
entire room along with poor Matt. Which maybe he was, for all she knew.
Probably
not, though. The Yezer on Matt’s shoulder and
the one at his feet appeared totally unconcerned. One of them was picking at
his toes, the other scratching behind his ear.
Matt
began crying in earnest. “Help me. Please help me.”
This
was appalling. This wasn’t healthy. Megan itched to run over to Matt and pick
him up off the floor, to give him her card and the number of the local Gamblers
Anonymous chapter.
“I
can’t help you. You can’t help you.” Walther was really warming up now; sweat
ran down his cheeks. “Only Jesus can save you. Only God can cast out that
gambling demon and give you back your soul.”
“I
lost everything. I took out a second mortgage on my house and gambled all the
money away. I can’t do this anymore ?”
Walther
placed his hand on Matt’s head. “I’m speaking now to the demon trying to steal
Matt’s body. It’s Reverend Bill Walther, you unclean beast. Show yourself ! In
the name of God, identify yourself ! I command it!”
Beside
Megan, Maleficarum’s big body shook with laughter. Roc had completely given up
attempting to be silent; nobody but herself and the demons could hear him
anyway. Same with the rest of her Yezer. Those bothering to pay attention were
rolling on the floor, or lying flat on the pads of air above their humans’
shoulders, their shrieks of shrill laughter forming a background like demonic
church bells pealing over the shouting of the reverend.
Even
Matt’s scream didn’t drown them out. Sweat beaded
Megan’s own head too. The screaming and Walther’s yelling and the demons’
laughing made her a little dizzy; the realization that Walther had essentially
put Matt into some kind of trance, watching Matt’s face transform as his
already battered psyche struggled to give Walther what he wanted, to create a
demon for him, nauseated her. She swallowed hard.
“I
am Azazael,” Matt shrieked, in the manner of a Monty Python character. “You
can’t have this man back!”
Maleficarum
hooted. Megan glanced over and found Spud and Malleus hanging on each other,
their blunt-featured faces red with suppressed laughter. On her other side
Greyson and Nick were biting their lips and staring at the ceiling; Carter just
looked bored and annoyed.
Greyson
caught her looking. His lips brushed her ear. “Azazael was a major player in
Hell. The chances of him hanging around in this moron’s body in order to put
twenty bucks on USC are pretty slim, don’t you think?”
“I
never know what a man will do in order to bet on football,” she responded
automatically.
Greyson’s
hand slid down to her behind and stayed there. “Some of us have other interests
as well.”
“Really?
I never would have guessed.” But she let him keep his hand there—they were
against the wall, and nobody could see anyway—and flashed him a quick smile.
“Be
gone, demon! In the name of Jesus, be gone! I command you to leave this man
alone!” Walther’s right hand flew into the air, pointing at the ceiling. For a moment he looked terrifyingly like John Travolta in Saturday
Night Fever. Megan wondered if the Bee Gees were going to start playing in
the background.
Yes,
perhaps she was being flippant. She couldn’t help it. At least she wasn’t
behaving like the brothers. Fat tears rolled down their cheeks; they looked on
the verge of stroking out.
Matt
screamed again. Megan caught a glimpse of his face—talk about someone having a
stroke—and wanted to slap herself for forgetting, even for a second, what was
actually happening and why they were there. That man’s already fragile
emotional health was being further compromised; who knew where this could lead,
what kind of trauma he was experiencing, whether this demon persona his fevered
and desperate subconscious was creating would stick around after the so-called
exorcism?
“You
are gone! Be gone, foul thing!”
Matt
collapsed.
Unfortunately,
so did Maleficarum. He huddled on the floor next to Megan, shaking with
laughter. That was bad enough. What was even worse was that the movement caught
Walther’s attention. He stormed up the aisle—he reeked of Hai Karate, sweat,
and psychotic—grabbed Maleficarum by the hand, and tugged.
Chapter Sixteen
“No,
you can’t—” she started, but Maleficarum was already pulling away from
Walther’s hand.
“This
man needs my help,” Walther informed her. “God has ordered me to help him.”
“Don’t
be scared, brother!” someone shouted. “You can be saved!”
Maleficarum
gave Greyson a helpless look. Megan knew exactly what Greyson was thinking, at
least. To leave at this point, before they’d seen anything unusual—or, rather,
anything that went beyond the special superdeluxe crazy and into the sort of
supernatural crazy that had characterized the night before—would mean this had
been a wasted visit, and they couldn’t afford to waste any time. She was
acutely aware that somewhere out there someone was scheming to kill her, and
she knew Greyson was too.
On
the other hand, the thought of Maleficarum being subjected to such a thing
mortified her. How the hell would he fake his way through that?
Of
course, she, Greyson, and their friends seemed to be the only ones in the room
who failed to see what a fantastic idea it was to let Maleficarum be exorcised.
Malleus and Spud made incoherent mewling noises, they
were laughing so hard. Roc had fallen to the floor with Maleficarum and stayed
there. The laughter of the Yezer had increased to the point where Megan started
fantasizing about the quiet and peace found in textile mills.
“What
is your name? Why have you come to me today?”
Maleficarum
shot Greyson a terrified glance. “I . . . I dunno.”
“Don’t
be shy, brother! God knows everything. He sees into your heart.”
Maleficarum
looked down at his chest, then back up. Megan’s lips twitched. No, this wasn’t
funny. It was not funny. She had a duty not to laugh; she was a psychiatric
counselor, for fuck’s sake, she could not start finding this horror show funny.
“Think
maybe I oughter go.” Maleficarum tried to turn away, but Walther grabbed him.
“That’s
the demon, the evil beast possessing you, speaking. It wants you to leave, it
wants you to—”
“Aieeeeee!”
Megan
jumped. She’d had no idea Maleficarum was capable of such a scream. Apparently
he’d decided the best way to get out of being exorcised was to imitate Matt;
his panicked glances at her and Greyson, the trapped look in his beady eyes,
spoke of the kind of desperation that led animals to chew off their own legs.
Walther
looked almost as shocked as the others, but then Megan saw his eyes. The flash
of confusion left them, replaced by calculation, replaced by fervor. He was a true believer, all right; she knew that. But
in that second she saw the showman, saw him realize that Maleficarum was faking
and decide to continue anyway.
The
sleazy scumbag.
“Tell
me your name, you foul thing! You do not belong in this man, you do not belong
in this world! Name yourself, demon!”
Maleficarum’s
expression changed from panic to agony. Megan held her breath. What name would
he come up with? Oh, please let him catch what he was supposed to do, oh—
Maleficarum
glanced at her, at Greyson. He squeezed his eyes shut, threw his head back, and
howled, “Joseph!”
The
moment of confused silence that fell over the room was one of the longest
seconds ever in Megan’s life. Reverend Walther looked completely taken aback;
he opened his mouth, but whatever he said was drowned out as the demons in the
room began their hysterics again.
The
humans, the audience, didn’t find it so amusing. They seemed not to understand
quite what had happened and waited patiently for Walther to continue. They
reminded Megan suddenly of people who in medieval times would have gathered in
hordes to watch executions, who would have attended Elizabethan bear baitings.
People who wanted to see others suffer, who thought that through that suffering
they could themselves feel cleansed.
It
wasn’t fair of her, she knew. The audience was there because
they wanted help. They were desperate for it. They weren’t simply gawking; if
anyone was doing that, she was. But they seemed so cold, so inhuman ?
Her
breath caught; her fingers closed around Greyson’s arm. Apparently they closed
pretty damn hard too, because he winced and tried to pry her hand off. “Ow,
shit, that—what? What’s wrong?”
She
didn’t answer. She was too busy looking, tuning out whatever bullshit Walther
had started spouting again, while Malleus moaned like a bad actor doing a death
scene. That empty feeling, that sick absence of feeling and warmth
and . . . vibration, the absence of energy, had caught her
again.
At
the far end of the room was another entrance to the ballroom, a single door
rather than the double ones they’d come through. It had been closed. Now it was
open, and Elizabeth Reid stood just inside it, with her hands at her sides and
a blank expression on her face.
Behind
her . . . behind her was a man, one of the most nondescript men
Megan had ever seen. Her gaze seemed to slide off his features; there was
nothing to catch her eyes, just the vague impression of features and dark hair.
That
emptiness loomed around him. The hairs on Megan’s arms stood on end. What the
fuck was wrong with him? What was he?
“That
man,” she managed to say. She didn’t look away from him, afraid that if she did
so he would disappear. “The one behind Elizabeth.”
“Where?”
How
did Greyson not see Elizabeth? Oh, right. He wouldn’t
know what she looked like, would he? Remembering that brought her back to earth
a bit. “She’s just inside the other door, the dark-haired—”
“Oh,
fuck. We have to go.” His hand closed around her arm, tugging her to the side.
“We have to go now. Malleus, Spud, get your brother, we have to go right—”
White
light flashed in Megan’s head, searing pain like she’d never felt before. It
blinded her, it burned, she couldn’t see or think or do anything, and somewhere
she vaguely knew Greyson was dragging her across the floor.
The
light eased up enough for her to see Maleficarum leap up from his position on
the floor. Through the spots in her vision she saw him coming toward her,
evading Walther’s grasping hands, heedless of the audience’s confused sounds,
which seemed to come from miles away.
Elizabeth
Reid’s smile taunted her, followed her, as Greyson pushed Megan out of the room
and across the lobby, with the others grouped like pallbearers around them.
The
sun hurt her eyes, still sensitive and blurred from whatever the hell had
happened inside the ballroom. Greyson appeared haloed in white spots. She
wanted to ask him what was wrong, but his expression, seen between floating
balls of light, did not invite questions; it was the face of a man who’d seen a
ghost. So she kept her mouth shut until they’d piled into the back of the truck
and Spud had peeled out of the parking spot at Greyson’s urgent command.
She
glanced back in time to see Elizabeth Reid
exiting
the lobby. Somehow she didn’t think that boded well.
Greyson
sighed and leaned back with his eyes closed. His hand found hers, held it
tight. A shiver of fear danced up her spine. What could be so bad that he
didn’t want to tell her? The last time he’d been this reluctant to give her
information, she’d been up against an actual Legion of Hell. She could only
hope that whatever the problem was this time wouldn’t be as dangerous, but
somehow she suspected her hope was in vain.
“Just
tell me,” she managed. “Whatever it is.”
His
lips tightened, as if they wanted to smile but couldn’t summon the strength;
his voice was barely audible. “I never thought I’d actually see one. I didn’t
even think they still existed.”
“One
what?”
“Lord
Dante, I’m sorry. I never meant for him to grab me, I din’t. I just couldn’t ’elp
but laugh, seein’ as ’ow they was being so silly and all, an’ then he—”
“Never
mind, Maleficarum. It doesn’t matter.” Greyson cleared his throat, lifted his
head. “We have a bigger problem.”
He
hadn’t let go of Megan’s hand. She pulled both into her lap and turned to face
him. “What?”
He
hesitated. For a second she thought he wasn’t going to tell her, that he wanted
to think about it first to be certain. He didn’t like to say anything until he
was absolutely sure he was right, she knew; she would have believed it was
something he’d learned in law school if she didn’t suspect he’d been that way
all his life. He didn’t like to be wrong.
Finally
he spoke. “It’s an angel.”
“Don’t
be silly, Grey,” Tera started, from the seat behind them. “Angels don’t—”
“They
do exist, Tera. We were just in the presence of one. Although
why . . . well, who the hell knows why they do the things they
do.”
Megan
licked her lips. “Seeing as how it tried to kill me last night, I’m guessing
this isn’t the angels-bless-and-guide-you type of angel.”
“No
angel is that type of angel. They’re all complete bastards. Dangerous ones.
Fuck!”
Tera’s
hand pulled at the seat as she leaned forward. “There’s no evidence in
Vergardering’s files that angels actually exist. None. Our records go back to
ancient Rome, and in all that time there hasn’t been a single confirmed angel
sighting.”
“Of
course there hasn’t.” He glared at her. “They don’t generally announce
themelves. And they are rare.”
“It
felt like a demon,” Megan said.
“Angels
is real, all right.” Malleus looked pale beneath the black brim of his hat.
“Seen one before. Musta been a hundred years back at least. Yeh, it were,
’cause Victoria were on the throne. Seen it at a party, a gathering like our
one now. Scared the life out of me, it did.”
“So
you should be able to see them,” Tera said. “But you didn’t see this one.”
“Weren’t
lookin’. If Lord Dante says it’s an angel, it’s an angel, Miss Tera.”
They’d
pulled into the long drive of the Bellreive; trees lined the edges and cut the
bright sun. It made the SUV’s interior feel icy, or perhaps it was simply what the men were saying. Megan shivered. It didn’t seem
possible. Not that angels existed but that they were the bad guys. She supposed
it made sense that demons would see angels that way, but she wasn’t a demon.
Greyson
had told her once that God had nothing to do with demons, that he had very
little to do with anything, in fact. The afterlife was the afterlife, and
people went where they thought they were going, and there were hundreds, if not
thousands, of gods. He wouldn’t lie about such a thing.
But
even if he had, which she didn’t believe, she wasn’t a demon. If angels and
demons were locked in some sort of battle—again, which she didn’t believe, and
she was pretty sure she would have seen evidence of it by now if it were
true—why would an angel be after her, when she was human? What possible reason
would an angel have to want to kill her?
It
was the most important question and the one she most didn’t want to ask. The
one she feared asking.
But
she feared a lot of things. And part of her job was encouraging her patients to
face their fears. She didn’t always succeed at it, and she didn’t always do it
herself; being a psychological counselor didn’t make her any less susceptible
to normal foibles and fears, just more aware of when she was succumbing to
them.
But
she tried. It was all she could do. So she took a deep breath. “Why would an
angel want to kill me?”
“It’s
possible someone paid him to,” Greyson said. “That when the litobora
attack didn’t work, they hired an angel to finish the job.”
She
digested that while Spud braked just beyond the valet
stand, waiting for the okay to pull up and surrender the vehicle. She
appreciated him not interrupting the conversation but found herself wishing that
just once he wouldn’t be so polite; she could have used a few minutes’
distraction. Pretending everything was okay often led to feeling as though
everything was okay, and while it would be fleeting and illusory, it would have
been nice to feel okay. As opposed to terrified, hunted, and sick.
Then
Nick spoke, and everything got so much worse. “You’re assuming the angel attack
is related to the litobora. It might not be.”
“Jesus,
Nick, thanks for the cheer.” She turned to look at him. “How many people do you
think have reasons to kill me?”
“I’m
not saying it’s definitely more than one, just that we can’t assume anything.”
He
was right, and she knew it. She hated it when that happened.
“I
still think you guys are crazy to say it’s an angel,” Tera said.
“And
I say I’m not,” Greyson replied. “Do you have a better theory? Any theory at
all? Or do you just enjoy contradicting mine?”
Tera
folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “No.”
“Good.”
Greyson nodded toward the windshield; through it Megan saw one of the valets
coming for them. A car had just swerved around them as they idled like a
barnacle in the drive. “Go on, Spud. We’ll talk more upstairs.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lots
of things did not appeal to Megan. Skydiving, for example. Root canals. Lamb
chops. Things she simply avoided.
Way
up at the top of that list she would have to put “Making a list of people who
might want me dead and why.”
It
wasn’t the making of the list that was so awful, although—actually, yes, making
the list was really fucking awful. Watching the list grow longer and, worse,
realizing that she could provide legitimate reasons why any one of the people
on it might want to see her dead . . . it felt as if she’d
swallowed an anvil.
Oh,
no, wait. The best part of all was getting to see how fucking enthusiastic her
supposed friends were.
“Don’t
forget any of the patients of that Fearbuddies group or whatever it was
called.” Tera popped a tortilla chip into her mouth. “They might be pissed that
you killed their therapist.”
Roc
plucked a chip from the bag too. “Wouldn’t they have come after Megan sooner?”
“Not
necessarily. Maybe they’ve been saving up the money, just plotting and planning
all these months, obsessing over her—”
“Hey,
do you think whoever it is has pictures of her all over his house?” Roc’s beady
little eyes lit up. “Like, they’ve drawn big black X’s over her face and
written ‘Die Megan Die’ on their walls, or—”
“That’s
enough, Roc,” Greyson said.
“I’m
just wondering, I mean, someone who’s been planning and waiting that long must
really hate Megan, right, so—”
“Cut
it out, Roc,” Megan said, and not a moment too soon; she thought Greyson was
going to leap off the couch and throw Roc out the window. Not that she would
mind. And not that it would hurt Roc. Because of what he was, he could simply
dematerialize before he hit the ground. But—
“Hey!”
She sat up, Roc forgotten. “The angel. He could fly. I mean, he could
materialize and dematerialize. Just like Yezer. Right?”
“Apparently,”
Greyson said.
“So
can the Yezer follow him wherever it is he’s going? If we tell them all to look
for him, maybe they can find out where he’s staying.”
Roc
nodded. “We’re already on it. But don’t forget, he can hide himself from us
too, so I don’t know how effective that will be.”
She
slumped. “Shit, I had forgotten.”
Roc
had reported to her in the morning the results of his conversations with the
Yezer who’d been guarding the door the night before. Unfortunately, none of
them had seen anyone except Elizabeth Reid, so there wasn’t anything to go on
with that.
“It’s
something to start with, though.” Greyson patted
her
thigh, a second’s touch that made her feel a little better, while he spoke to
Roc. “It’s very possible you guys will be able to see him if he dematerializes.
Certainly if he wanders into the psychic plane, you might be able to feel him,
if you’re paying attention.”
“He’ll
feel like a demon, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tera and Megan asked at the same time.
Greyson
smiled, a thin smile that bore only a touch of humor. “They’re related to us.
Not exactly the same but close enough.”
“I
guess that makes sense,” Tera said.
“Yes.
The only good thing Vergadering ever did was to wipe those psychos off the
planet. Of course, they didn’t entirely succeed, obviously, but then you
witches do tend to be overconfident.”
“Whatever.”
Again with the tortilla chips. Tera’s eating habits never ceased to amaze
Megan; she had a demon’s metabolism and a cast-iron stomach. “I told you, there
is nothing in the files. No proof. No evidence. So I’m not sure how you think
we warred with angels when as far as we’re concerned they don’t exist.”
“Yes,
I know. But trust me, you did.”
Tera’s
eyes narrowed. Her hand, full of tortilla, stopped halfway to her mouth. “Wait
a minute. You said they’re related to you. Did we think they were you? Did
you—you guys used us to beat them, didn’t you.”
Greyson
shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I wasn’t even alive then.”
“And
even if he was,” Nick cut in, “we would have done whatever we had to do. Just
like you did. Do I need to remind you of
Columbia? How about Oakton? Do you remember the demon children your soldiers
murdered? The camps you sent innocent demons, demons who didn’t fight, into?”
“Okay,
what the hell is your problem?” Tera actually dropped her chips. “You’ve been
sniping at me all day. What did I ever do to you?”
“It’s
what you witches did to me,” Nick snapped. “It’s your—”
“Nick.”
Greyson’s head was turned away from Megan; she couldn’t see his face. But Nick
could. He stopped, paled a little, and nodded.
The
silence following was as awkward as any Megan had ever experienced, and her
work certainly lent itself to uncomfortable moments. Her instincts at work led
her to remain quiet herself while her patients worked through whatever they
needed to, or at the very most to ask a quiet, unobtrusive question if the
conversation seemed to have stalled completely.
But
this wasn’t work. These were her friends, and somehow they’d hit a wall again,
a wall that had something to do with Nick and whatever horrors his past contained.
They’d brushed up against the subject before, but Megan had never actually
spoken to him about it. It was private, and one thing she didn’t find at all
disorienting about demon culture was how much they all valued their privacy.
So
she reached for a chip herself and forced it down her throat. It tasted a bit
like sawdust, but that wasn’t the chip’s fault, and she needed the delay more
than she cared about how she took it. “So do you think the
angel’s
really after me, or does it just like hanging around Reverend Walther? Maybe
it’s not what attacked me at all.”
“It
had attached itself to that FBI agent,” Greyson said. “It attacked her before
you, remember?”
“It
was there last night.” The chip fell from her hands. “Right before it showed up
today, it felt like everyone suddenly became unreadable. Just like those
employees felt last night.”
Greyson
nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. I wouldn’t have seen him if he hadn’t been so
absorbed in watching Maleficarum that he forgot to keep himself hidden. At
least so I assume. I doubt he was deliberately unmasking himself.”
“Maybe
he was.” Nick seemed to have regained his composure. “Maybe he was picking a
fight. Taunting us.”
“Anything’s
possible. I guess we—”
“Grey?”
Carter appeared at the bedroom door; he’d been in there doing some work or
whatever it was he did. Megan was never quite clear on the details, but she
knew he was always available and always busy, just as Greyson had been for his
boss Templeton Black.
Greyson
had overthrown Templeton—protecting her, not to mention furthering his own
interests—and had him sent to a Vergadering prison, where Templeton had died
just before Christmas. An apparent suicide; they’d never discovered exactly how
he’d done it, but he’d left a note.
Greyson
was already up, walking across the room. “I’ll be right back.”
The
others sat there, with Nick and Tera exchanging cautious looks and Roc
cheerfully snacking. “So,” he said, after swallowing another enormous mouthful.
“Do you think whoever it is who hates Megan had to pay a lot of money to have
her killed?”
Three
hours later Megan was sick of TV. Sick of the suite. Sick of the Bellreive.
It
wasn’t that she was having a bad time. Once Tera and Nick had decided to bury
the hatchet—figuratively—they’d actually gotten along okay, and if conversation
occasionally suffered an abrupt pause when one of them, usually Nick, bit their
tongue, it flowed easily enough the rest of the time.
But
she was sick of this. Sick of Roc’s gentle snores on the couch beside her. Sick
of Malleus’s ceaseless wanderings through the rooms, checking all the closets
on every pass. “Lord Dante said make sure you’re safe, m’lady, and I’ll keep
you safe, you c’n Adam ’n’ Eve that.”
“I
do,” she said, for what felt like the dozenth time and probably was. “You know
I do. But you’re getting on my nerves.”
Malleus
looked wounded. “You oughter have more care for yerself, you ought. Think what
it might do to Lord Dante if something ’appened to you. Me an’ Lif an’ Spud, we
fink you take too many risks, an’ it’s time you quit and settle down. No
offense, m’lady, but Lord Dante needs—”
Nick
leaped up. “What’s that, out the window?”
“What?”
Malleus hurled himself across the room with the
kind of speed that constantly surprised Megan; one didn’t expect to see a tank
move that fast, but the brothers all did when they wanted to.
She
caught Nick’s eye and smiled her thanks. Was it her imagination, or did his
return smile look rather uneasy?
Well,
so what if it did? There was plenty to be uneasy about. Attacks on her life and
angels and the whole witch-demon thing and whatever it was Nick was carrying
around with him.
“Nuffink
’ere,” Malleus called over his shoulder. “I’ll stay, though, an’ keep watch for
a few minutes to make sure.”
“Thanks,
Malleus.”
Someone
knocked at the door, and Malleus once again zipped over before the knocks
resolved themselves into the complex little passcode the brothers had devised.
For a second Megan’s heart jumped in her chest, hoping it was Greyson back from
whatever business had called him away, but he wouldn’t have knocked, and it
wasn’t him. It was Carter returning just ahead of him.
He
settled himself on the couch beside Nick. “You guys having fun?”
Megan
rolled her eyes. “An absolute blast. I wish someone was trying to kill me every
day.”
“Thanks
a lot,” Tera said. “Here I’m sitting watching dumb TV instead of shopping, just
to keep you company. The least you could do is appreciate it.”
“If
you guys are talking about shopping, I’m going into the bedroom.” Nick smiled,
but Megan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering him.
She
couldn’t ask, though. Not then, in front of everyone. So instead she just
smiled. “We’re going to talk about shoes for the next hour, Nick. Escape while
you can.”
“If
you put it that way.”
They
all watched him go. That day he wore black jeans and a black T-shirt; Tera
raised her eyebrows when he closed the bedroom door behind him. “He’s kind of a
touchy asshole, but he’s awfully sexy.”
“Tell
me about it,” Carter said.
Megan
blinked; she had the horrifying suspicion her mouth had fallen open. It didn’t
matter, not one damn bit; it was simply the fact that she’d known him for
months now, and it had never even—it made her ashamed of herself. Why should
she assume he was straight? What was the matter with her?
He
caught her look. “You didn’t know?”
“I—no.
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”
“Of
course I’m gay.” He looked at her as if she had just grown an extra head. “Grey
isn’t stupid.”
“Well,
no, but I don’t—”
“Maybe
we oughter check and see if Lord Dante’s coming back now.” Malleus rushed
across the room again; watching him was like watching a very large black tennis
ball in play. “I’ll just get th’ door open ’ere—”
“I
won’t be having any children,” Carter explained. “At least not the kind I’d
need to have. Right? You know this. So I can’t possibly overthrow him. Once he
has a son, it won’t matter so much, and he’ll be more secure, but with how
vulnerable he is already because you’re human, he really needs to get moving—”
“That’s
enough, Carter.” Greyson stood in the doorway. Icy cold energy danced over
Megan’s skin; his anger, the only emotion she could always feel from demons,
translating as a frigid blast.
For
a second she just sat there, totally confused. Why would he be so angry just
because Carter was telling her something about demon tradition or culture or
whatever? Lots of people grew up with cultural traditions; the whole “sons”
thing was a bit sexist but wasn’t such a big deal, really. Demons were pretty
paternalistic—not to mention sexist, judgmental, egotistical, superficial, and
a whole host of other social evils—so how this was—
Then
it hit her, with the force of a semi slamming into her head-on. He was
vulnerable because she was human. He was vulnerable because he didn’t have sons
to take over once he was gone, to strengthen his position. She remembered he’d
mentioned it to her, all those months ago: “Half the Meegra was ready to
overthrow Temp and put me in his place anyway—he never had any sons to take
over.”
He
was vulnerable because they couldn’t have children together. She was human. He
wasn’t. It was physically impossible for them to—unless she did the ritual. The
one he’d tried to talk her into just the night before, without ever once
mentioning how important it might be for their future. Not his, not hers, theirs.
The future that apparently didn’t matter to him anywhere near as much as it
mattered to her.
All
of this went through her mind in just a few seconds, a series of feelings like
the images she got when reading people rather than coherent thoughts. Greyson must have seen them in her eyes or on her face; his
went blank, the careful mask he presented to hide his emotions.
“Fuck.”
The word was so quiet she wasn’t sure she’d actually heard it; for a dizzy
moment she wondered if she’d somehow at this late date developed the ability to
communicate telepathically.
Greyson
closed the door very slowly behind him and stood perfectly still with his head
bowed for a long moment. “Tera, Carter, Malleus, would you mind leaving us
please? I think Megan would like to talk to me alone.”
Chapter Eighteen
She
sat on the couch, unable to move. Unable even to look at the others as they
retrieved Nick from the bedroom and left; she felt their eyes on her but
refused to give them hers back. They’d all known this too, hadn’t they? This
was why Tera didn’t seem to think she had any kind of future with Greyson, why
Nick had interrupted Malleus and Malleus had interrupted Carter. They’d all
known it, and they’d all kept it hidden from her. While she’d swanned along,
tra-la-la, thinking—fuck. Just, fuck.
Ice
cubes clinked into glasses, then cracked when liquor hit them. She didn’t
particularly want to be grateful to him for a damn thing at that moment but she
certainly hoped he was pouring for both of them.
He
was. She grabbed the glass he set in front of her as if it was a jug of water
in the middle of a desert and knocked it back, not stopping until the ice hit
her nose. Good but not good enough. She held the glass up and listened to him
refill it.
“So,”
she said, picking up the refill. It was harder than she’d thought not to look
at him. Part of her insisted she was wrong, that she was reading things into
this, imagining a situation that didn’t actually exist. Any second now he was going to ask her what was wrong,
kiss her head or pull her into his arms on the couch . . .
it
wouldn’t be the first time he’d sent others out of the room so he could be
alone with her.
But
not this time. She knew it, and every stupid hope, every silly fantasy she had,
faded with each passing second.
And
the bastard wasn’t even going to speak first. He was going to let her do it, he
was going to take that tactical advantage from her. Jesus, was everything a
fucking game to him? Had he ever even cared about her at all?
Those
questions choked her, fought to jump out of her throat and fling themselves at
him in suicidal leaps. She refused to let them. Instead she said, “So who are
you marrying, then?”
“Jesus,
Meg. You don’t pull any fucking punches, do you.”
“Me?
Me? I’m not the one who’s been lying all this time, I’m not the one
who’s been planning behind your back and leading you on—”
“Not—damn
it, do you think this is what I want?” The frustration and pain in his voice
sounded genuine enough, but she couldn’t trust that, and she couldn’t look at
him.
“Why
wouldn’t you? You’d—oh, right. Of course. I’m supposed to be your mistress,
right? Or do I not even get to do that?”
Long
pause. She stole a glance at him, quickly so he wouldn’t see her looking. At
least that’s what she tried to do. Her head didn’t seem to be in her control.
None of her body did; she had to squeeze her glass hard as she lifted it to her lips, because she couldn’t seem to
feel the cold against her fingers.
Finally
he spoke. “When was I supposed to tell you? Right at the beginning, when
neither of us had any idea where this was going? You’d just been attacked and
betrayed by demons. You’d just found yourself attached to them. Would that have
been a good time to inform you that if you wanted to marry me one day, you’d
need to become a demon? Assuming I did end up in a position where it became
necessary?”
“You
had plenty of other chances,” she snapped. Arguing with a demon was bad;
arguing with a lawyer was bad. Arguing with a demon lawyer was infuriating.
“Oh,
sure I did. I could have mentioned it right away, when Roc told you about the
ritual and you insisted you didn’t want to do it. Or any other time since, when
you insisted you didn’t want to do it. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
“You
should have told me. You should have let me know this was—”
“Meg,
darling, last night you refused to do the ritual even to save your own life.
Was I really supposed to assume being with me was more important than that?”
Shit.
He had her there. Mostly. “Don’t you think I was entitled to all the facts? Don’t
you think I had a right to know all the reasons to do it, all the
implications?”
He
took a step toward her, then stopped when she glared at him. His face was pale,
a little drawn; he looked extremely tired. She fought her instinct to get up
and put her arms around him, cursed the fact that even in
the middle of this conversation, that was her instinct. That no matter how hurt
and angry she was—and both boiled in her stomach like a bowl of acid full of
nails—she still loved him.
He
leaned back against the wall. One hand clutched a glass full almost to the rim
with straight scotch; while she watched he drank half of it off. “What if I
had?”
“What?”
“What
if I had told you?” His tone echoed oddly in her ears. Either she was on her
way to drunk—she realized her second drink was almost gone—or he was simply
speaking very quietly, in a subdued way she’d never heard. “What if I’d picked
a moment—I don’t know, three months ago or six months ago, or when the subject
first came up—and we’d discussed it? What would you have done?”
“I
don’t know. That’s not the point, the point is—”
“No,
that is the point. That is exactly the point. When was I supposed to put
that kind of pressure on you? On us? Would you have appreciated that? Some guy
you’ve been seeing for a couple of months suddenly telling you about the ways
you have to change your life if you want things to go farther? What if you’d
decided it was too much for you to deal with and you’d left? Or what if you had
done it?”
Her
mouth went dry, as if she’d been drinking cotton balls instead of gin. “So you
don’t even want me to do it, that’s what you’re saying.” She stood up.
“You—fuck you, Greyson. I’m out of—”
“Sit
down.”
“Don’t
tell me—”
“Sit
down.” Pause. “Please.”
It
wasn’t the most gracious request she’d ever heard, but he generally didn’t say
please unless it was something important. Something he really wanted—no, she
was not going to start thinking about that.
She
sat down, though. “What.”
“What
if you had done it, just for me,” he said, as if the interruption hadn’t taken
place at all. “What if I’d somehow found just the right moment to bring it
up—not too early, not too late—and you’d been understanding of why I hadn’t
mentioned it before, of course, since as time went on it became more and more
glaringly obvious that I was leaving it too late. What if all that had gone
perfectly, and you’d done it, and you regretted it? And blamed me? Would you
like to spend the rest of your life resenting me because of everything you gave
up for me?”
“That’s
not fair,” she replied, but she couldn’t put a lot of strength behind it. He
did have a point there. It didn’t make hers any less valid, but he did have a
point. “You didn’t give me a chance to make a decision.”
“Life
isn’t fair, darling. That may be banal, but it is unfortunately true. I didn’t
think it was very fair of me to ask you to give up everything, not when neither
of us knew where we’d end up and you didn’t seem particularly interested in
finding out. And then I didn’t think it was fair of me to ask you to give up
everything when you were so adamant about not wanting to. And let’s be clear on
this, since we’re laying our cards on the table, so to speak. When I say give
up everything, I mean everything. You wouldn’t be able to keep doing your job,
not the way you do now. Certainly the radio
show would have to go. It makes you too vulnerable. And yes, there would have
to be children as soon as possible. You’ve never even really mentioned wanting
them.”
Of
course she wanted them. But when was she supposed to bring that up? How far
into a relationship did one start talking about having children and not be seen
as some grasping, desperate female with an iron biological clock attached to
her ankle? Especially when she knew they couldn’t have them naturally. Just as
there were—well. She guessed she understood what he was saying, after all.
But
the rest of it . . . Yes, she loved him. She wanted to be with
him. Wanted to marry him. None of that was a surprise. But her work? Her radio
show?
“What
do you mean, I wouldn’t be able to work? Too vulnerable how?”
“Oh,
come on, Meg. It can’t have escaped your notice that someone is trying to kill
you.”
“But
that’s not—”
“No,
we don’t know who it is or why. It may be you, it may be me. And in the years
to come it probably will be me. You’re not stupid. You know not all of my
business is legal and that it sometimes involves disagreements that can’t be
settled with a friendly meeting. Sometimes problems have to be eliminated.
Sometimes warnings have to be given. To have you out there, working a job that
requires you to be alone with strangers, one that puts you in the public eye?
Bad enough you do it now. If we’re married? Impossible.”
Her
glass was empty, and she didn’t feel as if she’d managed
to swallow a drop of it. “Why do I have to give up my job? Why can’t you give
up yours?”
“What?”
“No,
really. Why can’t you give up your job if it’s so dangerous? Why do I have to
be the one who loses everything? I mean, if we’re really talking about this
here, and not just as some kind of abstract concept. Why do I have to stop
working, stop being human, stop being anything at all, and you give up nothing?
Hell, Greyson, you don’t even have to quit dating, apparently, you could just
get yourself a series of girlfriends on the side and—”
“Jesus,
is that what you think? Do you really trust me that little?”
“It’s
not a matter of not trusting you. I don’t even know what you want! You haven’t
even said, this whole time, what you want. You’ve never said how you feel about
me, where you want this to go. How am I supposed to even consider all of this
when I don’t even know how you feel, you won’t even tell me?”
“What?
You don’t know how I—for fuck’s sake, what do you think we’ve been doing for
the last year? Do you even know me at all? Do you think I’ve just been playing
with you this whole time? Do you have any idea how vulnerable being with you
makes me, how dangerous it is for me—”
“Oh,
sorry, I don’t mean to inconvenience you.”
“God
damn it, that’s not what I mean and you fucking know it. Or shit, maybe you
don’t. I thought you did. I thought we didn’t need some fucking words—which
you’ve never said either, may I remind you—to know
where we stood.” He shrugged and stared at his empty glass as though he’d never
seen anything like it before. “I thought we meant more to each other than that,
frankly.”
Shit.
He had to go and say that, didn’t he? This time she couldn’t stop the tears;
they rolled down her cheeks, almost faster than she could wipe them away. They
were talking about marriage and children, they were saying all the things she’d
hoped they’d say someday, had assumed they would say—he was right. She had
known where she stood. She had thought the words weren’t important.
But
this didn’t feel the way she’d thought it would. Didn’t feel like a beginning.
It felt like the end.
Because
it was. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t give up her humanity, her job, and her
radio show to become a sequestered housewife. There was nothing in the world
wrong with being a stay-at-home mother or stay-at-home wife; she’d always
assumed that she’d give up work for a few years if—when—she had a baby, that
she’d arrange her schedule to be home after school once her child reached that
age. It was one of the benefits of doing her kind of work.
But
she’d never planned to give up her career entirely, for good. Not for five
years but forever. And she’d always assumed—damn it, she’d always assumed it
because it was the way it was supposed to be—that it would be a decision she
made, one they made together. Not an edict. Not a condition. But a choice.
“If
you really loved me,” she managed finally, “you’d want to be with me anyway.
You’d figure something else out. But the way
you want it, I give up everything, and you get everything. You won’t give up
your life, I have to give up mine. You won’t give up your work, I have to give
up mine.”
“Be
reasonable, Meg.” The pleading look on his face would have broken her heart if
it hadn’t already been shattered. “I make seventy or eighty times what you
make. You wouldn’t have to work. You could spend your days doing anything you
wanted—”
“But
what I want to do is work!” Fuck. For someone who was supposed to be good at
resolving conflicts, she was not doing a great job. But then it was always so
much harder when it wasn’t simply advice given to others; the path wasn’t so
clear when you were walking on it yourself. “I worked hard to get where I am,
Greyson, it’s important to me.”
“And
my work is important to me. And far more lucrative.”
“I
didn’t get a PhD so I could become your fucking concubine.”
He
winced. “It wouldn’t be—forget it. You’ve obviously made up your mind. I’m a
scumbag who wants to use you and lock you in a basement.”
“That’s
what it feels like.” The words came out hoarse, forced through her aching
throat. “Greyson, can’t you see, making me give up my job and everything—I
don’t think I can do it.”
He
poured himself another drink, glanced back at her glass. She nodded, and he
took it and filled it. For a moment the only sound in the room was him draining
his glass and filling it again.
“There
is another option,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there is, if
it’s what you want. You—”
“If
you suggest I be your girlfriend on the side, I will slap you.”
“What
the hell do you want, then, Meg? You don’t want to marry me because of everything
you’ll have to give up. You don’t want me to marry somebody else because—I
don’t know why. Do—”
“You
don’t know why? You can’t even imagine why I might not want to be your other
woman?”
“I
told you yesterday, it’s not like that. An arranged marriage is only—”
“An
arranged—oh.” The penny dropped then; she couldn’t figure out how or why it
took so long, but it did. “Win’s daughter, right? Leora. That’s why she’s here,
isn’t it?”
He
sighed. “Yes. Yes, Win wants me to marry her.”
“And
what did you tell him?”
She
waited for his answer, waited through one of the longest and loudest
conversational pauses she’d ever experienced in her life. She’d started to
wonder again if this was simply a terrible nightmare, and he wasn’t speaking
because she was about to wake up, when he said, “I told him I’d think about
it.”
“You
told him you’d—you’re thinking about it? You’re fucking thinking about it?”
“I
was trying to put him off until I had a chance to talk to you, to really
explain. I wanted you to go to Florence with me, remember, I thought we could—”
“No.
I can’t fucking believe you would do that to me. Now Win thinks you’re
considering making me your mistress? Who else
knows that? Did you even think how that makes me look?”
“Did
you even think how it makes me look, to have you refusing to do the
ritual for me?”
“You
never asked me to do it for you!”
“Fine.”
In a flash he was across the room, hauling her to her feet by the shoulders and
looming over her, his dark eyes flaring red, his body throwing off heat like a
furnace. “I’m asking you now, Meg. Will you do it for me? Do the ritual and be
with me. Give up your job and be with me. Marry me, damn it.”
His
lips cut off any answer she could have made.
Chapter Nineteen
Harder,
and harder still. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a demand; it was him taking
charge of her, taking control. And in the blink of an eye she was controlled,
helpless in his arms, her own twining around his neck, tasting salt from her
tears as their lips devoured each other’s and the flaring bright energy in her,
his energy pouring into her, threatened to send her over the edge before
anything even happened.
His
lips left hers to travel down her throat, kissing, biting. His fingers squeezed
her ribs almost hard enough to hurt. “Please, bryaela. Please.”
She
wanted to say yes. Would have wanted to say yes even if his hand hadn’t slid up
under her shirt and found her breast, even if his mouth hadn’t found her
earlobe and was sucking on it the way he knew she loved.
But
she couldn’t. She couldn’t because he’d lied to her; no matter what his reasons
or how sensible they were, he’d kept something that important from her. She
couldn’t because asking her to give up her job and her show would have been
different if he hadn’t presented it as a requirement.
But
those were incidentals. She could have gotten over them. What she couldn’t get
over was the idea that he’d actually considered
marrying someone else. He’d actually thought, even for a moment, about taking
another woman into his bed, making another woman the mother of his children.
She couldn’t get over the way he’d spoken of her giving up her job as if it was
nothing but refused even to consider giving up his.
Of
course it made more sense financially for him to keep his. He wasn’t lying
about how much more money he made than she did; she had a box full of diamond
jewelry and several stamps in her passport that attested to that, not to
mention the other things, things he bought because he was thinking of her, or
he thought she’d like them, or whatever other reason he’d come up with.
But
he hadn’t even considered it. Hadn’t even paid her the respect of pretending to
consider it. Hadn’t even attempted to work out some kind of compromise, to
discuss it. As if her work meant nothing, was just playacting she did while
waiting for some man to sweep her off her feet.
Too
bad that was exactly what had happened. And too bad she couldn’t let him do it
again.
All
of this passed through her mind in a flash, while his lips found hers again,
searingly hot, almost driving her few coherent thoughts away. Without her
realizing it, her hands had found his bare skin under his shirt, the smooth,
strong expanse of his back, the row of sgaegas—little spikes—down his
spine.
Those
sgaegas were what he’d shown her to convince her that he was really a
demon. And she’d touched them, and her body had gone hot and shivery, and sud denly she wasn’t kissing him anymore because she was
crying too hard.
“You
lied to me.” The words choked her; she pushed him away, and it felt as if she’d
ripped something out of her chest. “All this time you kept this from me, you
didn’t tell me. How can I trust you? How can you act like my job is nothing?”
“I
don’t think it’s nothing.” She could feel his eyes on her, pleading with her,
but she refused to meet them. “But it’s too dangerous, it’s—”
“If
it’s too dangerous,” she said, her voice shaking, “then it’s been dangerous all
along. You said yourself, whoever’s after me now might be after me because of
you. And you never mentioned it. You let me be in danger all this—”
“No!
God, no, it’s—”
“Can
you promise me that? Can you swear that just being with you, just seeing you,
didn’t put me in any danger? That someone isn’t trying to kill me right now
because of you, and it has nothing to do with my job or anything else?”
The
room was so cold. His chest was warm, she knew, the way he always was, the kind
of warmth she could curl into, the kind that would never fade.
But
she couldn’t do it. All she could think of were lies and betrayals and the idea
that everyone had known but her, that they’d all been conspiring to keep it
hidden, that she’d looked like a fool to everyone.
The
idea that he’d known she might be in danger and had still not told her.
“No.”
He took another step back. “No, I suppose I can’t.”
The
pale green carpet had a subtle pattern to it; she hadn’t noticed it before. Now
it swirled at her feet, blurred with her tears, became nothing more than a
fuzzy wash of color as her eyes lost focus. They stood there, a few feet apart,
so close she could have reached him in a few steps.
She’d
never felt so alone in her life.
He
cleared his throat. Paused. Did it again. “So what are we doing, Meg. I
don’t . . . What do you want to do?”
It
wasn’t a matter of what she wanted to do. She wanted to take his hand
and go to bed. She wanted him to sit down so she could curl up in his lap and
feel, just one more time, totally cared for. Totally understood and approved
of.
But
she wanted more than that out of life too. So she said, in a voice that didn’t
sound at all like her own, “I think I should get my own room. I don’t think I
can do this. I can’t trust you anymore.”
He
made a small sound. She couldn’t look at him to determine if it was a laugh
or . . . something else. She didn’t think she could stand
knowing. “No, you stay here. I’ll have one of the boys come later for my
clothes. Unless you want me to pack now.”
“No.
I’ll get my own room. I can get my own, you know. I have my own money, I don’t
need yours.” It was a low blow, and she knew it; she saw him twitch out of the
corner of her eye. “I’m going to go now.”
This
couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be actually happening. She glanced at the clock;
half an hour had passed. Half an hour, and her
life had fallen apart into sharp, horrible little pieces.
“Okay.
Okay, then. I’ll . . . I’ll have them bring your things.”
She
walked toward the door, every cell in her body screaming to stop. To turn
around, to run back to him. She loved him. Surely they could work this out.
Couldn’t they work it out? How could this be happening?
How
could he have considered marrying someone else? How could he have even considered
it?
She
paused in the doorway for a second. He stood where she’d left him; his eyes
looked damp. She quickly skipped over them. The late-afternoon light streaming
through the windows caught his dark, shiny hair, the sharp bones of his face,
and the almost hawklike nose. She loved those bones. Loved that face. Loved him,
fuck, what—
But
he’d lied. Not about unimportant things but about their future. And she
couldn’t accept that, couldn’t forgive him, at least not yet, if ever.
She
closed the door.
She
stood for a second staring at it, listening to the sound of it closing over and
over again in her head. Then she made her way down the hall on legs she
couldn’t feel and called the elevator for the lobby.
“Megan?”
The
gentle tapping on the door was like a hammer bludgeoning her skull.
“Megan?
Can I come in?”
Tera.
Megan lifted her aching head and tried to find the door; her eyes, emptied of
tears, were so dry her lids felt sticky when she blinked, and her vision was
blurry.
“Yes,
come in.” Her throat was sore; no big surprise, considering she’d barely
managed to get through the endless paperwork of getting herself a room and made
it up there—a nondescript hole on the seventh floor—before being messily,
horribly sick. Her wonderful stomach struck again.
Her
fumbling fingers finally grasped the lock. Turning it felt like lifting a
thousand-pound weight, but she managed it and stepped back.
Tera
held up a white paper bag. “I brought you some fries.”
Ugh. “Thanks, but I’m not really
hungry.”
The
room wasn’t a suite, just a typical hotel room like Elizabeth Reid’s—bed
jutting out from one wall, small desk, TV. It was still the Bellreive, so still
larger and nicer than a budget hotel, but the difference . . .
She didn’t want to think about that. Or about that suite. Or especially about
who was in it.
Tera
sat on the bed. “Nice room.”
“You
should have seen the desk clerk. He looked at me like he thought I was going to
leap over the counter and try to eat his brains.”
“I’m
not surprised. You look like you died three days ago.”
Normally
Tera’s casual bluntness didn’t bother Megan, even amused her. Not today. “Yeah,
thanks, Tera. I feel just great, so—”
“No,
Megan, listen.” Tera took her hand. The touch of
her skin felt odd, too cold somehow; it had to fight to reach her through the
numbness. “I know I’m not the most sensitive person in the world, okay? I know
that. But . . . you look bad, like you feel bad, and I
don’t want you to feel that way. It bugs me. I want you to feel better. So you
should talk about it if you want. And I won’t say anything mean about him, I
promise.”
Megan
shrugged. This wasn’t helping her fight the hard ball of pain in her chest.
“Say anything you want about him. I don’t care.”
“Yes,
you do.”
“I
don’t.”
“I
don’t believe you.”
“He
lied to me, he ?” She’d thought she was out of tears. She was wrong. “He lied
to me, Tera. I never thought he would do that. Not like that. Not about us. And
then he . . . he asked me to marry him, like that was supposed
to fix everything, and I said no ?”
She
couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say anything more. And lucky for her, she didn’t need
to, because Tera reached out and held her while she cried.
It
may have been five minutes or half an hour, she didn’t know, but when she
pulled away, she felt better. Just telling someone what happened felt better.
Well, of course it did. What the hell did she do for a living, if talking to
someone about problems didn’t help?
It
was her job. And it was important. And she was good at it. She still had that;
she was still who she was. She still wasn’t alone. Somehow that gave her the
strength to wipe her eyes, to lift her head and straighten her back. “What time
is it?”
“Almost
six.”
“Shit,
I have to get ready. Dinner’s earlier tonight, there’s going to be business
discussions, and ?” He would be there. God damn it, why did this have to happen
now? When she’d have to see him that night and every night for the next week?
When she was—oh, shit, she was trapped in a hotel with a bunch of demons who
would be absolutely fascinated to know what had happened.
She
wasn’t just going to have to see him and pretend everything was fine. She was
going to have to see all of them and pretend she was fine. Wasn’t that
just fucking great?
She
made it to the reception room by seven, luckily. Late was not a good thing to
be when one was attempting to behave as though nothing at all was the matter,
but it was a close call. She’d spent almost twenty minutes with cold wet
teabags over her eyes, and Tera promised she looked fine, so she guessed she
did, even if she felt like a bombed-out building. One thing about Tera, her
judgment was believable.
Tera
had also gone back up to the suite to get her a few things, her suitcase and
makeup bag. That was when Megan realized Nick had been sitting on the floor
outside her door the entire time.
He
stood beside her now, his arm reassuring under her hand. Roc sat on her
opposite shoulder; she felt bracketed by the two of them, encased in what
little protection was available.
“I
assume you’d like a drink,” Nick said.
She
nodded. The room was fairly full, with the Gretnegs and their assistants ?
“He’s
not here yet. He told me he’d come late, so it wouldn’t look so odd you two
arriving separately.”
She
forced a smile and hoped it hid her embarrassment. “Was I that obvious?”
“No.
But I can imagine what I would do in your situation. I mean, if I ever actually
sustained any kind of relationship.”
“Honestly?
Right now I think you’re better off.”
They’d
reached the bar. The demon behind it—one of Gunnar’s, she thought—poured her a
gin and tonic, but before she could get it to her lips, someone touched her
shoulder.
Leora.
Shit.
The
girl’s wide blue eyes met hers without guile. She was wearing a dress almost
the exact same color; the effect was to make her look like innocent youth on
legs, and Megan feel like a crone in her own black sheath. All of her dresses
were black, damn it. She hadn’t brought anything else. If she hadn’t been so
busy being miserable and sick, she would have tried to run out and buy
something, but as it was, she was just hoping desperately to make it through
the evening without bursting into tears.
Her
entire body hurt. Her chest felt as if a bomb had gone off inside it.
“Megan,
I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes?”
Megan
shot a desperate glance at Nick, but his lifted eyebrows
indicated the same sort of helplessness she felt. To deny the girl would be
rude, and demons were fairly obsessive about manners. On the other hand,
though . . .
the
thought of actually speaking to Leora made her palms sweat.
No
real choice, though. So she nodded. “Sure.”
Leora
led her off to the side, to the pole where she’d had her discussion with
Greyson what felt like hundreds of years before. A new wound opened in her
chest.
“My
dad wanted me to talk to you,” Leora said. “He thought maybe if we got to know
each other better, it would help.”
Oh,
no. Oh no no nonononono. “I don’t think we have any issues that need helping.”
“Well,
you know, he thought maybe if I talked to you, you could talk to Greyson. I
mean, I’m not supposed to tell you that, I don’t think—I’m not very good at all
of this stuff.” The blush on her cheeks was very becoming. Megan wanted to slap
them. Not so much because she was angry but because it was the only way she
could think of to make Leora stop talking.
“I
think Greyson can make up his own mind about things.”
“Well,
yeah, but my dad says it’s because of you that he hasn’t said yes yet,
and . . . I’d really like him to. I think you and I could be
really good friends. I don’t want to get in the way of what you two have, but I
want to—”
Greyson
walked in.
Leora
hadn’t finished talking, but Megan heard her voice only as a dull buzz in the
background. She was too busy staring, not sure
if she was proud or furious that he looked perfectly elegant and well rested,
as if not a thing had happened.
Leora
followed her gaze. “Oh! There he is.”
He
saw them. The faint down-twist of his mouth and wrinkle of his brow gave Megan
some satisfaction but not much. She was just miserable, and things did not
improve when he approached them.
“Ladies,”
he said, with a fluid bow that raised her suspicions. “How lovely to see you
both. I hope you’re not talking about me.”
Leora
giggled. “Of course we are.”
He
cocked his right eyebrow. “I assume you want me to ask what you’re saying? I
won’t, you know.”
Megan’s
suspicions were confirmed. He was drunk. He never behaved like some Regency
ballroom rake unless he was completely plastered. She’d only seen him like this
twice; it took a shitload of liquor to make a demon drunk, and he didn’t tend
to drink that heavily. He must have spent the entire afternoon guzzling scotch.
Of
course, she’d spent hers puking and sobbing. So she couldn’t help feeling he’d
had the better idea.
Leora
didn’t seem to realize anything was wrong. “You know we’ll tell you anyway.”
“Oh,
you might,” he replied. Carter brought him another drink; he tossed it
down his throat with an efficiency that made Megan wince. “But Megan? She’d
never tell. And I’d certainly never ask her. Her responses to my questions are
horrible.”
Megan
choked out what she hoped was a close approximation
of a lighthearted laugh. “Maybe you just don’t ask them correctly.”
“Maybe
I don’t, at that. I always thought women found begging undignified. Looks like
my suspicions were confirmed.”
“Maybe
begging doesn’t mean anything when it feels like all the decisions are being
made for us instead of with us.”
He
scowled. “Seems to me the decision was entirely yours.”
“Oh,
does it? Here I was thinking—”
Leora
gave a delicate cough, more suggestion of a sound than an actual one. Megan
practically jumped. She’d forgotten the girl was there.
“I
think we’re ready to go in to dinner.” Leora pointed at the open double doors,
at the others filing through them.
“Of
course.” Greyson hesitated for such a brief time that Megan felt certain Leora
hadn’t noticed it; then he offered Leora his arm. “Shall we?”
She
giggled and took it, blushing again, while Megan wished desperately that an
entire herd of angels or FBI agents or exorcists would burst into the room and
end her misery right there.
No
such luck. Instead she stood alone and watched the two of them sail off to the
doors until Nick and Roc came to get her.
It
wasn’t until she settled herself in her chair—blessedly they’d been shifted
around for this meal, and Greyson was across from her rather than right beside her—that she realized the implications of her
discussion with Leora.
Did
Win truly believe she was the reason Greyson hadn’t agreed to marry his
daughter? And did he want that marriage badly enough to kill for it?
Chapter Twenty
It
was the longest meal of her life. The food was probably delicious. She didn’t
taste a single bite of it, but she forced it down anyway for appearances. The
others seemed to be enjoying it, so she figured she should too.
She’d
thought having Greyson opposite her would be easier than having him beside her.
She was wrong. If he’d been next to her, she wouldn’t have had to see him every
time she looked up from her plate. Looking to his right didn’t help, because
Leora was there. Looking to his left was worse; Justine eyed her like a cat
watching a broken-legged mouse.
In
all it was an absolutely shitty evening, made only slightly worse by how
vulnerable she felt—any one of these people could be plotting to kill her—and
worse again by watching Greyson swallow scotch like water.
They’d
just had their desserts placed in front of them—some sort of gooey cake covered
with berries and whipped cream, which Megan couldn’t even think about
attempting—when Winston cleared his throat.
“Last
year we agreed that control of the lake-perimeter nightclubs would be shared
equally by myself and Gunnar. I think he’ll agree it’s working well so far. But
there’s a problem in the Boarwell area. We’ve had a few
rubendas—employees in the clubs—disappear, and a chef at Galloway’s.
Which has made the police nose around, as the chef was human.”
“You
had a human employee?” Justine directed her question at Winston but didn’t stop
staring at Megan. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?”
“He
was an incredible chef,” Gunnar cut in. “You must have seen the review in the Hot
Spot. Business doubled after we lured him away from—”
“There
had to be one of us who could do just as well. Humans can’t be trusted. They
shouldn’t be anywhere near us.”
Megan
wasn’t sure who the rest of the table was staring at harder, herself or
Greyson. The latter was inspecting the bottom of his empty glass with the sort
of concentration most people reserved for lottery tickets or subpoenas, but he
must have felt their gazes.
He
sighed and looked up. “Now, Justine, let Winston finish speaking before you
rush off on one of your little tirades, won’t you?”
Damn
it. She should have spoken up, not him. She was letting herself get distracted.
Not a good idea, especially not in this gathering.
Especially
since that distraction—well, all of the distractions—had kept her from asking
him the night before whether he thought Justine’s hatred of humans had led her
to try to eliminate Megan not just from the demon world but from the land of
the living entirely.
Okay,
so now she had motives for two at the table. Who wanted to step up next?
Justine
opened her mouth, her beautiful face
darkening,
but Winston stepped in quickly, shooting Greyson a surprised glance as he did.
“The point is, we have reason to believe they’re being attacked by another
demon. So we’d like to nip this in the bud here. Have any of our rubendas been
stepping on toes? Or is our arrangement causing problems with any of you? You
all agreed last year to let us control the area.”
His
voice stayed perfectly calm, almost affable, but his anger tickled cold on
Megan’s skin.
The
others were silent. Winston sighed. “Do we have a rogue demon in the area? Are
any of you aware of any problems in other cities that may have been carried
into ours?”
Greyson’s
voice cut through the general demurrals of the others. “Why are you so sure
it’s a demon?”
“What
else could it be?” Gunnar pushed his empty plate away—the smear of fruit juice
on it looked like blood—and leaned forward. “What else could attack us without
our sensing it or being able to overpower it? Seven missing now. We’ve been on
alert for weeks. Are you suggesting a human might have been able to sneak up on
them and injure them?”
“It
could be a witch,” Baylor Regis said. His gray eyes shifted toward Megan. “Has
your witch friend been asking questions?”
“It’s
not a witch,” Winston said dismissively. “We’ve performed a betchimal on
all of them. They would have been aware—”
“Well,
well,” Greyson drawled. “Been holding out on us, Win? You never mentioned you
know how to do the betchimal.”
“Nobody
asked me.” Winston seemed to realize this answer didn’t exactly satisfy the
others; Baylor looked as if he wanted to slit Win’s and Gunnar’s throats. “I’ll
be happy to teach you all, of course.”
“No
need.” Greyson accepted yet another drink from an unobtrusive servant. “I can
do it myself.”
What?
He’d said—oh, of course. Tera had performed it on her that morning; he must
have been listening. She wished she could add it to the long list of reasons to
be angry at him, but she couldn’t; she wouldn’t have expected anything less,
really.
“I’d
certainly like to learn it,” Justine snapped. “Don’t speak for the rest of us,
Grey.”
“I
wouldn’t dream of speaking for you, Justine. I have far too much intelligence
even to be capable of it.”
The
entire table held its breath. Justine looked mollified for a second, then
realized she’d been insulted; her face flushed, and her icy blast of rage
almost knocked Megan out of her chair.
Shit,
he really was wasted. She’d never seen him be so rude, at least not without an
excellent reason.
“Good
thing it wasn’t my intelligence you needed just before Christmas.” Justine’s
eyes had gone so narrow they’d almost disappeared; for a second the beautiful
woman disappeared, and something much less attractive sat in her place. “It’s—”
He
yawned and turned away from her. “Win, you were saying nobody sensed their
attacker? If they’ve disappeared, how would you know? Do you have a witness?”
“We
did have one,” Gunnar said, after a pause. “He didn’t
see anything but was close enough that the betchimal would have alerted
him, had it been a witch. So a magical attacker, gone
unsensed . . . it has to be another demon.”
“Not
necessarily.” Greyson looked at her; their eyes met. Something flared in his,
just for a second, and it was gone. “It could be an angel.”
It
took a moment for his words to register in her head. She was too busy trying to
keep the spasm of sharp pain his gaze had summoned from showing on her face and
too busy trying to keep her mind from worrying at Justine’s last sentence like
a pit bull with a rodent. Which was just what it felt like: something dirty and
riddled with sickness being tugged, a bit at a time, from the depths of her
memory.
“What
the hell would an angel be doing here?” Gunnar said. “I thought Vergadering had
wiped most of them out, and they’d gone into hiding.”
“Oh,
there’s one here. I saw it this morning.” Greyson lifted his glass, nodded at a
servant. Megan wondered if he would be able to stand when this hellish meal
finally reached a conclusion.
Of course,
if he wasn’t, little Leora would probably be perfectly happy to help him back
to his suite. Now, there was a cheerful thought.
What
the hell had Justine done for him? Just before Christmas . . .
he wouldn’t be where he was ?
Templeton
Black had died just before Christmas.
But
that was a suicide. He’d left a note and everything. Tera said Vergadering
didn’t suspect any foul play. Surely if there had been reason to suspect any,
they would have suspected it. They suspected
just about everyone, of everything.
What
difference did it make? It was over between them. Done. He wasn’t her concern
anymore.
She
wondered if any sentence she’d ever uttered to herself had hurt more. No, it
didn’t seem so. That was a personal best in the pain and misery department.
“You
saw it?” Winston’s face—always susceptible to coloring, the way all blood
demons seemed to be—went bright red. If he’d had a beard, he would have looked
like a very angry Santa Claus. “And you didn’t tell us?”
“I
believe I just did.”
“Yes,
but—yes. I would have thought you would tell us sooner.”
Greyson
shrugged. “I would have thought you’d have mentioned your rubendas going
missing sooner, Win. Want to explain why you didn’t?”
“That’s
different. That’s private business.”
“You
thought there was a rogue demon in the city, and you didn’t warn the rest of
us.” Baylor glared at Winston and Gunnar each in turn, like a teacher trying to
figure out who threw the spitball when her back was turned. “Grey is right. You
should have told us before this.”
“We
weren’t sure what it was,” Gunnar said. His black hair was slipping from its
Gordon Gekko sweep-back; he reached up to try to push it out of his eyes but
only succeeded in making it worse. Gunnar didn’t handle stress well. “We didn’t
want to alarm anyone.”
Justine
licked whipped cream off her fingers. “That was totally irresponsible.”
“And
totally our business,” Winston replied. “Have any of the rest of you had
issues? No? Then it doesn’t matter.”
“It
does to me. You let the rest of us take a risk.” Justine’s impressive bosom
heaved.
“We
take risks every day. We’re taking a risk even bringing this up. What if it’s
one of you, trying to start a war?”
“If
it is one of us,” Justine said nastily, “it’s probably Greyson. He’s the one
giving us all some bullshit story about an angel.”
“He’s
not.” Here, at last, was something Megan felt qualified to comment on. “I saw
it too. And I—I felt it last night. It attacked me.”
She
wanted to look at him, to see if she’d done the right thing. She refused to let
herself. What she said and did wasn’t his business anymore either. Which was
the way he wanted it, as he’d proven the minute he’d said “I’ll think about it”
to Winston.
Winston,
who looked at her with his eyebrows raised. “You felt it? You can feel it?”
Of
course. Not “It attacked you?” Not “Are you okay?” But “You can feel it?” The
others leaned forward—all except Greyson, of course, who was fiddling with his
cell phone—making her feel as if she was in an interrogation room from an old
TV cop show, with a bright naked lightbulb in her face.
“It
feels like an absence,” she said finally. “Like an empty space. I think the
Yezer can feel it too, if they focus.”
“Particularly
if it travels on the psychic plane,” Greyson added. “But I don’t think it’s
doing much of that.”
Gunnar
pushed his hair back again. “Oh? Why not?”
“I
think it’s found several people to use as shields.”
“Like
who?”
He
hesitated. “It seemed particularly interested in that reverend person over at
the Windbreaker. That’s where we saw it. Megan seemed to think it was feeding
on the gullible little crowd, which makes sense, if you think about it. Zealots
like that, desperate to believe . . . ripe for the picking,
really.”
“Perhaps
I’m in the wrong business,” Baylor said.
Greyson
raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you are.”
Another
uneasy hush around the table. Megan waited for someone to call him on his
rudeness, but no one did. Funny, that.
Win
cleared his throat. “The point is, I suppose, that this angel is here. And it
may be after us. Is that correct?”
There
were general nods around the table.
“I
have my Yezer on the alert,” Megan said.
“But
we don’t just want to sit and wait for it to attack us. We want to find a way
to solve the problem,” Win said. “Since you and Greyson saw it, why don’t you
two see what you can come up with? We’ll all think tonight, and we’ll meet in
the afternoon to go over plans. You two will have something for us then, I
hope?”
Okay.
Maybe nobody else felt awkward—she was fairly certain Greyson was incapable of
feeling anything at that point—but she certainly did.
But
she was pretending nothing was wrong. Vulnerability was not her friend in this
situation, and she wouldn’t show any. So she smiled, as if that was a great
idea, and nodded, and very carefully avoided looking at Greyson.
But
she felt him watching her just the same.
Chapter Twenty-one
The
view out her window wasn’t anywhere near as lovely as the one from the
fourteenth-floor balcony she’d been on the night before, but she didn’t give a
shit. She looked out the window but didn’t really see; through the glass more
buildings sat silent, watching her right back, their edges blurred.
Everything
was blurred. After that hideous meal had finally ended, she’d grabbed Nick and
two bottles of bourbon from the bar and hauled all three back to her room. Her
puny, lonely little room.
Greyson
had left with Leora. She’d put her hand on his arm, and they’d left together.
The fact tore at her like a flesh-eating virus.
She
could have called Tera. Maybe she should have. But somehow thinking of Tera’s sympathy—damn,
Megan had always known there were genuine feelings under there
somewhere—combined with her bluntness and . . . whatever. No, if
she were honest, the way she was always trying to get her patients to be, she’d
admit she didn’t want Tera because she wanted someone more connected to
Greyson. She wanted a man who wouldn’t try to make her talk.
And
hell, she had to be with Nick anyway, because he apparently
still wanted to guard her. So why bring Tera in, so they could snipe at each
other and flirt while she watched? If there was a worse way to spend an evening
than nursing a broken heart while two very attractive people threatened to have
angry sex in front of her at any moment, she had no idea what it could be.
“So
what do you think?” he asked. “Think the Yezer will be able to track down the
angel?”
“I
imagine so.” She looked out the window again. This time the view seemed colder;
she pictured the angel out there, watching her. Saw it again falling over the
edge of the roof, relived the moment when she’d thought she killed it and
couldn’t remember how it felt. It was all overshadowed now; she had much darker
memories taking up space. It didn’t seem right that Greyson loomed so much
larger, so much higher, but she couldn’t change it; she’d thought she killed a
man, yes, but she’d done it to save her own life. And, as much as she tried not
to think of it, he hadn’t been the first person—or whatever—she’d killed, had
he? She’d killed the Accuser. She’d killed Ktana Leyak.
Had
Greyson killed Templeton Black? Or ordered him killed? He’d been ready to ask
Winston for the death of Orion Maldon, because Maldon had threatened them—had
conspired against them and tried to end their lives.
But
why would he openly discuss having Maldon killed with her and not tell her
about Templeton?
She
hadn’t asked either. Well, why would she? The man was found dead in a
Vergadering prison cell with a suicide note. Was she supposed to guess that was
murder?
Nick
sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Megan.”
Not
a topic she wanted to get into. “Don’t say anything. Just pour me another,
okay?”
He
did, topping up both their glasses. “I never thought this would happen. I
always thought you—”
“I
don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.
Sorry. I just thought you might want—”
“I
don’t.”
He
smiled. “Okay, so you don’t. What do you want to talk about?”
His
straight dark hair fell over his brow; below his strong chin the top couple of
buttons of his tuxedo shirt hung open, the bowtie long discarded and the pants
exchanged for jeans.
Megan
hadn’t bothered to change. They both sat in the middle of the bed, with the
bottles between them. She’d tugged the skirt up so she could sit cross-legged.
It felt like a naughty picnic.
She
smiled back. “Read any good books lately?”
“Tons.
Let’s discuss them all, in detail.”
So
they did. They talked about books for an hour or so, while the level of bourbon
in the bottles steadily dropped and her mood grew giddier and giddier, the kind
of manic joy that signaled a huge crash waiting in the wings. They moved around
on the bed, finally ending up shoulder-to-shoulder against the headboard,
giggling at the TV and everything else.
Nick
emptied another glass. “So have you heard anything from your family? Since the
funeral and everything, I mean.”
“No.
I didn’t expect to, and they didn’t disappoint me.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s
okay,” she said, and she meant it. Would have meant it even if she hadn’t been
drunk enough not to care. Greyson, the lying bastard, really had had the right
idea; this was much better than trying to sit through that hideous meal feeling
as if she’d swallowed a paperweight.
He’d
left with Leora. Shit. “Really. I mean, maybe it would have been
different if all this demon stuff hadn’t happened to me. But I have people now,
I mean, I have . . . I have the Yezer. And Tera and Brian. You
know?”
He
nodded. “It really makes a difference. I didn’t have anybody for a long time
after—after my parents died. Then I met Grey, and he didn’t care what had
happened or what I was.”
“What
do you mean?”
He
hesitated, and her question, which she’d asked in genuine curiosity and nothing
more, took on new meaning. “You don’t have to tell me. I mean, if there’s
something you’re not comfortable—”
“No,
it’s okay.” He poured another glass, downed it. She wondered if he was as drunk
as she was. Probably not, but she figured he was close; he’d finished his
bottle and was sharing hers. “Well. You know I’m half incubus.”
She
smiled, raised her eyebrows a little. “Yeah, I kind of remember that about
you.”
“Oh,
right. Of course.”
He
was so close to her; she reached out and stroked his knee. “It’s okay. Really.
Go on.”
“Well.
My mom was a succubus. She was . . . she was great. I mean, she was strict, but she was great. And
my dad was part psyche demon—a vershet, you don’t really find a lot of
them in America—and part water demon. He’d really wanted me to take after his
side more than hers, but I’m pretty balanced. Anyway. His family didn’t really
approve of her, and they didn’t want them to get married, and that didn’t
change after I was born.”
“That
sucks.”
“Yeah.
So things seemed okay, he found work finally—the family business wouldn’t hire
him, and they talked him down all over so nobody else would either—and I
remember things being okay. I mean, I remember being pretty happy. And
then . . . I came home one day, I was six, and Vergadering was
there, and they wouldn’t let me go inside.”
“They
were dead?” Megan asked softly.
He
nodded. “They’d had a fight, I guess. I mean, I assume; nobody ever told me or
let me see the files or anything. And he killed her, and then he killed
himself.”
“Oh
my God.” Her right hand tightened on his knee; her left flew to her throat.
“Nick . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.
Yeah, it pretty much sucks.” He gave her a rueful smile, sad around the edges.
“And then her family wouldn’t take me because they, um, they thought it was my
fault. And his family wouldn’t take me because I was part incubus and they
thought she’d corrupted him and I was unclean or something. I don’t know. So I
went into a Vergadering school, a boarding school for orphan demons or those of
us whose parents were threats or just . . .
whatever.”
She
thought about his energy, so angry and so hurt. And
about his comments to Tera. “I guess it wasn’t a very good place to be.”
He
gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. You could say that. You could definitely say
that.”
“Weren’t
there demon schools? Places for the orphan demons?”
“Things
were pretty different then, Meg. I mean, it was only thirty years or so ago,
but a lot has changed in that time. Back then, because of what my father did,
it wasn’t just my mother’s family who considered me tainted. It was demon
society as a whole. My father’s dishonor reflected on me. It wasn’t until I
turned sixteen and won a scholarship that things changed, really, at least for
me. I met Greyson, and . . . well, like I said, he didn’t care.”
Tears
stung her eyes. She blinked them back, ducking her head in hopes he wouldn’t
see. “Yeah. I guess he wouldn’t, would he?”
“Megan . . .
what happened?”
Shit.
She didn’t want to do this. “You’d have to ask him.”
“I
did.”
“So
you know what happened.”
“I
know his side of it.”
“What
did—no. Never mind. I don’t want to know. Tell me something else. Tell me what
exactly it is you do in Miami. You never would tell me before.”
“I’m
a male stripper.”
Her
mouth fell open. “Really?”
“No.
But it sure would be interesting if I was, wouldn’t it?”
It
wasn’t that funny, but Megan found herself laughing anyway, laughing way too
hard. The room blurred around the edges and tilted gently like a rowboat on a
breezy lake, not enough to make her sick but enough to remind her that she was
sitting on a hell of a lot of alcohol.
“How
come you don’t have a girlfriend, Nick, when you’re so funny?” It came out “sho
funny.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
“Do
they have anything to do with each other?”
“They
do to me. And to any woman with a brain.”
“Maybe
I just haven’t met any women with brains, then. Or maybe they don’t think I’m
funny. Or they just don’t like me.”
“How
can they not like you?” Shit, that came out a little loud. “I like you.”
“I
think you’re drunk.”
She
giggled again. “I think so too. Are you drunk?”
He
considered it. “I think so, yeah.”
“Good.
I don’t want you to be sober when I’m drunk.”
“Right.
That would be rude. Of me. I would be rude, if I were sober.”
“Yes,
you would.”
This
struck them both as funny, and they laughed until Megan started to feel a
little sick from it and shook her head slowly. “But seriously. Why no, no
girlfriend? The whole time I’ve known you, you never dated anyone, did you?”
“No.
Don’t date much. I just—”
“But
you’re . . . you’re an incubus. How does that work? Don’t you need—oops. I shouldn’t ask that,
should I?”
She
wanted to know, though. And she was drunk enough to ask. Drunk enough to sit up
and face him, with her palm on his chest. Beneath it his heart pumped steadily,
vibrations rising into her hand.
“I
don’t mind,” he said. He patted her hand, paused, patted again, with great
solemnity. “Yes, I do need, as you put it. But long-term . . . I
couldn’t date a human, could I, and keep everything secret? And demon women
don’t really want much to do with me. They think—let’s just say I have a
reputation.”
“What
kind of reputation?”
His
raised his eyebrows. “Not a good one. That whole thing with my father? Passes
down to me, remember?”
“Ohhh,
right. So you date humans, then. For a short period of time.”
“You
could say that. One night is a short period of time, isn’t it?”
“So
you sleep with a lot of women,” she said, and saying it shocked her. What was
she doing? Her hand was still on his chest; her legs were bare, her long skirt
pushed up almost to her hips. She was alone in a hotel room, drunk, nursing one
hell of a broken heart, with a very sexy man. Whom she genuinely liked.
Genuinely cared about.
Which
was why she shouldn’t even be considering what she was pretending not to be
considering.
Greyson
had left with Leora. What were they doing now? Talking? Laughing? Other things?
Was he looking at her the way he’d always looked at Megan?
Nick
either hadn’t caught on to her drunken calculations or was ignoring the way the
air had just stilled around them. Or he was too drunk; her voice wasn’t the
only one beginning to slur a little.
“I
do, yeah. I’m not really proud of it.”
“Oh,
yes, you are.”
He
burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, maybe I am. Some. But seriously, Megan. I’m
too old for that shit now. It’s kinda pitiful. Pitiful and ?” Their eyes met.
“Lonely. It’s lonely.”
“You
shouldn’t be lonely. You’re so great, why should you be lonely?”
“Nobody
else thinks so. Thinks I’m great, I mean.” He blinked, as if he was having
trouble focusing. “They think I’m scum. And maybe they’re right.”
“No.
No, they’re not.”
He
shook his head slowly, more of a sway than a shake. “I think they are.
Otherwise, why’d I still be alone? Must be something wrong with me, you know?
Makes me nervous when I really like somebody, and then I just feel all weird
about ’em. And they all seem so silly, the ones I meet. They’re not like you,
all smart and stuff. They—”
“You
think I’m smart?”
He
blinked. So did she. It was a little hard to keep him in focus. “Well, yeah,
’course. Grey said so all the time, and how intre—inster—inneresting you are,
and he wanted me to meet you—”
Even
with the random and shameful thoughts she’d been having before, she wasn’t sure
why she did it. It might have been the thought of his lonely life and an attempt to make him feel better. It might have been
that he was complimenting her and she desperately needed those compliments,
when she felt lower than plankton on the intelligence-and-happiness food chain.
It
might have been that in that deep dark place in her mind, the one that was all
her own—she’d never had a personal demon, until Roc, and had still done things
she shouldn’t have done, things that other people did because their demons
persuaded them to—she was still thinking of Greyson leaving dinner with Leora
and wondering what they were doing. Wondering if he had any idea how much it
had hurt her to see them walk out together. And that deep dark place wanted
revenge.
Or
it could have simply been that the alcohol wasn’t erasing that pain as
effectively as she’d hoped, and she thought she’d try something else.
Whatever
the reason, she leaned over and kissed him. Hard, right on the mouth, with her
hand still on his chest trapped between his ribs and her own.
His
surprise jumped through her; her shields were down, and apparently so were his.
She hadn’t expected to be able to read him so easily; well, she couldn’t really
read him, but she definitely felt his shock. Felt his short, sharp burst of
desire shoot straight to her ego and stay there.
“Megan,”
he started, but she didn’t let him continue. She rested her hand on the back of
his neck, where his short black hair tickled her fingers, and kissed him a
little harder.
Her
heart pounded. This was wrong, this wasn’t right, she should pull away now.
Now, before things went any farther. A kiss
could be forgotten, shrugged off, and never visited again, leaving not a trace
of awkwardness in its wake; it was no big deal, especially not between very
drunk friends. She should stop, apologize, and start thinking of passing out.
But
she didn’t. After a second his hesitation turned into something else; his hand
found her cheek, his lips moved against hers, and—holy shit—she found
out what kissing a sex demon really meant.
It
meant a blast of pure sexual energy, sharp and strong enough to make her entire
body go stiff. It meant feeling herself melt over him; when his tongue found
hers, she cried out, overstimulated already. It meant feeling herself go
liquid, filled with a hot wave of desire that made her want to yank up her
dress and shove down her panties and let him have her, however he wanted.
She’d
experienced something like it when they’d met at Mitchell’s restaurant the year
before, when he hadn’t known who she was. That had just been through his eyes,
through the touch of their hands. This . . . this was that
pulsing need times ten.
Still
not the way it felt with Greyson. Nothing could touch that. But this was
awfully damn good, she had to admit.
“We
can’t,” he mumbled. “Shit, we can’t do this.”
“Yes,
we can.” She slid her hand over his chest, curled herself down to kiss his
throat. So odd, so different from Greyson. Nick’s skin was musky and spicy,
cooler to the touch. His chin moved, giving her better access even as his hands
rested on her upper arms, as if he was going to push her away.
But
he didn’t. She pulled his earlobe between her teeth, sucked on it, felt another
sharp burst of desire, stronger this time. “We can’t, Grey’s my best friend, I
can’t—”
“Shut
up.” She closed his mouth for him, took the energy he’d given her and sent some
of it back; he gasped. He was right about how wrong this was, she knew he was
right, but she couldn’t seem to remember it. Couldn’t seem to stop herself.
Couldn’t
seem to stop wondering if Greyson and Leora were doing the exact same thing
seven floors above them. If they’d already finished and were sleeping, snuggled
together in that big four-poster bed. If he’d put a ring on her finger—
Nick
pushed more power into her, thick with lust, red-tinged with anger the way his
energy always was, and she stopped thinking. Instead she let him drive his
fingers into her hair and shift her so she lay beside him. Let him take charge,
deepening the kiss, her lips parted beneath his. Power flowed into her, so
strong it made her shake.
“We
can’t,” he whispered. His hand slid up her ribcage, stopped just beneath her
breast, radiating warmth. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I
don’t care.” Her hand found the hem of his shirt and snaked up beneath it,
across his smooth bare skin. No sgaegas there; this was a different
back. A different man.
And
she knew it. Knew she wasn’t kissing Greyson. Knew the power coursing through
her wasn’t Greyson’s. It was warm, and it made her entire body tingle, but it
wasn’t his.
Which
was just what she wanted, despite the twinge of pain, the feeling in the back
of her mind that this was even more wrong than she’d thought at first.
But
Jesus, he was a good kisser. Without her mind’s consent, her body ached and
throbbed; her right leg wrapped itself around him and pulled him closer, close
enough that she could feel him hard against her, so close he made a small sound
in the back of his throat, and his hand finished its journey. She arched her
back into it. He touched her so lightly, rubbing his palm in slow circles over
her hard nipple through her dress. She felt it through her entire body, gave
him a gasp of her own, and captured his mouth with hers, let her teeth close
gently over his tongue. More power, more lust, surged into her.
She
took that feeling and sent it back to him. In a second it came back to her
again, a tidal wave of passion she couldn’t escape. Couldn’t do anything with
but let it wash through her and chase away the last vestiges of her sanity. The
last vestiges of doubt.
She
let her hands play, slid them around to feel his chest, his heart pounding
beneath. Ran them down his sides, then around again to his front, finding him
through his jeans and rubbing hard enough to make his breath catch. “Shit,
Megan.”
Her
dress bunched at her waist, pushed by his impatient hands as his mouth traveled
down her throat into her open neckline. Her heart pounded. Her body went loose
and liquid everywhere, dark lust pumping through her veins, her fingers
scrabbling at his zipper. He caressed the top of her thigh, his fingers just
brushing the edge of her panties and dancing
away, brushing the edge, then dancing away, until she realized she was shifting
her hips, trying to get those fingers where she wanted them, frustrated that
they weren’t there—
At
first she thought the knock at the door was just her imagination, the voice
calling her name even more so. Until it came again, more insistent. So loud she
couldn’t ignore it.
Greyson
was outside her door.
Chapter Twenty-two
Nick
realized it only a second after she did. They sprang apart as if they’d just
found a dead cat in the bed between them.
“Megan,
please open the door. I need to talk to you.”
The
mirror above the dresser showed her a wild woman, hair bunched up in the back
and falling in tendrils down the side of her face, the straps of her gown
falling off her shoulders. Her lips looked bruised, her mascara smeared. She
looked as if she’d just been doing exactly what she’d been doing.
Nick
turned shame-filled eyes toward her. “Shit, I knew he’d do this, fuck, I—”
“Just
calm down, okay?” She tucked her hair back behind her ears, yanked out the pins
holding it up, and tried to fluff it out. “We didn’t do anything.”
Greyson’s
voice through the door again. “Meg, please. I know you probably don’t want to
talk to me but . . . shit, please.”
“We
didn’t not do anything.” Nick seemed to be fighting some sort of minor war with
his shirt; he tucked it in, then apparently decided that didn’t look right and
tugged it back out, then repeated the process. “I mean—shit, I’m drunk—we did
do something. We did.”
“No,
actually, we didn’t. A little kissing is nothing.”
“It
won’t be nothing to him,” Nick muttered.
Megan
was inclined to agree and furious about it. Why the hell was she worried he
might find out? They’d broken up, hadn’t they? What fucking business was it of
his whom she kissed? Or let feel her up, a little bit. She refused to feel that
guilty about it; they hadn’t gone any farther than a couple of high school kids
might have while their parents went out to pick up pizza. What was it, first
base? Possibly second? She had no idea, but she was pretty sure third was bare
skin, so—oh, whatever. It hadn’t gone very far, was the point.
“Bryaela,
I know you’re awake, I can see the lights on. Please don’t make me say this
through the door.”
One
more glance in the mirror, a quick swipe under her eyes and over her mouth in
an effort to normalize. The doorknob pressed cold into her hand while
butterflies jumped in her stomach. It was not really the most comfortable
sensation, on top of the nerves, fear, and misery. Not to mention the sex
energy still simmering in her blood.
“I’m
begging you, please—”
He
was leaning against the door frame, looking every bit as drunk as he had
earlier but considerably less elegant. Dark circles edged his eyes; his shirt
hung open, and a splotch of what she was pretty sure was spilled scotch
decorated his chest. The smell of scotch and cigarette smoke blew through the
doorway in waves. Not unpleasant but worrisome; fire demons, especially, smoked
sometimes. It gave them energy. But he didn’t
do it often, and never in such quantities as to reek of it.
Seeing
him was like hitting herself in the chest with a hammer.
They
stood there, staring at each other, for what might have been a minute or maybe
an hour. She didn’t know. Her head still spun; she didn’t know if she should
yank him into the room and hold him or tell him to fuck off and leave her
alone. He’d lied, yes, and she was still pissed off about it. Still incredibly
hurt by everything else.
But
she loved him so much. And he looked so sad, and she missed him, God how she
missed him.
“Thank
you,” he said. “May I come in? Please?”
She
nodded; given half a chance, she was pretty sure her voice would squeak or
croak or something else both embarrassing and unflattering. Voices had a way of
being sneaky like that. So she just nodded and stepped back, closing the door
behind him.
“Meg.”
He started to reach for her, then stopped. His gaze stayed fixed on her face.
“Meg, I’m so . . . fuck. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should
have told you sooner, I fucked up. I fucked everything up, and I’m so fucking
sorry.”
Her
mouth fell open.
He’d
never said that before. Never. Not to her, not to anyone; she’d never heard the
word “sorry” cross his lips about anything. Her eyes stung. Of all the things
he could have said, he probably couldn’t have picked one that would have meant
more to her.
Maybe
he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Ordinarily she would have thought for sure he
did, but he didn’t indicate it, didn’t pause to see if his words had any
effect. “But I know we can . . . I’ve been thinking about this.
About us. We can work this out, can’t we? Figure something out. I can’t ?”
His
fingers touched her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut. Now she was crying, damn
it. “I know I never said—oh. Hey, Nick.”
Megan
turned her head to see Nick standing just outside the bathroom door with his
hands deep in his pockets and his gaze cast down. “Hey.”
“Listen,
would you mind giving Megan and me a minute? I just need to talk—”
He
stopped so short Megan didn’t realize at first what was happening; for one wild
second she thought he’d finished his sentence and she’d simply misunderstood
the words.
Then
she realized he was glancing around the room, an expression of pure horror
spreading across his face. His fingers pressed tighter against her cheek,
dropped to her hand and squeezed. His energy breezed over her hand, up her arm,
a weak imitation of what it would be had they been closer but still enough that
she felt it slip over her, felt it recede. “No.”
What?
No what? What had he—
She
looked again. Saw Nick, his hair mussed. Saw the faint smear of lipstick on his
throat, the rumpled cover on the bed, the two glasses cuddled together on one
of the small bedside tables. Oh fuck, oh no, oh shit—
Greyson
shook his head. “No. No, tell me—I’m, shit, I
must be crazy, right? Drunker than I thought?” His forced laugh echoed in the
dead air. “Please, please tell me—”
Megan
opened her mouth, ready to say something—she wasn’t sure exactly what. Probably
something along the lines of “What are you talking about?”
She
never got the chance. She didn’t know what did it—the look on Nick’s face,
maybe, shameful and distraught. Or possibly it was that when he touched
her—when he slid his power over her—he felt Nick’s energy, felt the last
vestiges of that screaming, desperate lust that had engulfed her before. It
could have been either, or any combination of the two, or anything else. He
wasn’t a stupid man; he hadn’t gotten where he was without being quick on the
uptake, without noticing things.
And
it didn’t matter what tipped him off. What mattered was that one second he was
looking around the room as if the bodies of his nearest and dearest hung on the
walls dripping blood, and the next he was gone. Halfway across the room before
she realized what was happening.
His
fist slammed into Nick’s face with a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard
before. Nick fell against the wall, his hands up. Not fighting back.
“I’m
sorry,” he managed, but that was all before his head snapped back from another
punch.
“Greyson,
stop!” She ran over there, then hesitated, feeling like some goddamn weak girl
in an action film but genuinely unsure what to do next. Nick was on the floor,
blood running from his nose and smearing down his cheek. Still not fighting
back as Greyson hit him again, yelling
something in the demon tongue. Should she try to pull him off, should she—
Fuck
this. She reached out, grabbed his arm, then yanked back when his fist burst
into flame.
It
spread up his arm and across his back, eating his shirt, leaving his bare skin
covered with blue-white fire. Heat so intense sweat broke out on her forehead,
and made her step back, but she didn’t stop speaking.
“Greyson,
please stop, we didn’t really do anything, it was my fault, please stop hitting
him, please—”
He
jumped back. She caught one glimpse of his stricken face, his glowing-coal
eyes, before he buried them in his hands and fell forward.
His
flaming skin touched the carpet. Megan started to scream, ready to leap over
him to fill tiny hotel glasses with water, but the flames died, both on the
carpet and on his skin.
“Oh
fuck, oh God, no, tell me you didn’t. Not with Meg, Nick, tell me not with
her.”
“Wait
a minute.” This was probably one of the dumbest things she’d ever said, but at
that point she didn’t care. Not when Nick was still on the floor, his nose and
eyes already starting to swell, staring at the ceiling.
And
it was her fault.
“Don’t
I have some responsibility here? This was my fault, Greyson, I made him—”
“What
? You—what?”
Oh,
shit. She was supposed to be an intelligent woman. How the hell had she managed
to fuck everything up with such brutal efficiency?
“I
kissed him,” she said, as calmly as she could. “I started it. But that’s all it
was, a couple of kisses, it didn’t go—and what the fuck are you so mad about
anyway? We broke up, remember? You went off with Leora tonight. What were you
doing with her ?”
“With—what
the hell do you mean, what was I doing with her?”
“I
mean exactly what I said. You certainly made a big enough show of leaving with
her tonight. What was I supposed to think? You think I didn’t—”
He
sprang to a stand. Those burning eyes focused on her; she had to look away. She
couldn’t stand to see the pain in their depths, the anger and disbelief. The
shattered pieces of his trust in her lay in those eyes like mirror shards. “Are
you—is that why you did this? Some kind of revenge? You dragged Nick
into—because I left with Leora?”
“You
hurt me,” she said, and it sounded so lame she wanted to smack herself. “You
left with her, and you made sure I saw you do it, and you—you—”
“So
you used Nick?”
“Didn’t
you use Leora?”
“That’s
different. I don’t give a fuck about Leora!”
“So
you did use her.”
“Maybe
I did,” he snapped, “but I didn’t run off and leap into bed with her. I didn’t
even touch her.”
“We
didn’t do anything,” she said again. She wanted to say it loudly, to sound
strong and confident, but she just couldn’t manage it. “Nothing really
happened. I kissed him—we kissed a few times. That’s all. Greyson, I’m sorry, and I’m drunk, and I feel sick, and I was
so mad . . . Can’t we just forget it? Can’t we just move past
it?”
His
head jerked back, as if she’d waved ammonia under his nose. “I can’t believe—I
can’t do this right now. I can’t be here. Not now.”
“I—”
“I
never thought you would do something like this.”
“And
I never thought you would lie to me like you did.”
“Right.
This is my fault. Because I’m such a fucking beast, how dare I try to wait
until the right time—”
“If
that’s the way you feel about it, why come here to apologize? If you were right
all along, why do that?”
“You’re
right. I shouldn’t have fucking bothered.”
He
glanced down at Nick, who was struggling to sit up. “Sorry, Nick,” he muttered,
and turned and sped out of the room.
The
pounding of her head woke her up. For one dizzied, horrified moment, her
nightmare followed her into waking, and she thought the pain came from the
angel, perched on the head of her bed, squeezing her temples in vise-tight
palms.
No
such luck. With full consciousness, memory flooded back, and all the bright
morning sunlight in the world couldn’t chase Greyson’s horrified black gaze
from her mind. Her groan sounded more like a sob; she rolled over and buried
her face in the pillow.
“That’s
not a happy morning face,” Tera said.
Tera?
What the hell— Megan looked up to see Tera perched on the edge of the bed,
holding in each hand a mug of what Megan could only hope was coffee. Or
hemlock. She’d be happy with either at that moment.
“Hear
you had some excitement last night,” Tera continued.
“Oh
God.” Megan slumped back to the pillow. “Does everyone know?”
“Um,
yeah. It’s all over the hotel. Are you surprised? It’s not like people wouldn’t
hear about something like that. The demons are all in an uproar.”
“Because
I kissed Nick? How—”
Tera
almost spluttered her coffee. Almost but not quite. “You kissed Nick? What in
the world?”
“Isn’t
that what you’re talking about?”
“What
the hell happened? You kissed Nick? You mean like a real kiss, with tongue? Was
it good? He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Look at you, all racy gadabout.
Didn’t take you long.”
“Racy
gada—what century do you live in?” Megan reached for the coffee and took the
biggest gulp she could manage. It burned her tongue. She didn’t care.
“Hey,
I’m not the one running around kissing people. Does Greyson know?”
She
cringed. “Yeah. He knows.”
“Ooh.
That good, huh.”
The
bathroom door opened; Nick emerged in a cloud of listless steam. His chest was
bare above jeans. “Oh. Hi, Tera.”
“Wow.
I guess it didn’t go well.”
Demons
healed very quickly as a rule; only the faint est
shadows of bruises remained on Nick’s face. But it was enough, the tinge of
darkness around the slight swelling of his nose.
He
cleared his throat. “Morning, Megan.”
The
words made her want to cry. How could he still be speaking to her? Still be
willing to greet her in the morning after what she’d done to him? Every tiny
discoloration on his face, every bit of swelling, every second of pain he’d
suffered since the moment Greyson saw the smear of lipstick on his
throat . . . her fault, all of it. Entirely her fault.
Something
told her this wasn’t the time, though, not with Tera there. Instead she forced
herself to say “Good morning,” in what she hoped was a tone cheerful enough to
let him know she appreciated him acknowledging her but subdued enough to let
him know she was sorry.
Tera
turned back to her. “So how much sleep did you get, then? I thought you might
want to go shopping with me, but if you’re too tired, that’s okay. I don’t
suppose you slept much, what with the kissing and I guess Greyson beating Nick
up or whatever he did and the murder—”
“Murder?”
“What?”
She
and Nick both spoke at once. They glanced at each other, a glance that gave her
a bit more reassurance, then he nodded for her to continue.
“Murder?
Tera, what are you talking about?”
“You
don’t know?”
Nick
sighed. “She’s a genius, Megan. I can see why you’re friends.”
Tera
gave him a sour look. “I’m just surprised. It never occurred to me that you
wouldn’t know. I thought it was a huge deal when a Gretneg died.”
Megan’s
heart stuttered in her chest. It couldn’t be Greyson. Couldn’t be. Even Tera
wouldn’t be so blasé if it was Greyson dead, Greyson murdered. Would she?
“Tera,
who was it? It wasn’t—was it? Who?”
“Oh.
Um, what’s-her-name, the bitch. What’s her name?”
Megan
swallowed. “Justine.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Tera
nodded. “Yes, that’s her. Justine.”
Her
first thought was, Thank God it wasn’t Greyson. Her second was to be a little
ashamed that she couldn’t bring herself to be too upset. “What happened to her?
Murdered how?”
“Oh,
man. How did you miss all this?” Tera glanced at Nick, sitting very still in
the chair at the desk. “Oh, right. You were sexing up the love god here or
whatever. She was slaughtered, apparently. I don’t know much about it,
really—it’s not like any of them are going to talk to me—but Roc told me what
he could find out from Malleus.”
“Where
is Roc?”
“Eating
breakfast. Charged to my room. Hey, is Greyson still going to pay for all
that?”
“I
assume so. He said he would.” Megan closed her eyes. Apparently Tera’s moment
of concern and sympathy from the night before was over. She supposed she
couldn’t complain. She hadn’t even expected as much as she got. And really, the
question about the room was a legitimate one. It was just bad timing. But since
when had Tera been alert to social niceties?
She
reached out to Roc with her mind, giving the invisible
strand that connected herself to her demons a little tug, and waited for him to
tug back. “I’ve called Roc. He should be here in a minute.”
She
slumped back on the pillow. Now all she needed was a shower—and a new stomach
and head—and for the last twenty-four hours or so not to have happened.
“Well,
I guess he’ll tell you, then. But I think that FBI woman was involved.”
“What?”
Megan sat up too fast. Spots swam in front of her eyes. She clasped her hand to
her forehead in a vain effort to stop her brain from exploding and lay back
down.
“Yeah.
I got there in time to see them take her out of the building. She was all
bloody. Apparently it was some mess in there. Hey, are you okay? You look a
little green.”
“Yeah,
I’m . . . I drank too much last night.”
“Ah.
Here, sit up. I’ll help you.”
“Tera,
this is—what do you mean?”
“Trust
me. Come here.”
Megan
obeyed, over the furious protests of her stomach. She was still in her evening
gown, having barely managed to tumble into the bed and pass out after Greyson
left the night before. It would need to be cleaned; no amount of hanging in a
steamy bathroom would take care of those wrinkles.
Then
again, maybe she’d just burn it. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at
it again.
Tera
raised her arms and muttered something; cool energy flowed through Megan, from
her head down. The pain disappeared. Her stomach settled. She even felt more awake, although that might have been the
coffee kicking in.
“Better?”
“Yeah.
Thanks, that’s great.”
“Better”
was relative, wasn’t it? Physically she felt fine. Mentally, emotionally,
without the dubious distraction of the hangover, she felt as if she’d just
dipped herself in liquid doom.
Tera
looked over at Nick. “How are you feeling?”
He
hesitated.
“Oh,
come on. I promise I won’t play any evil witch tricks on you. Looks like you’ve
been through enough.”
Tera
got up and stood behind him, with her hands over his head. The look he gave
Megan might have been comical any other time or had she not known what she knew
about his childhood.
But
he sat there, and after a few seconds the last of the swelling and bruising
disappeared; another few seconds, and he no longer slumped under what Megan
knew was the dreadful weight of a throbbing head. At least if he felt anything
like she did, which come to think of it, he probably didn’t. He probably felt
much worse.
“Thanks,”
he said.
“You’re
welcome. Now—”
Another
knock at the door. Roc; Megan felt him. “Come in.”
He
materialized in the room. Obeying their compromise even though it really wasn’t
necessary anymore. After a hideously embarrassing incident one rainy afternoon
early on, she’d forbidden him ever to appear unannounced
in bedrooms, no matter what time of day or night. So now he knocked first.
His
little eyes immediately went dark. “What happened? You feel awful.”
“Greyson
caught her making out with Nick,” Tera said.
Megan
glared at her. “Thank you, Tera.”
Sarcasm
was a waste of time with Tera. “You’re welcome.”
“Wow,
really?” Roc looked impressed. “What’d he do?”
Nick
glanced at her. She couldn’t tell if the look was accusatory or beseeching and
didn’t wait to decipher it. “Never mind. What happened to Justine?”
“Oh,
gosh. It was a mess. I mean, I only saw it after, but Malleus was one of the
first there, and he told me about it. He said—”
“Wait,
what was Malleus doing there?”
Roc’s
beady eyes shifted a little, in a way Megan didn’t like.
“Roc,
what was he—”
“He
was walking past, he said. He heard a scream. When he busted the door, he
found, and I quote, ‘Lady Riverside were all covered in blood, dead as I ever
seen a dead woman, an’ that FBI agent were screaming wif blood all down ’er
front an’ ’ands an’ all. Looked like she’d taken herself a baf in it, she did.’
”
His
impression actually wasn’t bad. Megan might have laughed if what he described
wasn’t so horrible.
“But
how did Justine die? Shot? Stabbed?”
“He’ll
tell you himself, I guess.” Roc glanced at the door. “He’ll be here in a
minute.”
“Here?
Why?”
Roc
looked uncomfortable. As uncomfortable as a small green demon could look
anyway.
“Roc,
what’s going on?”
Another
knock at the door. Why did Roc look so unhappy? What was—well, only one way to
find out, right?
She
managed to get off the bed, almost falling when her long skirt tangled in her
legs. It did feel ridiculous to be greeting visitors at nine in the morning
wearing an evening gown. Her jeans and shirt from the day before were on the
floor by the bed. Malleus was at the door, but what the hell. She scooped them
up. “Let him in, okay? I’ll be right out.”
Tera
had been being tactful, surprise surprise. The mirror showed Megan a woman who
looked as if she’d been in a bar brawl with a vat of mascara and lost badly.
Her hair stood straight up on one side; her skin had the shiny, pasty look of a
dead pig under plastic wrap.
“Hideous,”
she muttered, and set to work.
It
only took a few minutes—she was aiming for presentable, not attractive, as she
doubted that was possible—and she emerged with clean teeth and skin, her hair
twisted up at the back and held with the long silver barrette she used when
washing her face at night. She hadn’t wanted to use it. It was a gift from
Greyson. But it was either that or let it hang limp and dead, and at least this
looked tidy.
She
thought it did anyway. But having three large demons
look at her as though she had just lain down in her coffin made her wonder.
“What?”
She looked down. Her feet were bare, but it wasn’t as if—
Oh.
Maleficarum shifted his weight; she saw the box behind him, and her heart fell
right down into those bare feet of hers. Peeking over the top edge of the
cardboard was one of her books, one she’d left on the bedside table at Ieuranlier
Sorithell.
“M’lady.”
Malleus rubbed his right eye with his fist. “We brung—Lord Dante, he tole us to
bring—”
“Why’d
you do it?” Maleficarum interrupted. “Why’d you leave us? Lord Dante, ’e’s a
wreck, ’e is. We thought, when ’e bought the—”
“What’re
we s’posed to do now?” Malleus raised his red-rimmed eyes. “We dunno what to
do!”
“Yeh,”
Spud said, but without conviction. True to form, he looked more upset than the
others, if that was possible; while she looked at him a single fat tear ran
down his cheek.
She’d
thought she was too dehydrated for tears herself, but apparently she wasn’t.
They filled her eyes. She tried to wipe them away before they overflowed, but
she didn’t manage it.
It
was really happening. All of her things. Everything she’d kept at his place. It
wasn’t a small box, but then it wouldn’t be, not with the contents of her
drawers, the dresses in the closet, the hair products and toothbrush
and . . . oh God, everything. He’d made them drive over there
and remove every last vestige of her from his home.
He
couldn’t even wait until he got back from the hotel. Couldn’t give it a couple
of days and see if maybe time led him to believe again the things he’d started
to say to her the night before about working it out. The things he’d started to
say when he was interrupted, the things he’d never said.
And
now apparently he never would.
She
bit her lip, cleared her throat. The brothers looked ready to start sobbing. If
she didn’t pull herself together quickly, they probably would.
“Thanks,
guys. I ap—thanks.”
“Thought
you was gonna come live wif us,” Maleficarum replied. “Was it summat we did? We
din’t mean to, whatever it was, we can—”
“No!
No, it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t anything you guys did. How could it be?
You’re—you’re so great, all three of you.”
Malleus
wiped his nose on his sleeve. “If we’re so great, how come you’re leavin’?”
“We’ll
be better,” Maleficarum said. “We promise. I din’t mean to walk in when you was
in the shower, t’other week. I know you don’t like when I do that. I din’t see
nuffink, I swear it. I won’t do it again, I was thinkin’ you could put a sign
on the door or somefing so I’ll know—”
“It’s
your fault, then, Lif. She don’t want you always peekin’ in at ’er. I tole you
before, ladies don’t like when you see ’em naked. Why can’t you quit bein’ so
rude?”
“Yeh!”
“You
was the one who spilled a drink on ’er, Mal! An’ were
you what ast her if she were menstratin’, like it’s any of your mind! No wonder
she’s leavin’ us, with you pokin’ your nose in—”
“She
looked pale! I were only tryin’ to ’elp! To show ’er I cared, like. Shouldn’t I
worry for ’er health?”
“Stickin’
your big Mary’s into ’er womb ain’t helpin’, ye gobshite! ’S personal business
between her and Lord Dante! ’S all your fault!”
The
sound of Tera’s helpless giggling brought Megan back to earth finally. This was
not some bizarre after-school special, and to stand and watch it in a
half-sick, half-amused stupor as she’d been doing was not the best way to deal
with it.
“Guys!
Guys, please!”
“And
what about Spud? He tried that new eyeshadow on ’er last month, an’ it made ’er
look like a consumptive! She don’t want to go out lookin’ like ’er lungs is
about ter fall out!”
Spud
said nothing, but his hands wrung faster than before.
“Guys!”
She tried again. “Guys, shut up!”
Spud
burst into tears. Malleus and Maleficarum simply looked injured; they huddled
around Spud, with Malleus patting his back, and gave her baleful glances.
“I’m
sorry. But this has nothing to do with you, okay? I promise. It’s nothing you
did, it’s just ?”
She
resisted the urge to tell them that sometimes grown-ups just can’t live
together anymore, but they still loved each other very much. Well, she resisted
the urge because she might have been able to start the sentence,
but the thought of the last phrase made her ill. She didn’t think she could
manage to say it without crying, and Spud was doing quite enough of that.
From
the depths of his black trouser pocket he produced an enormous white
handkerchief and gave his nose a thunderous blow.
“We
ain’t gonna see you again,” Maleficarum said. “Why can’t you stay? Don’t you
want to be wif us?”
“This
is so pitiful I may cry,” Tera muttered. Megan ignored her.
“Of
course I want to be with you.” Now it was an after-school special on Coping
With Divorce. Or it would be, if they were getting divorced, which they
weren’t, because one had to be married to get a divorce, and they weren’t.
And
obviously they never would be. She forced herself to ignore the stab of pain
and focus. “But I— It’s not that simple. There are some things I want out of
life and some things he wants out of life, and we just couldn’t find a way to
make those things match up, is all.”
“Don’t
make any sense.” Malleus grabbed Spud’s handkerchief—Spud didn’t want to give
it up, and they tussled for a second before Malleus won out—and dabbed his eyes
with a clean corner of it. “If you love ’im, why can’t you make them things
match up?”
“I—
We just can’t. Look, guys, it’s really— I really wish this wasn’t— This isn’t
what I want, it’s just the way it is.” Her eyes stung. If she could just get
through this, if she could just get them out of there, she could get into the
shower and have her first solid cry of the day, the first of what she felt
confident would be many.
“But
’e’s miserable!” Maleficarum wailed. “Up there now, ’e is, starin’ at nuffink!
You go up there, m’lady, an’ you sit an’ you work this out. We need you, we do.
Can’t you just try it? For us, you know.”
This
was surely the most horrible morning of her life. Punishment for what she’d
done to Nick; when she looked at it that way, she deserved this and more.
“I’m
sorry, guys. I really am. But I can’t. He needs to come to me if he wants to
work this out. It’s complicated. But trust me, I can’t go up there.”
Spud
started sobbing anew. They stood there, the four of them with their interested
audience—Tera had finally stopped giggling, but a quick glance showed Megan she
was still smirking—for a long moment before Maleficarum finally nodded.
“Well.
I guess if you say it can’t be fixed, it can’t be fixed. But m’lady, we’re
gonna miss you. Don’t know what we’ll do wifout you there.”
“You
can still see me.” She knew it was lame even as she said it. Her heart hurt too
bad for her to care. It had finally hit her. She wasn’t just losing Greyson;
she was losing them too. And she loved them, she really did. They drove her
nuts sometimes, but they were family, and she wouldn’t see them again. They
were too busy to visit her even if Greyson would allow it.
Before
he’d come to her room, she would have been certain he would.
Now . . . probably not.
But
she said it anyway. “You can come visit me anytime. I’d love to see you.”
Then
she did start to cry. The brothers crowded around her, patting her, stroking
her. Spud offered her his handkerchief, which
she declined. “I’ll miss you, too, guys,” she managed. “I didn’t mean for this
to happen.”
They
nodded. Malleus took her hand. “Got anyfing you want us ter tell ’im?”
Only
about a million things but none she thought would matter or make a difference.
“Tell him I’m sorry,” she said finally. She couldn’t fault herself for her
reaction to the lies, to the work issue or anything else. But she could fault
herself for trying to use Nick to get back at him. For hurting both of them.
“Just tell him I’m really sorry.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The
other Gretnegs were seated around the table when she walked into the dining
room an hour and a half later. In deference to Justine the white candles had
been replaced with black ones; the pale faces of the others rose solemn from
dark collars.
Megan
too wore black, not that she had much choice; a plain long-sleeved, knee-length
dress she thought was subdued enough to look as if she cared. Which she did, at
least for the most part. She cared that the angel—she had no doubt it was the
angel—had attacked another demon and had succeeded this time. She cared that
Justine was dead; despite her dislike of the woman, she was still capable of
being sorry. Her gaze wandered to the empty chair where Justine had sat the
night before, now draped in black fabric.
But
she just didn’t have room for any more sorrow. She was full.
Winston
cleared his throat when she sat down. “So. We all know what’s happened?”
There
were a few general nods before Baylor spoke. “I’m not actually clear on the
details.”
“It was
that FBI agent,” Gunnar said. “She went crazy, it appears.”
“It
was the angel.” Greyson shifted in his seat; Megan saw it out of the corner of
her eye. She refused to look at him. Couldn’t look at him. Just hearing his
voice made her cheeks hot.
What
the hell had she been thinking? To get back at him by kissing Nick? Well, no.
That wasn’t all of it. She’d wanted to be reassured that she was
still . . . well, still desirable. And not only did she
genuinely like Nick and care about Nick and not only, if she wanted to admit
it, did she know Nick was “safe” somehow purely because of his friendship with
Greyson—he wasn’t going to want anything from her—but . . .
Yeah. It was wrong, but the simple fact was that if a man who took home a
different woman every night, a man who could have his pick of any woman he
wanted, wanted her, it was an ego boost.
Plus,
who wouldn’t give a sex demon a try, if all she was looking for was a night of
meaningless lust? It wasn’t as if she was a total lunatic for thinking that if she
was going to hop into bed with someone, the incubus with the intense sex energy
was the one to hop. So to speak.
It
didn’t really matter, and it didn’t make it right. Didn’t make it less of the
hideous mistake it had been. But her motive hadn’t really been revenge, not
entirely. At least there was that. She genuinely hadn’t meant to hurt anyone,
least of all Nick.
“Megan?”
Winston’s voice cut through her unhappy little haze.
“What?”
He
raised his eyebrows. “Do you agree with Greyson?”
“I—”
She glanced around the table, glanced at Greyson, who scowled and said nothing.
But
agreeing with him was still probably pretty safe. So she nodded. “Yes.”
Greyson’s
scowl deepened.
“But
I don’t understand what the agent was doing there,” Baylor said. “If the angel
murdered Justine, he could have done that on his own. He certainly wouldn’t
have needed to use some silly human to do it. And Justine
was . . . I find it hard to believe the FBI agent would have
been capable of that.”
“What
exactly did she do?” Gunnar asked again, and Megan was glad. She wanted to
know—well, she didn’t want to know, but she thought she ought to know—but
didn’t want to be the ghoul who asked.
Baylor
confirmed this by glaring at Gunnar. “What the hell is the matter with you,
Gunnar? Why are you so damned curious?”
Gunnar
looked offended. “I’m not being disgusting. I think it’s important that we
know. What if it comes after us? I don’t want—”
“She
ripped her apart. Slit her open from stem to stern.” Greyson looked at Megan.
“Tore out her heart.”
She
looked away.
“The
point is,” Winston said, “that whatever this thing is—if it is indeed an angel,
which I’m inclined to believe—it has now attacked Megan and murdered Justine.
Our friend. Which of us is next, is what I want to know? How can we keep ourselves
safe?”
“What
do your Yezer say?” Baylor asked Megan. “Have they found any trace of it?”
Oh,
shit, she hadn’t even asked. Roc would have told her if they’d found anything,
but still, she should have asked. Should have checked. “They’re still looking.”
“That
doesn’t do us any damned good,” he replied. “This is ridiculous. I feel like
I’m sitting in front of the firing squad. Like a lamb being led to slaughter. A
sitting duck.”
“A
cliché waiting to be used,” Greyson suggested.
“Yes,
I—this isn’t the time to make jokes, Grey.”
“Well,
it doesn’t seem to be the time for much else. You all know how I feel about it,
what I think we should do.”
Megan
looked at him, started to open her mouth. She didn’t know what he wanted to do.
Oh, she had some ideas—she imagined it had something to do with Reverend
Walther, since he was the only connection other than Agent Reid they had—but if
he’d talked about his plan, it had happened before she got there.
And
of course, hearing his thoughts in this group situation was the only way she
would hear them, wasn’t it? No more late-night conversations in the dark. No
more phone calls. No more evenings on the couch or long dinners or breakfasts
or . . . anything else.
She
stomped on her treacherous thoughts. This was not the time to mope and mourn.
Or, rather, it was supposed to be a time to mourn, but the pitiful shreds of
her relationship were not what she was supposed to be mourning. A woman had
died. More of them could die. She didn’t particularly want it to be her.
Or
him.
“We
can hardly leap into the middle of a crowd of humans and assault a public
figure,” Win said. “Really, Grey, I agree he’s
our next best shot if the Yezer aren’t finding the angel, but that fleabag
hotel says he’s playing his little games all day.”
“The
angel may be watching. He was yesterday.”
“Yesterday
he had Agent Reid to piggyback on,” Baylor said. “At least according to you.”
“And
today there’s a whole horde of believers over there. He can easily attach
himself to one of them, if he hasn’t already grabbed hold of the reverend. He
did send Agent Reid over there as his first act once he’d nabbed her, don’t
forget. Clearly he’s checking things out.”
“Obviously
that’s his target,” Gunnar said. “But he happened to find some demons in the
area and has decided it would be fun to kill us off while he’s at it.”
Megan
opened her mouth. Hadn’t Gunnar and Winston been having rubendas killed
for several weeks? That was the angel, wasn’t it?
Something
shut her mouth before the words could form, though. She didn’t want to argue,
didn’t want to speak at all, really. But more than that, she simply felt as
though it wasn’t the thing to say. Something held her tongue, and that
something was instinct, and she trusted it.
She
couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at Greyson, whose tilted head made her
suspect he was thinking the same thing.
Winston
said it, though. “He’s been killing our rubendas, Gunnar. Why would he
have just realized we’re in town?”
“You
don’t know that. That’s just Greyson and Meg-an’s theory. We can’t be sure.”
“It’s
the only workable theory we have,” Baylor said. “If
you have a better one, Gunnar, now’s the time to mention it.”
They
waited. Finally Gunnar said, “He could have been after the exorcist for a
while.”
“Oh,
come on.”
The
words triggered a memory in Megan. “No. He could have. The reverend suddenly
got popular a couple of months ago, right?” She looked at Greyson, forgetting
she wasn’t supposed to. Forgetting, for one blessed second, that the day and
night before had happened. “Isn’t that what you told me? That he came out of
nowhere in early June?”
He
paused just long enough for memory to crash back in and her gaze to falter.
“Yes. I did read that.”
“So
he came for us and latched on to the exorcist after,” Winston said.
“So
we should go over there,” Baylor said. “The exorcist could have the key to the
whole thing.”
“The
FBI agent could too,” Winston said. “We could try to talk to her.”
“Sure,
Win.” Greyson leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure the police and the feds would
be happy to let you go in and question her. Privately.”
“Justine
could have done it,” Baylor said. His tone wasn’t sad so much as regretful.
“She could get in anywhere. When will she be replaced? We need a sex demon for
this.”
“What
about your friend Nick?” Win asked Greyson. “Would he do it?”
Megan
just managed not to cringe.
Greyson’s
expression didn’t change at all. “He’s not full-blood.”
“Oh,
right. His father . . . what a mess. Still, do you think he’s
got enough incubus blood to do it? Has he ever—”
“No.”
“Have
you asked him? Perhaps he knows—”
Greyson
stood up. His jacket draped over the back of his chair; he grabbed it and put
it on as he spoke. “This is pointless. Megan and Asterope Green attempted to
question Agent Reid yesterday, and she was apparently barely coherent then.
Talking to her won’t do any of us any good. The exorcism ends at nine. I think
if we head over there then, we’ll find the angel. Perhaps Megan could ask her
witch friend to lend a hand with that as well.”
He
talked about her as if they hardly knew each other. She managed to nod. “I’ll
ask her.”
“I
suggest we skip the formal dinner this evening and meet up here around eight.”
“Why?”
Gunnar asked.
Greyson’s
eyebrows rose. “To go kill the angel.”
“Do
you really think that’s a good idea?” Gunnar smoothed his hair, looked around
him as if the walls were threatening to close in and he needed to keep an eye
on them. “It could kill us all, Grey. I think you’re being a bit—”
“Would
you rather sit around and wait for it to pick us off, one by one?”
“I
don’t think—I mean, we don’t know that it’s after all of us.”
Winston
leaned away from Gunnar, peered at him through narrow eyes. “Gunnar, it’s been
killing our employees. Our rubendas. It attacked Megan and killed
Justine. Do you think it’s come to invite us to a tea party?”
Silence
fell over the table—well, they’d all been silent anyway, but this was a deeper
silence—while Gunnar’s pale cheeks reddened. “No. I just don’t think we should
go running over to that hotel with our guns drawn. I think it would be better
to stick together, all of us here, and wait for it to come to us. So we can
ambush it and be prepared.”
Baylor
tilted his head. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“I’m
for Grey’s plan,” Winston said. “So that’s three for and two against. So we’ll
go over there tonight.”
“Megan
hasn’t given her opinion,” Baylor said.
Winston
glared at him. “Of course she agrees with Greyson.”
“But
she hasn’t said she does. You’re just assuming.”
Greyson
sighed. A loud sigh, a sigh with purpose. “I’m going over there tonight whether
the rest of you come with me or not.”
“I’ll
go with you,” Winston said.
Everyone
looked at Megan. At least everyone except Greyson, who was studying the crown
molding on the opposite wall.
“No,”
she said. “We’ll all go. Greyson and Winston can’t go by themselves.”
“Good.”
Winston touched her arm. “Now, Megan, you beat the angel the night before last
by yourself, correct? Because of your psyche demon side. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening,
but . . . why don’t you get together with Greyson’s friend Nick,
and the two of you figure out how to use those powers? He’s part psyche demon,
is he not?”
“Yes,
he—he is,” she managed. “But—”
“Grey,
you tell Megan everything you think she might need to know, and make sure Nick
comes along.”
“Perhaps
you should do that.”
Win
looked surprised. “Why?”
Greyson
hesitated, glanced at her so fast she would have missed it if she hadn’t been
watching for it. “I just think it might be easier.”
“Oh,
no. I have a full afternoon planned.” Winston stood up as well, picked up the
notepad by his seat. “If we’re going to battle an angel this evening, I want to
make sure my affairs are in order. Probably a good idea for all of us, don’t
you think?”
Chapter Twenty-five
His
tall form didn’t appear to be running down the blank white hallway toward the
elevators, but he still moved too fast for her; she was practically jogging by
the time she finally caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Greyson, wait!”
She’d
never seen his eyes that cold. He snatched his arm out of her grasp. “What do
you want?”
“You
said you’d tell me about the angel.”
“Why
don’t you ask Nick?”
“I
need to talk to you about that. About Nick.”
“I
really don’t want to hear the details, Megan. Or should I say, any more
details.”
“But
that’s not—”
“He’ll
tell you whatever it is you need to know. I don’t think you and I have much to
say to each other at this point, do you?”
He
didn’t wait for her reply, just turned and started down the hall. She started
to move too, then paused. Waited.
He
hit the button, and the elevator doors opened; Megan slipped inside just before
they closed.
A
wave of cold blasted over her skin; he was pissed. That was fine, because so
was she. When he reached for the button to open
the doors again, she stepped in front of them, blocking them. “It wasn’t Nick’s
fault.”
“Yes,
so you said. Thank you. It’s so much more pleasant for me to picture you
seducing him, rather than the other way around.”
“Nobody
seduced anybody. It wasn’t—”
“Oh,
of course. It was an accident. You fell, right?”
She
closed her eyes for a second, took a deep, calming breath. This wasn’t working,
and it wasn’t why she was there. “It wasn’t Nick’s fault. Think whatever you
want about me. You’re obviously going to anyway, you don’t want to listen to
anything I have to say. But don’t blame Nick. He—he tried to stop it, he didn’t
want to—”
“Oh,
for fuck’s sake. This just keeps getting better. What’s next, Megan? Will you
describe it for me in detail? Maybe you can show me how you swarmed all over
him like some hormonal octopus, wouldn’t that be fun? Because what I really,
really want, more than anything, is to get as complete a mental picture of this
as I possibly can.”
“Picture
whatever you want, but nothing happened. He didn’t even—we didn’t—it was a
couple of kisses, and it didn’t mean anything. We were drunk. I was hurt and
upset and angry. And, which I personally think is kind of important, you and I
aren’t together anymore. It’s not like I cheated on you.”
His
face darkened. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so angry. The elevator
around them shrank; the temperature dropped so low she shivered and wrapped her
arms around herself. She was suddenly aware that they were alone together in a
tiny room, suspended by wires. The night before
he’d lost control, the first time she’d ever seen that happen. The first time
she’d ever seen him come close to that happening. She didn’t want to see it
again.
“Yes.
You’re right. You left me before you seduced my best friend. I asked you to be
my wife, and you said no, and then you seduced my best friend. Thank you
so much for reminding me of that part. As if I could fucking forget.”
“I
didn’t leave you so I could seduce anyone. I don’t want anyone else. I ?” Shit.
She had no idea what to say, and her eyes stung. She rolled them up, hoping to
keep the tears from falling. It worked but probably made her look ridiculous.
“I was just so damn mad at you. How could you keep that from me? How could
you—how could you hurt me like that, not trust me like that?”
For
a long moment they stood there, while she tried to get herself under control
and waited for him to yell again.
He
didn’t. Instead he sighed; she felt some of the tension lessen, felt his anger
recede. “Does it matter? What difference does it really make, Megan? This is
pointless. It’s over. You said no. There’s nowhere left for us to go.”
The
words fell with the finality of a medieval deathbell.
Not
for the first time, the idea of simply giving in occurred to her. The way he’d
said that, the fact that he’d come to her room the night before, made her think
it was entirely possible she could end this
stand-off, could end all of this absolute misery, just by giving in.
And
really, she’d lost her job once before. Well, she hadn’t lost it, she’d left
it; her share in Serenity Partners, the therapy practice she’d been part of.
She’d given that up. It had been sad, but it hadn’t killed her, hadn’t done
this to her.
But
she’d known she could start her own practice. She’d had her radio show.
And
it had been her decision. Hers. Yes, it had been sort of forced on her,
the day she fed off someone—the sister of a patient who’d died, and his death
was her fault as well—but nobody made giving up the practice a condition of
anything. Nobody had made it a condition of something that shouldn’t have had
any conditions. Nobody had deliberately hidden that information from her.
So
she didn’t make the offer. She couldn’t. “Will you please tell me what I need
to know? For tonight?”
He
considered it, his eyes closed. Nodded.
“And
please, forgive Nick. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it was so innocent,
Greyson, it really was. Seeing you leave with Leora—it hurt, okay? I just
wanted to try to, I don’t know, to forget about it. It was a mistake, and I’m
sorry. He feels awful about it. We both do. Please.”
He
glanced at her but didn’t speak.
“He’s
your friend. You know that.”
“I’ll
try,” he said finally.
“Thank
you.”
Pause.
His
smile wasn’t even a shadow of what it normally was, but it still made her heart
skip. “Are we going to stand in the elevator all day?”
“What?
Oh, no.” She turned and hit the button for fourteen. And up they went.
It
probably wasn’t the best idea after all. Yes, there were things she needed to
know. Yes, he was the best one to get the information from, especially if the
others were spending the afternoon writing up wills—wasn’t that cheery and
optimistic?
But
being there in the room again, talking to him, it was hard. Incredibly hard.
Difficult to sit on the chair instead of beside him. Difficult not to smile, to
joke. The chair felt wrong beneath her; she was cold without him at her side.
Her hands felt too big at the ends of her arms, wanting to curve themselves
over his thigh or around his chest. It was as if he wasn’t Greyson. As if she
was sitting speaking to a stranger who looked like him and sounded like him but
was still a stranger.
They
were both being so careful, so businesslike. As if their momentary ceasefire
could crash at any moment like icicles over their heads and stab them.
Of
course, if it didn’t, the angel probably would. As time went on Megan stopped
wondering about Gunnar and Baylor’s reactions and started wondering about
Greyson and Winston’s. To willingly put themselves in that kind of danger ?
“Of
course,” he said finally, leaning back on the couch and
closing his eyes, “this all assumes the damned thing hasn’t been tipped off and
isn’t waiting for us. Which it probably will be.”
“Tipped
off ? How?”
He
stretched one long leg out and rested his foot on the coffee table. His eyes
were still closed; Megan let her own do what they’d been dying to do all day
and wander freely over every inch of him. Over the sharp bones in his face, the
almost—but not quite—beaky nose; it wasn’t a classically handsome face,
necessarily, but at the same time it was. She loved to look at it, was all she
knew. And with his eyes closed, when he couldn’t see her, she let herself look,
knowing it would probably be one of the last chances she would get.
He
opened one eye and glanced at her; she quickly looked away. “Because one of
them hired the horrible thing, and they’ve probably contacted it by now.”
“What?
But I thought it was here with the exorcist.”
“Oh,
it probably is. But if someone got wind of its presence here and knew this
meeting was coming up—which, of course, we all did—it’s quite probable he hired
it.”
“But
why?”
“Think
about it, bry—Megan.” Oh, that hurt. “With the rest of us eliminated,
the city belongs to whoever made the deal.”
“But
we all sort of control our own subspecies or whatever. I mean, would your
demons accept me as a—”
He
flinched. Oh, shit. Right. “I mean, would Winston’s blood demons accept you, or
Baylor, or me, or anyone else as their Gretneg? I thought it was, I don’t know, a breeding thing. Wouldn’t Carter, for example,
simply take over your House if something happened to you?”
“It
is a breeding thing, as you put it, to some degree. But it’s also a money
thing, and that trumps everything else. Carter couldn’t take over right now.
They’d never stand for it. But a Gretneg from another House, one who’d proved
himself powerful enough? Who’d proved himself smart enough to eliminate the
others? That’s the sort of masterstroke they’d appreciate. It would prove his
ability to control things, his dedication to controlling things.”
It
slipped into place then—well, not really. She knew. Maybe she’d always known
and simply hadn’t wanted to ask. “Like when you had Templeton killed.”
He
didn’t move, and she knew she was right. “Yes.”
Knowing
and getting confirmation were two different things. Her head swam. It wasn’t a
surprise, and yet it was. It bothered her, and yet it didn’t. She just sat,
staring dumbly, unsure what to say or do or think.
After
a moment he cleared his throat. “In my defense, he was trying to have
me—us—killed first. The gun-toting witches, remember? The scene at Maldon’s
house?”
As
if she could forget. “I remember. I just . . . that wasn’t the
only reason, was it?”
“I
wanted to avoid it. It didn’t work out that way.”
“Why
didn’t you ever tell me? Before?”
He
looked at her then, the old look, a half-smile and a faint gleam in his eye
that made her knees weak even sitting down. “You didn’t ask.”
“Would
you have told me if I had?”
The
smile faded. “I’ve never lied to you. Not when you asked me a question
outright.”
Part
of her wanted to argue that. It didn’t really make much difference; lies by omission
were still lies. But she didn’t have the energy. Didn’t want to.
She
wanted it all never to have happened. Wanted to pretend, just for a minute,
that it hadn’t. And if that wasn’t the healthiest thing to do, too bad.
“Justine
did it for you, didn’t she? That was the favor. That was what she talked about
at Templeton’s funeral.”
“Yes.”
“Do
the others know?”
“I
imagine so, yes.”
“And
they approve?”
He
shrugged. “I don’t really care.”
Something
else occurred to her then. Something she couldn’t believe she’d forgotten, but
she had; with everything else going on, it had faded away. “So do you think
that litobora the other night, at my house, do you think one of my
demons could have sent it? Roc, even?”
He
shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I suspect we were right about that one.
It’s one of us here. Probably the same one. It makes sense, if you think about
it.”
“How?”
“You
were able to escape the angel the other night. As a psyche demon—part
psyche demon—you make the thing vulnerable. Psyche demons are pretty rare.
Psyche demons that look human are even more so. When the wars were going on—we
fought the witches on one front, and the angels decided to step in and see what they could do on the other—we didn’t have too
many, and most of them were only part psyche demon, most only about a quarter.
They weren’t as powerful as you are.”
“But
psyche demons are better against angels.”
“Yes.”
“Why
didn’t you just get the nonhuman-looking ones to help you? The ones people
can’t see?”
“Because
they’re very rare, as I said. Their populations are negligible, fractions of
ours. They tend to be like Yezer. Small. Fragile. Or they’re uncontrollable.
They’d kill the angels, yes, but they’d also kill anything else they came
across. And because of the way . . . well, let’s just say most
of them aren’t really fans of those of us who pass for human.”
“And
someone knew this. They knew they’d have an angel here and that I could be
useful against it.”
“I
assume so, yes. Especially since they assumed you’d—well, never mind. The point
is you’re useful, and that would be reason enough.”
“Then
it had nothing to do with—” She snapped her mouth closed. This was much bigger
than Winston wanting to get her out of the way of the marriage he wanted or
Justine doing it simply because she didn’t want a human involved with demon
business. If he thought that wasn’t it, she believed him.
“What?”
“Nothing.
You really think this is why?”
He
nodded.
“Who’s
behind it, then?”
He
shrugged. “I have my suspicions. Nothing concrete, but I’m fairly sure I’m
right. I usually am.”
“And
so modest too.”
“Modesty
is overrated.”
This
time they were both smiling; their eyes caught and held for a second too long.
He
stood up. “You should probably get back to your room and let Nick know what’s
happening. We’ll need his help. Oh, and of course, don’t let any of them in,
okay? Don’t open the door to anyone but me or the brothers or Tera.”
If
his voice changed slightly when saying Nick’s name, she didn’t comment on it.
But she did have one more question.
“Greyson.”
He
was almost at the door. “Yes?”
“So—the
ritual. The other night, when you said you thought it would protect me, you
weren’t—I mean, that wasn’t just because of . . . us.”
His
hand rested on the doorknob; his eyes studied the floor. “No. Not entirely.”
“Oh.”
Not that it made a difference, except to increase the pain levels in her chest.
But she was glad she knew.
He
still waited by the door. Her steps faltered as she crossed the room. “Okay,
well, I guess I’ll see you later, then. I’ll call you after I’ve talked to
Nick. Unless you want him to call.”
“Sure.
Whatever.”
The
door opened; she stood for a minute, not even bothering
to keep her eyes from greedily taking him in, studying him, trying to burn his
face deeper into her memory than it already was. He wasn’t looking at her
anyway. “Okay. Bye, then.”
He
nodded. “Bye.”
She’d
just stepped fully into the hallway when his hand closed over her arm and
yanked her back into the room, against the solid heat of his body. The door
slammed shut behind her.
“You
didn’t really think I’d just let you walk away, did you?” His voice was low and
urgent; his breath was hot on her skin; and before she could formulate an
answer, his lips were on hers.
Chapter Twenty-six
Her
entire body went up in flames. Not literal ones, not like the ones already
blazing near the ceiling and around the room. Not the ones flaring in her mind
as the first rush of energy invaded her. But deeper ones, hotter ones, flames
tinged with ice-blue edges of pain and sorrow.
She
gave them back to him when his tongue slipped into her mouth, sending more
sparks dancing through her veins, sharp hot bolts of pleasure and need racing
down her stomach to pool between her legs and make her muscles tight.
For
a second she thought she should stop this, push him away. It wasn’t healthy. It
wouldn’t change anything. It would only make it harder.
But
she couldn’t. Not just because one hand had grasped her bottom and the other
tangled in her hair, pulling her tighter to him. Not because kissing him made
her feel alive again, safe again, for the first time since the horrible scene
the day before. But because she didn’t want to. She wanted him. She loved him.
How could she say no to this, when she’d already said no to everything else,
and that would haunt her until the day she died?
Instead
she wrapped her leg around him, yanked his shirt up from his waistband, and
shoved her hands beneath. This time the feel of his bare skin, of the spikes of
his spine, didn’t make her cry. She was too far gone to cry. She was already
crying, somewhere deep inside herself, and she suspected—was terrified—that she
would never be able to stop.
He
kissed her harder, almost hard enough to hurt. His fingers left her hair to
touch her face, tracing for a second the curve of her cheekbone before sliding
down her throat and farther down again to cup her breast through the thin
jersey of her dress.
She
gasped. Her head fell back; he dipped down to kiss her throat, nibbling it,
muttering things she couldn’t quite hear. Things she was almost afraid to hear.
His
skin beneath her palms was hot and covered with goosebumps. She couldn’t decide
which sounded more appealing, to run her hands over it and feel every inch of
him or to dig her nails in, rip off his shirt, tug him to the floor because she
didn’t want to wait. His power simmered in her blood, and she was about to boil
over.
Instead
she shifted position as best she could, sought his mouth again, and pushed it
back to him.
He
gasped. “Meg. Shit, Meg.”
Her
feet left the floor. Her legs wrapped around his waist. They fell against the
wall, cool against her back. It did nothing to soothe the fever in her veins or
to calm the frenzied desperation of her thoughts.
His
erection pressed against her; she didn’t know what the sound that escaped her
lips was called, and she didn’t care. What she did care about was that in this position she couldn’t reach the buttons of his shirt,
and in her dizzied state she couldn’t figure out how to get the damned thing
off him. It was a crisp white barrier between her and what she wanted; she
tugged at it, tried to pull it up over his head. Finally she gave up and dug
her fingers into his hair, forcing him to kiss her harder still, until she
tasted blood.
A
rush of power came with it, even stronger. Somewhere she realized it was his.
No time to think about it. No time to worry about it, because his hand was on
her thigh, and it was not hesitant. It barely paused on the top of her stocking
before continuing on, sliding beneath her bottom and forward to focus
unerringly on the spot where she wanted it the most.
That
one touch, coupled with her wild emotions and the power overloading her, was
enough. Too much. She clutched at him as her back arched and her body
shuddered, barely hearing her own voice or the low, thick sound of satisfaction
he made in the back of his throat.
He
swung her away from the wall, crossed the room in a few long strides, and
opened the bedroom door. His mouth left hers; she felt him look up.
Malleus,
Maleficarum, and Spud sat there, overflowing the small chairs that had been in
the dressing area and at the corner desk. Their eyes were wide.
She
probably should have cared that they were there, that her skirt was over her
waist so her black silk panties were visible, that they’d probably heard her,
and that they knew exactly what was going on. She didn’t. That would have
required too much energy, and she needed it all for him.
Greyson’s
voice was so close to a growl it was barely recognizable. “Get out.”
The
brothers moved fast when they wanted to. Or, in this instance, when ordered to;
Megan had little doubt that they would have been happy to stay and watch. Not
out of some voyeuristic need but because they wanted to make sure everything
worked out okay.
Which
it wouldn’t. And which she couldn’t care about just then either.
They
raced out of the room. Greyson’s lips met hers again before the door had
closed.
Another
shock. More flames, racing around the ceiling as if someone had sprayed the
walls with gasoline. Flames tearing through her body as if she was made of
gunpowder. She gasped, said his name. Said it again as he laid her on the bed,
pushed up her dress.
She
sat up, shifted position to kneel. Finally she had access to his buttons.
Finally she could open his shirt, peel it back off his shoulders while their
kiss continued, hard and hot. They broke off while he slipped her dress over
her head and she did the same for his T-shirt, then found each other again as
she tugged at his belt, working the buckle with fingers that felt swollen.
“My
arms are like the twisted thorn,” he murmured, quoting Yeats, breaking the last
word off with a sharp gasp when she pulled down his zipper and reached inside,
finding him swollen and slick. She curled her hand around him, stroked him,
bathed in the hot orange light of the raging fire around them.
Her
bra slid down her shoulders. His hands roamed over her breasts, over her ribs.
Her skin leaped where he touched her; she
almost lost her balance trying to lean forward, to push herself into his palms.
Instead she fell against his chest, his bare skin tantalizingly hot and
intensely gratifying. She kissed it, scraped her teeth over it. Curled her body
down to kiss his stomach, down farther to take him into her mouth.
For
the last time. She forced the thought from her head. It wasn’t welcome. Instead
she focused on the feel of him, the taste of his smoky skin. On his hands
tangling gently in her hair, the sound of his breath catching in his chest and
his voice saying her name.
She
was just getting lost in it when he pulled her up, flipped her back. Her
panties disappeared with one quick slip. He nibbled the top of her right thigh,
urged it to the side with gentle pressure.
Her
back arched. Her entire body buzzed and spun, her head cleared of everything
but fire and smoke. Smoke drifting from her mouth, fire burning everything
inside her, all the sorrow and misery and fear. It all disappeared when his
tongue found her most sensitive spot, when he used the tiny cleft at the tip to
tease and shift it and make her scream.
Her
second climax roared through her, leaving her shaking with tears in her eyes.
He didn’t move away. Gave every impression of a man who intended to stay where
he was for some time.
She
grabbed him, twisting his hair in her fingers and urging him up. Enough. It was
enough, it was too much, she couldn’t wait any longer.
His
lips traveled over her stomach, up her ribcage, and were joined by his hands.
She shivered when they slid over her nipples,
when he took them each into the heat of his mouth with a deliberateness that threatened
to make her lose the last vestiges of her sanity.
“Greyson.
Greyson, please—”
His
lifted his head. Their eyes met; it hit her like an explosion in her soul. She
couldn’t look away, caught by him, held there as he rose and drove himself into
her.
Her
eyelids fluttered. She started to close them, to tilt her head back in a vain
attempt to get more air. His hands stopped her, hard palms on each side of her
face. She had no choice but to look at him, into his eyes, dark in the glowing
gold of his skin.
One
slow, careful thrust. Another. It was torture. She wriggled beneath him, trying
to get him to speed up, she couldn’t handle it—
He
kissed her again. With that kiss came more power, more than she’d ever felt
before. She wasn’t just the flame. She was the only flame, burning,
incandescent, swallowed by the heat, both of her hearts pounding frantically.
It wasn’t just the tiny fires sparkling high on the walls lighting the room,
wasn’t just the dull sunlight filtering in around the mostly closed curtains.
She glowed. They glowed.
Maybe
not for real, she couldn’t tell, but something inside her was lit up like
fireworks, and he shone so bright she couldn’t look at him. Shone like the only
light in a world gone cold and dark, and she was the moth desperately circling
it, and somehow with that energy came a frantic, fluttering impression of his
thoughts, and she realized he was thinking the same thing. Experiencing it the
same way.
“Meg,”
he whispered, kissing her again, nibbling her earlobe. “Meg ?”
She
responded by grasping him tighter and giving it back. All of it. Everything she
felt, every bit of power she possibly could. All of her love and sorrow and
passion. She held nothing back, and he shuddered beneath her palms and sped his
pace.
Faster
and harder. The bed shook. She shook, meeting his movements with her own. His
arms circled her, slid beneath her, crushing her against him. Pressure built,
the energy in her, the pleasure, the need—
His
mouth took hers again, one final time. Power roared through her, a forest fire,
filled with everything she’d given him and more that was just him. The same
emotions, magnified, run through with helplessness and regret and desire and
love like she’d never felt before, and she came, crying, opening her eyes in
time to see him do the same thing.
His
head fell to rest on her shoulder. She reached up, intending to touch his hair,
to stroke his nape, but he lifted his head again. His dark eyes searched hers,
as deep and sincere as she’d ever seen them, pink and slightly wet around the
rims.
“Marry
me.”
It
would have been so easy to say yes. Easy because it was what she wanted. She
wanted to, God how she did.
He
must have seen her hesitation, her desire. “Megan, marry me. Please.”
What
was her problem? Was her job really more important than spending the rest of
her life with the man she loved?
But
why couldn’t she have both, damn it? Why did she have to make this choice?
Not
to mention giving up her humanity. That one she could have compromised on; she
didn’t necessarily want to do the ritual, but she did want children, and if
that was the way to get them, she’d do it. She didn’t even mind the idea of
having them right away. The next day was her thirty-second birthday, and that
seemed as good an age as any.
But
why did she have to give up everything she’d worked for to be with him, in
addition to her humanity? If she did that, she’d be . . . She
didn’t know what she would be. She wouldn’t be equal anymore. She was proud of
herself, of her achievements. Why did she have to give that up? If she did,
what would be the point of having them to begin with, of all the work she’d
done?
From
the beginning she’d been aware of the disparity between them, the one thing she
couldn’t get over or past. She’d stopped worrying that he didn’t really care
about her, that she was just some infatuated girl, after the first few months.
Once they’d both stopped seeing other people—or, rather, once he’d told her he
wasn’t seeing anyone else, that he didn’t want to—she’d let that worry, that
insecurity, go. At least as much as she could.
But
she’d never wanted to have to depend on him in that way. Never wanted to find
herself in such a position of weakness.
There
were plenty of things she’d let him control. But her job shouldn’t have been
one of them. It shouldn’t be a decision he made for her. If she let him do
that, what was next? Would she have to ask for permission to go see Tera or Brian, to run out for an order of fries
or something?
That
was a bit ridiculous, she knew. But the principle was the same. She didn’t want
to be his dependent, and she didn’t want him to think her life was his to
control.
“I
want to keep my job,” she said.
He
sagged above her, then pulled away in one quick movement that left her cold and
alone in the center of the bed. “I’m not enough, is what you’re saying.”
“No!
No, I don’t mean it that way. Of course you’re—Greyson, I just want, I need to
feel like I get a say in this too. Like I bring something to this, more than
just being some kind of brood mare or something. I need to be your partner, not
your employee, don’t you—”
“And
you think that’s what you would be? This isn’t about— It’s too fucking
dangerous. How many times do I have to say it?” He slipped off the bed,
yanked his pants back on, and tossed her clothes to her. She was grateful too.
The only thing worse than arguing was arguing naked. “I’m not taking any
chances with your life.”
“But
look at me now! I’m in danger because of my demons. Because of my position.
It’s nothing to do with you, right? So couldn’t we—”
“Meg.”
His shirt snapped as he pulled it back on, not bothering to button it. “Either
you want to marry me or you don’t. If all these other things are so important
to you that you’d rather have them than me, well, I guess that’s my answer,
isn’t it?”
“I
just want to be involved in the decision.”
“And
it appears you are.” He covered his eyes with his right palm, rubbing his
temples with his thumb and middle finger as if
he was trying to crush his own skull. “It’s not a complex question. It’s
nothing to do with equality, damn it. This is about your safety. It’s about the
safety of our children, when they come, and about how they’ll be raised. I’m
not going to keep asking over and over. Will you marry me or not?”
“I
just want to have something for myself ! Something I achieved on my own,
something I can keep. Is that so hard for you to understand? You said last
night we could work this out. Can’t we?”
“Yes
or no, Megan?”
She
fastened her bra, pulled her dress back over her head, and stood up. “If we
can’t discuss this, if you can’t stop pressuring me and trying to force me to
do everything your way, everything you want, and you can’t even listen to my
side, then ?” She couldn’t say no. Couldn’t bring herself to do it. “I think I
should go.”
Malleus
had left his chair by the side of the bed. Greyson sagged into it, rested his
head on his hands. “Fine. Go.”
“I
just think . . . we can talk about this later. After we’ve
calmed down.” It sounded so lame she cringed.
“Sure.
Later. I’ll just sit here and wait, shall I? While you decide if you want to be
with me. If I’m more important to you than helping a bunch of strangers with
their problems.”
“That’s
not fair.”
“Again.
Life isn’t fucking fair, Meg.”
He
still hadn’t looked up. She stood there, fighting the urge to go put her hand
on his shoulder, to sink to her knees and put
her arms around him. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, hesitating.
Greyson
raised his head just enough to expose hollow red eyes. “I thought you were
leaving.”
“We’ll
talk later,” she repeated, and fled before she did something really stupid.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Something
attacked her the second she opened the door to her own room, a large beast with
grasping arms that vibrated in her mind like a tuning fork.
Tera.
Squeezing her.
Megan
gasped and tried to disentangle herself. “Tera, what the hell—”
“Where
the hell have you been? The meeting ended almost four hours ago. Nick and I
were getting frantic. He’s out searching the hotel for you right now. For the
third time.”
“Oh.
Um, I was with Greyson. Talking. About the angel and stuff.”
“And
you didn’t think to call and let us know? Nick’s supposed to be guarding you.
You were supposed to call him when the meeting ended so he could come down and
get you. How do you think he felt when you didn’t? What do you think—”
“I’m
sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t think. The meeting wasn’t really very
informative, and I needed to know some things, and I . . . no, I
wasn’t thinking.”
Tera’s
expression changed; her expertly made-up blue eyes widened, her perfectly
glossed lips lost some of their tension. “Did you guys work everything out?”
“No.”
“Did
he propose again?”
“Three
or four times, I think. But he won’t give in, and now he won’t even discuss it
with me. He just keeps saying if I really wanted to marry him, it wouldn’t
matter, and he won’t even try to understand that it’s not that I don’t want to,
it’s that . . . oh, never mind. You understand. Why am I
explaining it to you?”
They
sat down on the edge of the bed. Tera reached into her designer bag and pulled
out a couple of tiny bottles. “Here.”
“What?
Oh. Thanks.” She suppressed a smile. Trust Tera to steal airline bourbon.
She
knocked the bottle back in one throat-burning swallow, sighed as it blazed down
into her stomach and loosened some of her tension.
Tera
sipped from her own bottle. “Maybe he’s right.”
“What?
How can you even think—”
“I
just mean, maybe if you’re digging your heels in this hard, it’s because you
really don’t want to marry him.”
“I
do want to marry him. I love him. But I just don’t see why he won’t compromise
with me on this. Why he won’t even discuss it.”
“Ha.
So you do want to. I hate to sound like I know what I’m talking about here—I
mean, you’re the one who does this for a living, I just listen to your show
sometimes—but don’t you think maybe you’re looking for excuses because you’re
scared of not being in control? Or because all those decisions you’ve been
putting off are suddenly here, and you’re freaking out, so you’re trying to look for a reason not to do what—oh, shit,
I don’t know. What would you tell one of your patients?”
Megan
stared at her for a moment, open-mouthed . . . and not a little
ashamed. She’d never given Tera enough credit. “I guess you’re right. Sort of.
I mean, what would I be if I give up my job? Just some woman with a rich
husband, who spends her days shopping and knitting or something. What if
he . . . what if he got bored with me? Demons have mistresses,
you know. They have their wives who sit home and their girlfriends who go out
and do fun things, and . . . if we became that, and I couldn’t
even work anymore ?”
“Megan,
I’ve known him for a while, although not as well as I did before you came
along. But he didn’t even cheat on Lexie, and they weren’t really doing more
than having sex all over the place. And I don’t want to get all mushy or
anything, but the guy is crazy about you. Do you honestly think that if you got
married, there’d be something you needed that he wouldn’t get for you? Don’t
you think what he’s waiting for is just for you to be willing to give all that
stuff up, and once he knows you would, he’ll make sure you don’t have to? This
is how he operates. Always has.”
Her
eyes were wet. She was going to have to take what little savings she had and
invest it in Kleenex. “I thought you hated him.”
“I’ve
never hated him. It’s just so much more fun to act like I do and watch him
squirm.”
Megan
stared at her.
Tera
shrugged. “You have your fun, I have mine.”
“But
that’s— Okay, whatever. Yes, you’re right. The part
about him thinking that way, not the part about you having your fun, you
weirdo. It’s still him giving me permission to have a fucking job.”
“Or
it’s him trying to work with you so you can both be happy.”
“Jesus,
will you shut up? Since when are you all rational and wanting me to do this?
I’d have to become a demon, you know.”
“I
know.” Tera grinned. “But you’re obviously never going to shut up about this
particular topic until you just marry the guy, so you should go ahead and do it
so we can move on already.”
Too
bad the little bottle in her hand was empty. Not that more was a good idea. She
did have a life-or-death struggle on her schedule for the evening, so getting
drunk probably wasn’t the best idea. Damned life-or-death struggles, always
getting in the way of a good drinking binge.
“You
really think I should say yes,” she said.
“I
really think you should think about what makes you happiest and what you want
out of life in ten years or twenty years or forty years and decide which option
will—”
They
both looked up when the door opened. Nick stepped through it, his face dark,
until he saw her.
Then
it got even darker.
“Where
the fuck have you been? I’ve practically been dragging the fucking lake looking
for you, and you’re—and you!” He glared at Tera, reddish sparks shifting in his
eyes. “You were supposed to call me if you heard anything. How long has she
been back here? What the fuck were you doing,
that you couldn’t even let me know she was alive?”
“We
were having mad, passionate sex,” Tera replied. “Aren’t you sorry you missed
it?”
“I’m
sorry, Nick. I’ve only been back for a couple of minutes, and I had to talk to
her,” Megan jumped in, hoping somehow to divert the violence telegraphed on
Nick’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was with—I was talking to Greyson.”
“Oh.”
He subsided, but she hadn’t missed the pained expression on his face.
She
took a deep breath. “Tera, can you give Nick and me a minute?”
Tera
looked for a second as if she was about to make a joke, and Megan’s hand curled
around the edge of the pillow at her side. If Tera said one word, she would
smack her in the face with it.
She
didn’t. She just nodded and stood. “I’ll be in my room. Give me a call, okay?
To let me know what happened at your meeting and everything.”
Megan
nodded. The door closed behind Tera, and she still had no idea what to say.
Okay. She’d better say something. Anything. “Nick, I’m really sorry.”
He
shook his head. “No, I—I mean, thanks, but it was my fault too. I should have
stopped you, but ?”
“You
would have really hurt my feelings,” she finished for him. “Thanks. I mean it,
really.”
“That
wasn’t entirely it. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but it
wasn’t . . . Shit, Megan, I am a man. I’m part incubus. It
wasn’t pity or charity, is what I mean. But I still ?”
“I
shouldn’t have put you in that position. I’m really, really sorry.”
He
nodded, his gaze cast down so she couldn’t see his eyes. “Thanks. It’s okay. It
was just as much my fault, but thanks.”
“I
talked to Greyson.” Why hadn’t she asked Tera for another bottle before she
left? That was stupid. “I told him again what happened and that it wasn’t your
fault and that he shouldn’t blame you for it. He said he’d try. And once we’re
ready, you should call him.”
He
sank down on the end of the bed, a respectable distance from her but still, she
could see, close enough that he could reach out to her if need be. God, he was
so great. She’d never be able to forgive herself fully for hurting him. “So you
talked to him.”
“Yeah.”
“And?
I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but did he—I mean, have you guys worked
things out?”
She
sighed and explained everything. Well, almost everything. She left out the sex,
but she was pretty sure he knew anyway.
He
shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“I
don’t know. I know what I want to do, but I also know I don’t want to start off
a marriage—Jesus, I can’t believe I’m actually talking about a marriage—with
him thinking I’ll just do anything he—”
The
phone rang, and her heart leaped into her throat. It was as if he knew she was
talking about him. Which would be more impressive if there weren’t such a huge
issue between them at the moment, but the point was the same.
Maybe
he was calling to talk. Maybe he finally understood.
Except
it wasn’t him. It was Brian.
For
a second the room actually seemed to tilt. Brian’s voice belonged to another
world, the one outside this fucking hotel. It seemed bizarre that he would
intrude on the claustrophobic, miserable little stressball that what was
supposed to be a relaxing week had become.
“Brian?
What’s up?”
“They
won’t let me upstairs until I have your room number, and they won’t give me
your room number. What is it?”
“What?
You’re here? Why?”
“Um,
an FBI agent slaughtered a woman here early this morning, Megan. It’s kind of a
big story.”
“Oh.
Right.” She gave him the room number and hung up, unsure why his presence
bothered her so much but bothered just the same. He didn’t belong here. This
wasn’t really the part of her life she shared with him. He knew about it, and
he tolerated it, but they talked about her patients and work, about his work,
about TV and movies and books.
If
she stopped having that work, would she still have Brian?
Maybe
that wasn’t fair. After a few initial conversations he’d backed off; he didn’t
want anything to do with the demon part of her life, but he certainly didn’t
openly disapprove. He got along with Greyson in a grudging way despite
distrusting him based on his demon-ness. But he clearly saw her as human.
Wanted her to stay that way and saw it as if
she were somehow cheapening herself by being so involved with demons. He never
said it outright, but she knew he felt that way. Was a little disappointed in
her for it.
It
didn’t matter, really. She certainly wasn’t going to make an important life
decision based on whether or not a friend of hers might disapprove. But she
would have liked him to approve and would have liked to think it wouldn’t
matter to him. But it wasn’t important, especially not then. She didn’t have
time to worry about Brian at the moment.
And
she didn’t have time to hang around with him either. Time creeped on, as time
was wont to do; it was close to five, and she’d hoped to try to eat something
and get a little rest before meeting with the others at eight. Not to mention
letting Tera and Nick know what the plan was and trying to figure out who might
be the one who’d hired the angel in the first place—damn it, she should have
asked Greyson who he thought it was—and thinking of him opened a whole new can
of worms, one she’d have to face soon.
Her
mood didn’t improve when Brian arrived. He wasn’t alone. He’d brought Julie
with him. Shit.
Oh,
she liked Julie just fine. But that whole detective-with-FBI-connections thing
set her pretty low on Megan’s must-see list just then.
Best
not to let that show, though. So she smiled and gave her a hug, admired the new
way Julie wore her shiny shoulder-length chestnut hair. Julie had always looked
to Megan as though rather than working as a detective,
she should be milking cows somewhere; she had that healthy pink-cheeked
openness that belonged in a shampoo ad.
Those
wide brown eyes weren’t smiling this time, though, despite the friendly
greeting. Julie sat in the desk chair, leaving Brian to lean against the wall.
“Megan, the murdered woman, Justine Riverside. You knew her, didn’t you? She
was part of this meeting thing your boyfriend came here for.”
Shit.
Shit. What did she know? Had Brian told her anything?
Okay.
Honesty was going to have to be the best policy here, because she had no idea
what Julie knew and didn’t know. “I knew Justine, yes.”
“Because
Greyson has some business involvement with her.”
There
was a difference between being honest and being stupid, however. “Julie, am I
being officially questioned here or something? What’s going on?”
“No,
I’m not questioning you.” Julie sighed. “I’m just trying to figure out why
Elizabeth would do such a thing. And I know she talked to you before you came
here. So I wonder if she mentioned Justine or if they knew each other.”
“Where
is Greyson anyway?” Brian looked around. “I would have figured he’d spring for
a better room than this.”
For
fuck’s sake, could she have one conversation today that didn’t involve someone
asking her about Greyson?
“He’s
not here. Elizabeth didn’t mention Justine to me,
Julie. And I didn’t know Justine very well. So I really can’t help you much, I
don’t think.”
Julie
frowned. Megan couldn’t quite tell if it was a disappointed frown or an
I-don’t-believe-you frown, and she had no real way to find out. Trying to read
members of law enforcement wasn’t a good idea. She’d discovered over the years
that they tended to have a little ability of their own, at least the good ones
did, and got antsy if she read them. And even if she’d been tempted to try,
Brian’s presence made it unthinkable. He’d know. He’d be pissed.
“When
will Greyson be back? I’d like to speak to him.”
“I
don’t know. Do you need to speak to all of us? It seems like a pretty
open-and-shut thing, from what I’ve heard. I mean, you know who killed Justine,
right?”
Julie
cocked her head, her gaze measuring Megan like Spud with a new lipstick he was
thinking of trying on her. “Can I be honest with you?”
Oh,
no. Questions like that never led anywhere good. But what could she say? No?
“Of course.”
“Elizabeth
has been . . . she’s been behaving very oddly. I spoke to her
this morning, and she . . . It’s normal for people who commit
murders—I mean good, normal people who suddenly snapped or whatever—to be
confused. Or even to say they don’t remember it very well. I’m sure you
understand what I mean.”
Megan
nodded. She did, very well. One of the benefits of her training and career.
“But
Elizabeth is . . . If I hadn’t worked with her before, didn’t
know her, I’d think she was just trying to set
up an insanity defense. She keeps rambling on about beautiful white lights and
witches and demons.”
Megan
and Nick didn’t move, but Brian twitched. Luckily Julie didn’t notice.
“This
isn’t part of an official investigation, which is why I’m telling you this,”
Julie went on. “Yes, as far as the case is concerned, it’s done with. Elizabeth
confessed. But she’s making less and less sense. She’s drooling. She’s falling
asleep. She’s not on any drugs or anything, but she’s totally out of it. And I
just wondered . . . she mentioned you.”
“Me?”
Did that sound squeaky? She really hoped that hadn’t sounded squeaky.
“She
said you came to her room. At least that’s what I think she said. And then she
said something about another woman and then something about an army or
something. She said guns. That guns were there, and they were pushing her to do
it, and the light wanted her to do it. And she didn’t have control—” Her cell
phone rang. “Sorry, hold on a second.”
Megan
barely heard it. One of them. Not guns. Gunnar.
Elizabeth
would have known who he was. Would have recognized him. And of course Justine
knew him and would have opened her door to him. From there, Elizabeth, powering
the angel or being used by the angel—a stroke of cleverness she wouldn’t have
expected from Gunnar, setting up a murderer so no suspicion was cast on
him—could have walked in right after him and done the dirty work.
Gunnar,
who’d tried to downplay the deaths of his rubendas.
Gunnar, who hadn’t wanted to go to the Windbreaker and confront the angel.
Gunnar, whom Megan had always considered the dullest and weakest of her fellow
Gretnegs; the man collected fish, for fuck’s sake.
She
glanced at Nick, saw the same knowledge in his eyes. The same aching
uncertainty of what to do, with Julie and Brian there.
“Oh
God!” Julie’s voice cut their eye contact but did nothing to still the panicked
hammering of her heart. “And she’s—oh my God. Yes. Yes. Okay.”
She
hung up and stood staring at the phone, her pretty face set in a deep frown.
“What’s
wrong, honey?” Brian took a step toward her, but Julie shook her head.
“Elizabeth
is dead.”
“Oh,
shit, seriously?”
Julie
nodded. “But . . . they said her body was
all . . . She just died, but she’s already decomposed. Like
she’s been dead for a couple of days instead of twenty minutes.”
Knowledge
hit Megan so hard she had to grip the bed to try to hide her shock. The angel
had killed her. Killed her the other night, either right before or right after
it had attacked Megan herself. That’s where the blood came from. That’s why
Elizabeth had been so spaced out. The angel had either been inhabiting her body
part of the time or using it, moving its limbs like a fucking marionette. The
image made her stomach lurch; she put her hand over her mouth.
Luckily
it wasn’t too extreme a reaction to discussions about
decomposition anyway. Julie reached for her. “Megan, I’m sorry! I wasn’t
thinking—this must be really more than you want to hear.”
Megan
waved her off. Okay. It was Gunnar. And the angel hadn’t just seen Megan,
attacked her. It had seen her with Greyson, with Nick and the brothers, with
Roc and—
Tera.
Tera
the witch. Tera, whom, if Greyson was right, the angel would have just as much
reason to go after as any demon would. Yes, as a witch Tera was better
protected than the rest of them, but still. If it snuck up on her, alone? She
hadn’t sensed it at the exorcism, hadn’t seen it the way the rest of them had.
Megan
stood up, almost falling in her haste. “Hey, guys, I just realized the time.
I’ve really got to get going. I’m—I’m meeting Greyson. And I need to go right
now. Nick? Nick, we need to go. Can you call Greyson and tell him we’re on our
way while I freshen up? And tell him to meet us in Tera’s room. And to hurry.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
When
she emerged from the bathroom—her hair was tangled at the back, she looked
ridiculous, and nobody had bothered to say a word—with her heart still
hammering and her hands almost shaking, she expected to find Brian and Julie
gone.
They
weren’t. Or, rather, Julie was. Brian wasn’t.
“I
asked her to go get us some Cokes,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you.”
She
looked at Nick, but he was on the phone, his back to her. She hoped he was
talking to Greyson. “Brian, this isn’t a good—”
“What’s
going on? You look terrified. This is a demon thing, isn’t it? Some demon
possessed Elizabeth Reid and made her commit that murder.”
“No,
Brian, it isn’t a demon. Really.”
“Well,
what did happen? Megan, I’m trying to help. Is something after you?”
“There’s
a . . . creature, yes. Something not human. It’s after all of
us. It attacked me the other night, it attacked Elizabeth and did something to
her, and it killed Justine. And I think it might be after Tera right now. Or
any one of us. So really, I need to go, I’m—”
“Can
I help?”
“What?”
“Can
I help? Is there anything I can do to help?”
She
had no idea what to say. On the one hand, it’s possible that, being psychic as
well, Brian could be very useful. On the other, this was dangerous. And she
couldn’t bring him into it without telling him exactly what they were fighting.
But
the offer brought tears to her eyes. All of her earlier worries about their
future faded as she looked at his earnest face. He would always be her friend,
no matter what.
“I—”
“Greyson’s
not there,” Nick said. He looked more worried than she’d ever seen him, even
more than he had the night before when Greyson knocked and interrupted their
ill-fated and ill-advised makeout session.
Her
heart fell into her stomach and started thudding so hard she imagined her
entire body vibrated like a speaker on too loud. “What do you mean?”
“He’s
not there. Malleus doesn’t know where he is. He went out this afternoon, after
you left, I guess, and he hasn’t come back yet.”
“What
about his cell?”
“No
answer.”
Her
legs suddenly didn’t feel strong enough to support her. He was fine, of course.
Maybe he went for a walk or more likely a drive—he did that sometimes when he
wanted to think—and saw where the call was coming from and just didn’t want to
answer. “Try calling from your cell,” she managed.
He
started dialing, while she tried not to panic. He’d said he was pretty sure he
knew who it was. He wouldn’t have blundered into Gunnar’s room, or anyone
else’s, for that matter.
Good
thing she hadn’t eaten after all. She couldn’t possibly hold on to food with
this kind of fear making her body feel like an icy husk.
Okay.
Time to focus. Time to call Tera and get her up there, make sure she was okay.
And of course, Roc. She’d given him the day off, essentially, until they knew
what was happening. She should have contacted him sooner. Should have reached
out to him as soon as she got back to the room.
The
little psychic cord connecting her to her demons vibrated when she sent a push
along it, waited for the push to come back. Nothing. She sent it again.
Nothing.
Okay,
what the hell. If she hadn’t known better, she would have wondered if they were
planning some fucking surprise party for her or something.
One
more time. This time it came back, finally, a little shiver that made her feel
much better.
“Roc
will be here in a minute,” she told Nick. “Anything?”
He
shook his head.
“What
can I do?” Brian asked. “Just tell me.”
They
all turned when someone knocked on the door. Roc, Megan felt. But Julie too.
Shit, she’d forgotten about Julie.
“You
can’t do anything, Brian. You have to get Julie out
of here. It might . . . it’s probably not going to be the safest
place to be around here tonight. So you really should just go.”
Another
knock.
“I’ll
take her home and come back.” He put his hand on the knob. “Okay? I’ll be back
in a bit.”
“I
wish you wouldn’t. It’s not safe.”
His
brows drew together. “You’re my friend. I’m coming back.”
With
Greyson gone—unreachable, she reminded herself; not gone, just unreachable—it
fell to her to try to corral everyone, to figure out what was happening and
what to do about it. She and Nick were the only ones aside from him who knew
who was behind the angel.
Or
they had been. Tera was mercifully safe, if a bit irritated to be interrupted
in the middle of a manicure in the hotel spa. Roc was fine, if a bit irritated
to be interrupted in the middle of feeding off a group of very bitter divorcees
he’d found by the pool.
But
none of her Yezer had found the angel. It wasn’t traveling on the psychic
plane, and it wasn’t anywhere visible to them. Probably in hiding. Lurking.
Waiting.
“So
if you know who it is,” Tera said, frowning at her half-painted nails, “why
don’t I just call Vergadering? They’ll come get him. Once he’s in jail, the
angel probably won’t come after the rest of you.”
“You’re
assuming it would know. Or that it would care.” Time wasn’t helping Megan calm
down. With every minute that ticked by, both of her hearts sped faster, and more horrifying images and thoughts
buzzed in her head. If the angel had him . . . if he was
gone . . .
She
should have been strong enough, focused enough, not to think about him. She
wasn’t. Embarrassing but true. “And it might not just be Gunnar.”
That
possibility had occurred to her not long after they’d found Tera. She was
focusing on Gunnar, so sure it was him—and she was sure, she knew it had to be.
But that didn’t mean Winston wasn’t in on it, or Baylor. This was business, if
of a particularly twisted kind, and business made bedfellows just as
unlikely—or unholy—as politics or anything else.
“I
don’t like the look of that Baylor,” Roc said. “He looks shifty.”
Coming
from a tiny, wrinkly, bald green demon, that was saying something, but Megan
didn’t argue. “It could be any one of them.”
“So
what do we do?” Tera picked up the room-service menu and opened it. “How do we
find out which one it is? Are you still meeting them all at eight?”
“Yeah,
we’ve only got an hour,” Nick said. Tera’s room was larger than Megan’s; Nick
was at her side on the little settee.
It
was a prettier room too, with crown molding and its own small balcony.
Ordinarily Megan might have wanted to go sit outside, to try to think with the breeze
on her face, but not then. Not when she felt as if sniper rifles could be
trained on the room waiting for one of them to move.
Shit,
an hour. Only an hour. She was due to walk into battle at eight with at least
one traitor, and her death was apparently
pretty high on that traitor’s priority list.
But
who could she trust? Aside from the people in that room, who could she call?
Who could she warn?
Yes,
Winston wanted to head for the Windbreaker and do battle. But he could have
been looking forward to leading them all into a trap. He could have prearranged
things with Gunnar, to throw the rest of them off. Or Baylor could have done
the same. Or any one of them. The only way to know for sure who was behind it
would be to track them somehow, or the angel, and see who—holy shit.
Nick
and Tera were sniping at each other about some privacy law or something. They
stopped when she snatched up the room phone and dialed Greyson’s room—her old
room.
“Megan,
what—”
She
waved them off, listening to the ring in her ear until Malleus answered.
“Malleus,
he’s at the Windbreaker, isn’t he? Keeping an eye on the angel?”
Long
pause. Long enough to let her know she was right. “I can’t say where he’s gone
to, m’lady.”
“Because
he ordered you not to, right? But he is there, isn’t he? Malleus, just say yes
or no. That’s not telling me, right?”
More
silence.
Tears
threatened—again, she was getting really fucking tired of all this damned
leaking—and she let them come through in her voice, hating herself a little bit
because she knew she was manipulating him. “Malleus,
please . . . please just say yes or no.”
He
sighed. “Yeh.”
“Is
he alone? He’s not alone, is he?”
“Aw,
no, m’lady, Lord Dante can take care of ’imself, ’e can. Don’t you fret.”
“He’s
alone? You guys—”
“Spud’s
with ’im.”
The
air left her lungs in a huge, relieved rush, only to freeze again as it came
back in. He was there, and he had Spud. But were the two of them together
really any match for an angel? Neither of them had the abilities psyche demons
had. Spud was strong and tough and relentless when it came to fighting and
wouldn’t give up until he won or died, but she didn’t want to think about that
either.
Besides,
how the hell was he managing to hide? If Gunnar or anyone else walked into that
hotel, they’d see him. How was that a good idea?
“Thanks,
Malleus. Thank you.”
“You
din’t ’ear it from me, m’lady. Don’t want ’im gettin’ mad at me. An’ ’e will,
if you tell ’im.”
“I
won’t. I promise.”
She
said good-bye and hung up, turned to see them all looking expectantly at her.
“He’s at the Windbreaker. Keeping an eye on the angel. I guess he’s looking for
confirmation or whatever. So we need to go over there now.”
“I
thought everyone else was going at eight.”
Megan,
already scooping up her bag and slipping her shoes back on, nodded at Tera.
“They are. But we need to go now. Because we might be the only ones who go at
all, and if the angel finds him there first, or if Gunnar or someone in on this with Gunnar spots him, I—we
need to be there. We need to go, now.”
She
looked at them all. Tera, in her casual fitted
button-down
and loose black pants, looking uncon-cerned as always. Nick, whose hand
clenched and unclenched as if it was looking for his sword. Roc, picking at the
cinnamon roll he’d brought into the room with him; the smell made her hungry
and sick in equal measure.
And
herself, five-foot-two, a hundred and seven pounds. No muscles to speak of. No
real fighting experience.
But
she had power. She had her abilities. Tera was a witch, and witches had managed
to defeat demons and angels both. Nick was a warrior. And
Roc . . . who knew what Roc could really do if he had to? More
than that. She had the frantic adrenaline of the hunted, the panic of a woman
who had to protect her loved ones.
It
wasn’t the greatest fighting team ever assembled, but it would have to do.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The
semi-good fighting team ended up in separate cars too, which wasn’t really
auspicious. Megan didn’t have a car, having ridden with Greyson to the hotel.
Tera drove one of those little red sporty things that barely fit one person,
let alone two. Nick had cabbed it from the airport, and of course, Roc, being
unable to see over a steering wheel and relying on psychic travel, had no car
at all.
Which
made Brian’s return, a few minutes after Megan hung up with Malleus, much more
of a relief than she’d expected. Not only was he there, but he at least had
four seats in his little foreign jobbie.
Which
would have fit all of them, had Megan not opened the door as they were about to
leave to find Maleficarum standing outside. “Mal sez you plan on heading for
the hotel. I’m goin’ too.”
“Okay,
fine,” she replied, and ignored the faint surprise in his black eyes. “You can
ride with Nick and Brian. I’ll ride with Tera.”
He
looked as if he was about to protest—she wondered how much of his appearance at
her door was the desire to help and how much was the desire to badger her about
why she was hurting Lord Dante so and what he
could do to fix things—but subsided when she gave him the steeliest glare in
her repertoire. “Right.”
The
drive to the Windbreaker didn’t take long. It felt like forever. Not only was
she worried, but she was starting to wonder if this was the best idea. Greyson
may have been able somehow to hide in the crowd. He might even have found a way
to conceal Spud, although one thing Spud did well was stand out, between his
size and the general air of menace around him.
But
to hide the rest of them?
A
bridge to be crossed when she came to it. The simple fact was, there was a
chance Greyson was in danger. And she could not let that happen. Especially not
when things between them stood the way they did. If something happened to him
and he thought she didn’t—she’d never forgive herself. Never.
“Okay,”
Nick said, when they’d all gotten out of the cars. He did have his sword after
all; she didn’t want to ask how he’d gotten it through airport security, but
she didn’t really need to. “Megan, I think you’re probably going to be the
primary target if anything does go down here. Or, rather, when it all goes down
here. So Maleficarum, you should stay with her.”
Maleficarum
nodded, a faint look of disbelief on his face. Megan understood. As if
Maleficarum would do anything else.
“I’m
going to stay with Brian. I know the thing doesn’t know you, and neither do any
of the others involved. But you are psychic, aren’t you? Right. So you could
come in handy here, and—forgive me—but I don’t
know how much fighting experience you actually have.”
“I
wrestled in high school and college.”
Megan
blinked. She had no idea.
“Okay,
well, that could help. Still.”
“What
about me?” Tera cut in. “Don’t I get some protection?”
“Do
you actually need it?”
“Well,
no, but it would be nice if someone at least thought I was worth protecting.”
Nick
smiled. “You stay with me and Brian, then. How’s that?”
“Good.”
“Okay,”
Megan said.
The
Windbreaker loomed before them, larger in her eyes and mind than she’d ever
seen it. Such a dull building, dingy gray walls, small windows in rows up the
edifice. It looked more like a correctional facility than a hotel.
She
checked her watch, the slim silver one Greyson had given her a few months
before. He was in there, and she was going to find him, and they had about half
an hour before they were supposed to meet the others back at the Bellreive.
What would happen when—if—they didn’t show up?
Not
her problem. She squared her shoulders, paused a minute to pull what energy she
could from the air. She could have taken it from her Yezer but wanted to wait
until it was absolutely necessary. “Let’s go.”
The lobby
was silent. Dead silent, way too quiet. She should
have heard moans and wails coming from the ballroom where Walther held his
exorcisms. Instead the only sound was the low rusty grind of the air
conditioner.
“Where
do we go?” Nick asked low in her ear.
“I
don’t know. Hold on.” If she were Greyson, where would she be? Where, in order
to watch all the comings and goings, to keep an eye on the angel and anyone
else?
Just
as she turned to look for the security office, she saw him poke his head out
from around the wall behind the front desk, the partitioned area where the desk
clerk had been napping two nights before. His features were twisted in what
wasn’t quite a frown but was definitely not a cheerful welcome.
“What
are you doing here? Shit, never mind. Get back here, then you can tell me.”
That
was the greeting she got? She’d brought the cavalry in to save his ass, and she
got a grumpy—well, she guessed it was about all she could expect, given that a
few hours before she’d turned him down. Again.
As
one, they slid behind the counter and back to where he and Spud sat before a
bank of security cameras.
“Did
Malleus tell you where I was?”
“No.
I figured it out. And I know who it was. It was Gunnar.”
The
quick flash of approval in his eyes made her heart leap. “But not just Gunnar.
Do you know who else?”
She
shook her head.
“Well.
Come sit and wait, then, and get ready. I expect any second now she’ll show
up.”
“She?
But Justine—”
“Of
course it’s not Justine. Justine would never have had anything to do with an
angel. I’m surprised—”
“Angel?”
Brian looked stunned. “What do you mean, angel?”
Greyson
rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t see you’d brought the True
Believer along.”
“Hi
to you too, Greyson. What do you mean, an angel? You don’t honestly expect me
to—”
“Not
that kind of angel,” Megan said. “It’s not a good angel. It’s a—”
“Angels
are kind of good by definition, Megan. You know, creatures of God, protectors—”
“Warriors,”
Greyson cut in. “Not protectors. Warriors. Who is it who ends the world in
Revelations, Brian? Who carries a fiery sword? For that matter, what about
Uriel as the Angel of Repentance? Is that a friendly image? Is it one you want
to face?”
If
Brian was surprised that Greyson knew what he was talking about, he didn’t show
it. “What about messages of great joy? What about protecting the infant Jesus
from Herod? What about—”
“Again.
This isn’t that kind of angel. Think of it as a rogue angel, okay? One who’s
broken from God and works as a mercenary and stays out of Hell because he’s
just that sneaky. This is an abomination, Brian. Something that shouldn’t
exist. Like a Nephilim.”
Brian
shuddered.
Greyson
nodded. “Right. That’s what we’re dealing with. It’s not something that’s going
to touch you and fill you with heavenly light, Brian. It’s going to rip off your head if it gets the chance. It’s using all those
people out there, feeding off their faith, taking their free will and their
sanity. It used a woman to slaughter a demon. It ripped her from her throat to
her abdomen and tore out her heart. It wants to punish, and at this point it
doesn’t care who. It doesn’t care that we’ve made our peace with each other
long ago.”
Not
entirely true. The demons and witches had wiped the angels off the face of the
earth, if what Tera and Greyson had said earlier was to be believed. But there
was little point in letting Brian know that.
Brian
was silent. Greyson pressed him further. “It feels nothing. It doesn’t care if
you were an altar boy. It doesn’t care about your religion. But it cares about—
it
would care about—your psychic abilities. And it will kill you for them.”
“I
can’t . . . I can’t believe this.”
“Then
you should go.” Megan put her hand on his arm, tried to get him to look at her.
“You should go, Brian, because we have to do this, or it will kill us all.”
The
silence stretched so long Megan began to wonder if it would ever end. Just a
little while before, she’d felt certain Brian would be her friend forever. Now
she wondered if he hadn’t reached the breaking point.
But
he nodded. He didn’t look at her, but he nodded. “Okay. Okay, I’ll stay and
help.”
“Excellent.”
Greyson turned back to the monitors.
“How
did you get in here anyway?” Brian asked.
He
glanced back. “I convinced the guards they were needed elsewhere.”
“What,
like—never mind. I don’t want to know.”
Greyson
ignored him, his eyes fixed on the screens. Megan crowded up as close as she
dared, close enough to smell his skin and his cologne and feel the sharp stab
of pain those scents caused in her gut, but not close enough to touch.
“Any
second now,” he murmured. “Any second now, and we’ll find out if it was one of
them or both of them.”
“Greyson,
who—”
“Shh.
You’ll see. They’re getting ready, can’t you feel it?”
Now
that she thought about it, yes she could. Could feel the emptiness spreading, a
kind of thick blanket of dull silence spreading over everything. Not the
silence of an empty building. The silence of the morgue, waiting for the dead
to rise. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end.
“I
do feel it,” she whispered. “What is it?”
He
glanced around at all of them. “They’ll find us soon. Are you guys ready?”
Megan
checked the monitors again, found after a moment’s searching the one that
showed her the ballroom. Walther’s histrionics had slowed. He moved like a man
fighting to run across the ocean floor, his feet sinking in the carpet, his
arms pushing through the thick air.
The
crowd moved slowly too, if they moved at all. Most of them sat wide-eyed,
open-mouthed, like children watching the most fascinating cartoon ever
produced.
Her
entire body vibrated. Something was wrong. She couldn’t feel them around her.
Couldn’t feel them in the building, not even when she lowered her shields all
the
way. Instead she felt them inside her, wriggling there, making her demon heart
pound and squirm as if it was going to break through her ribs and throw itself
against the monitors. She put her hand to it, feeling a little silly but
wanting absurdly to add another layer of resistance.
Greyson
watched her do it but said nothing.
The
feeling kept going, traveling down to her toes, up into her head. She was
stuffed with them, overflowing with them, their fears and sadness muffled by
the kind of peace that came from heavy psychotropic drugs. They’d tried to give
those to her once, in the hospital when she was sixteen and possessed by the
Accuser. She remembered that heavy nod, that cotton-brain feeling, and set her
other hand on the desk to try to steady herself.
Greyson
turned around again. “Maleficarum, Nick. How fast can you guys get to the roof
?”
“The
elevator—”
“Can’t
use the elevator. You need to use the stairs, and you need to use them fast.”
They
glanced at Brian, who nodded. The three of them took off.
“Why
the roof ?” Tera started opening drawers, pulling out bits of paper and
inspecting them.
“Because
I have a feeling that’s where he’s going to try to take Megan when he gets
her.”
“What
the hell do you mean, when he gets me?”
Greyson
nodded at the monitor. “Because whatever Gunnar’s goals are, I’m betting you’re
hers.”
Megan
looked. Leora Lawden was walking through the lobby doors.
Her
mouth fell open. “No. It couldn’t be her.”
“Oh,
I assure you it is. In fact, I thought it was her alone from the beginning. It
wasn’t until Justine was killed that I realized it was Gunnar as well.”
“But
why—”
“She
didn’t exactly want you in the picture, Meg,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure
Gunnar was using her to get closer to you. Who knows what he promised her, but
it must have been good.”
“But
her father. She wouldn’t have plotted against her own father?”
“She
probably didn’t even know what he had in mind. She’s not the brightest child. I
don’t think she bothered to give much thought to anything else, as long as he
was willing to give her a way to get rid of you.” His mouth twisted. “Not every
woman thinks marrying a Gretneg is a horrible fate.”
“That’s
not—” she started, but the words were torn from her mouth when a blast of
energy poured into her, through her, sending her to the floor in a vibrating
heap. Her arms, her legs, were no longer under her control. Neither were her
thoughts. She felt them all, felt above them that same horrible blinding white
light she’d felt on the roof, the same light that had nearly destroyed her in
Elizabeth Reid’s room.
She
was vaguely aware of Greyson’s hands on her, of Tera’s voice trying to talk to
her or utter some sort of spell, or whatever she was trying to do. It didn’t
help. She curled up into a ball as tight as she could, tried to see through
half-blind eyes a place to hide, a place to escape to.
And
they were coming. Getting closer and closer. She felt the angel’s triumph as
the ballroom doors opened. Felt the entire crowd cowed by him, entranced by
him, bathed in the kind of ecstasy only felt by lunatics and junkies. Felt the
bloodlust they didn’t even recognize. They thought they were on a crusade, and
she guessed they were.
To
rid the world of demons.
And
she was first on their list.
Chapter Thirty
Energy
pulsed through her, thicker and darker and sweeter all at once. From Roc. From
her demons. Some of the shrieking pain subsided. Somehow she was able to pull
herself to her feet. “They’re coming.” She gasped. “They’re leaving the
ballroom, they—”
Greyson
nodded at Tera. Each of them grabbed one of her hands. “Now,” Greyson said, and
Tera’s voice filled the air, filled her ears. The room spun and swirled, and
she felt herself turning into something unreal, something she’d only been once
before a few days back. The world went blurry, and suddenly she was on the
roof, beneath the darkening summer sky, its blue-gray glow still faintly orange
at the edges.
And
she could think again. “What are we doing up here? Why up here?”
“This
is where it will come,” Greyson said again. “This is where we have the best
shot at beating it.”
“But
why? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“We
can ambush it here. More important, it can’t get hold of any more people up
here. They’re too far away. And it likes roofs. Angels like open areas. They’re
not happy indoors or anywhere with walls. This is going to be the place.”
She
didn’t want to argue anymore. Especially not about something like that. He said
it, he believed it. It was enough for her.
But
there was one thing she could say, and she would. Energy still swirled and
strummed inside her, making her feel as if her skin was about to fly off her
body. She reached for him, tried to use that contact to calm her, but his hand
just sat in hers.
“I
didn’t know where you were,” she said. Tera was listening interestedly from a
few feet away; Maleficarum, Nick, and Brian wandered around the door leading up
from the floor below. Roc still hovered on her shoulder. But she didn’t care
who heard. “I thought— I thought maybe it had gotten you. That you were gone.”
“And?”
He wasn’t pulling away, but he wasn’t giving her much either. Well, she
supposed she couldn’t expect much else.
“I
didn’t—”
Shout.
Screams. The door burst open, and a flood of humanity poured out onto the roof.
Businessmen. Hotel employees. The sad sacks from the reverend’s meeting. The
reverend himself, his eyes literally blazing, his mouth open in a roar that
sent fear shooting straight up her spine and into her brain.
And
above them all rose the angel. Not the non-
descript
man she’d seen before, no. Not even the thing that had captured her on the
roof. This was a beast, a creature of primordial rage and righteousness. Its
eyes flamed, its skin glowed white, blinding white, searing its image into her
retinas. In its hand it carried a flaming sword, blue-white flames, vicious and
ravenous in her eyes.
Oh
God how were they going to beat this how could they possibly beat this thing—
Roc’s
fingers dug into her shoulder; Greyson’s into her hand. She heard Brian
screaming, saw Nick—in typical Nick fashion—leap into battle with his sword
raised and a look of unholy glee on his face.
But
she waited. She didn’t know what to do. Attack or hold back? Try to read the
humans, see if she could break the hold on them, or would that take up too much
energy?
The
angel’s flaming sword spun. He caught one of the people, a woman, with his
blade; she fell, her shoulder and arm landing several feet away from the rest
of her.
That
was enough for Megan. She yanked her hand from Greyson’s and stepped back, willing
him to stand in front of her, to keep her from being seen just one second
longer. She had no idea if this would work or if it would simply make her shine
like a beacon, but she did it anyway.
She
lowered her shields all the way and pushed her energy out into the crowd.
Oh
God. The hold he had on every one of them, the way he subsumed them. They had
no conscious thought. They had no free will. It was as if they had no souls.
She
pushed at them, pushed with everything she had, calling every bit of strength
she could possibly get from her Yezer, from the air, from everything else. Wind
kicked up around her, stronger and stronger, the thing fighting back. She heard
its voice like insects in her soul rising above
the screams, braced her feet to keep from falling, and pushed harder.
The
angel’s hold—like a membrane, thick and semi-opaque—wavered around them. She
caught a few thoughts, a few images, an overwhelming sense of peace and dark
joy, the blissed-out happiness of the living, uncaring dead.
Greyson
shouted something. She didn’t know what, couldn’t focus on him. His voice was a
buzz in her ear, a fly she had to ignore. The membrane was loosening; it wasn’t
giving way, but she could feel it, could lift it away from some of the people.
If she could set even a few of them free, just a few—
Greyson
leaped forward. A scream, loud and feminine—Leora. Megan turned to look for the
girl and lost her hold on the membrane.
Damn
it. Leora was there, all right, and Greyson was heading for her, but it was too
late. Brian already had a hold on her, gripping her by the neck and pulling her
back. She would have smiled if she hadn’t been so distracted; Brian wasn’t
fighting the angel, but he’d take on anyone else, and clearly Greyson’s heading
for Leora had given him someone to focus on. Fine.
She
switched her attentions back to the membrane, ignoring the way her hair whipped
and stung around her face. It wasn’t as easy this time; she was weaker, had
used so much energy already. With a silent, guilty prayer of thanks that there
were so many unhappy people in the world, she sent another call out through the
invisible strand that connected her to her Yezer.
Energy
roared back at her, so strong and thick it al most
lifted her off the roof. There was the membrane again, sticky and grotesque.
She pulled at it. Felt it weaken at the back—there! A few of them free. Just a
few, but—
Something
grabbed her from behind and threw her to the ground. Gunnar. Where the hell had
he come from, how had—did it matter? No. Because his gun was loaded and cocked
right in her face, and she had about two seconds to live.
Roc
leaped forward, his spindly fingers clutching at the gun. The move startled
Gunnar just enough for Megan to bring her leg up and kick him as hard as she
could. Right in the groin. His shocked, pained expression might have been funny
if the gun hadn’t gone off.
The
bullet hit the roof an inch from her face. Chips of rock and tar flew up at
her, opening stinging cuts in her cheek.
Gunnar
fell. Megan rolled away. Time to try again, time to—oh no, duh. “Roc, tell them
to show themselves. Tell them to fight the angel, tell them—”
Roc
shook his head. “They’re gone,” he said. “It chased them away.”
“Then
tell them to get the fuck back here!” How ironic was it that the only way she
could hope to win was by making these poor people miserable?
Better
than letting them die in this hideous state, all things considered.
Roc
closed his eyes and shivered, sending the message. Yezer started to appear,
blue and red and orange and yellow and green, like bizarre confetti strewn
across the roof.
Gunnar
got back up, the gun wobbling in one hand, the other pressed between his legs.
Tera
shouted something. The gun exploded back at him. His hand disappeared; blood
pumped from the end of his sleeve. His scream drowned out her next thoughts.
She
felt her demons pushing, trying to get their humans back. Across the roof she
saw Greyson binding Leora’s feet with something, some kind of rope, while Brian
held her arms behind her back.
Gunnar
smacked her across the face with his good arm.
She
fell back, too surprised to scream. Tera started to shout something else, and
Gunnar jerked, but Tera’s voice died. Megan managed to glance over and saw her
friend sink to the floor.
Dark
clouds appeared overhead and burst open with icy, stinging rain.
The
angel set his flock loose.
They
swarmed the roof, plowing each other down in their haste. Their haste to get to
Megan. She craned her neck for one last desperate look through the haze of
water and saw Nick, his face grim, swinging his sword like a scythe; in his
other hand he held a gun, and the reports blasted across the rooftop and dulled
her hearing.
Gunnar
grinned. His arms closed around her, gripping her from behind, locking over
hers so she couldn’t move. Blood from his stump poured down her back, hotter
than the cold rain. As she struggled and kicked at him, her feet sliding on the
wet tar of the roof, she saw Maleficarum and Spud fighting their way toward
her.
They
wouldn’t reach her in time. They couldn’t, because the angel had seen her, and
it was coming.
Its
hollow black-fire eyes were trained on her. Its lips stretched into a grin, a
grin she couldn’t bear to see. It was red and white, too bright to exist, there
on top of the building, and her demon heart shrieked and writhed inside her.
She
struggled harder. Fought harder. It didn’t work. She tore her gaze away from
the angel’s eyes and saw Greyson running toward her, waylaid by the reverend.
He punched the preacher in the mouth and kept going, but the swarms of humanity
were too strong, the rain and wind too thick.
At
least too thick for him to get to her fast enough. Because the angel’s hand was
above her, strong and pale and glowing, and she watched it descend like a fly
watching the swatter fall.
With
all her might, with everything she had, she pushed against him. Turned her
energy into a weapon as she had the other night and drove it into him.
That
same blinding flash of light. That same power driving into her, making her
scream. She waited for the sucking feeling, the sense of him weakening, fading—
It
didn’t come. The angel’s laughter echoed loud and horrible above her. Screams
echoed around her, all of the people, every one of them, screaming. Falling to
the ground in agony, water splashing as they fell. Their thoughts, their
images, flashing through her mind at an unbelievable pace, too much for her to
handle; even the additional powers she’d gained back at Christmas weren’t
enough. Their memories, their feelings, burning into
her, their agony tearing through her body. He was connected to them, and she
was killing them.
Somewhere
in the tiny part of herself that could still think, she knew she had to break
the connection. Had to free them somehow so she could focus on him.
She
pulled back. That was a mistake. The second she pulled her energy from him, his
shot into her, wrapping around her heart and squeezing. She was choking. She
couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fight him off. Gunnar’s grip on her remained tight;
she felt it as if through layers of cotton. Her body was leaving her control,
she was fading . . . her vision went black around the edges.
Fingertips
like feathers touched her arm. Power flowed into her, enough for her to see
again, at least.
Nick.
Oh, thank God, it was Nick, and he touched her with one hand while his other
swung back and knocked Gunnar down.
She
fell with him. Good. Good because it gave her a second’s respite from
the angel’s touch. She started to roll away, grasping for Nick, tugging
desperately at the cord connecting her to her Yezer but not getting much back.
Not enough. She needed more, needed to get more. Needed everything she could
get.
The
angel grabbed her, yanked her back. Its hands burned her skin, and she
screamed, reaching for Nick.
The
angel’s arms fell away. Greyson was there. He’d jumped onto the thing’s back.
Smoke rose from his skin; flames erupted around the angel, untouched by the
rain.
It
laughed. Threw back its head and laughed, a beautiful, terrible laugh that made
her want to cower on the ground with her hands
over her ears. The people screamed again too, screamed louder, until she
thought for sure the entire city could hear them.
Nick
was still there, holding her back, because she tried to attack and fight, to
pull the angel away from Greyson. It was smiling too brightly, Greyson’s face
was going too pale, for her to believe any good was being accomplished.
She
had to do something. She had to end this now. Right now. She wasn’t powerful
enough to beat the thing, not when it had whatever it was taking from all those
people; her demons fed on misery and sadness, but it was feeding off humanity
itself, if what she’d felt was correct, and it was far more powerful than she
was to begin with. She suspected she’d only managed to beat it the other night
because she’d surprised it, if that had been a defeat and not simply a
strategic retreat.
She
needed more power. Greyson would die if she didn’t get it. Nick, Tera,
Maleficarum and Spud and Brian . . . all these people would die
if she didn’t get it.
“Roc!”
The scream tore from her mouth, disappeared in the cacophony around them. She
called for him psychically, saw him appear, and grabbed his bony fingers with
her own. She didn’t have the words to tell him what she needed, but he knew.
She saw it in his eyes.
The
scene before her slowed down. She saw every detail, saw Greyson getting paler
and paler, his flames growing smaller. Saw Tera getting up and shouting, felt
her spell brush past. It knocked Greyson off the angel’s back. Knocked the
angel to the side and down.
The
angel got up. Greyson didn’t.
She
saw Malleus and Spud heading toward her. Saw Brian touching people in the
crowd, saw him trying to break the connection. Saw him tiring. Saw her Yezer
flitting in and out among the crowd, trying to do the same thing, beating their
little fists and squirming and fighting. They needed her. All of them.
So
she nodded, and Roc began to speak.
Chapter Thirty-one
Roc’s voice started low, growing louder, words in the demon
tongue she didn’t understand. Energy flowed through her, the thick, sticky-sweet
energy of the Yezer, speeding her demon heart. Speeding both of her hearts.
Nick’s hand clasped hers more tightly. Did he feel it? Did
he know? She couldn’t tell, but she hoped he did. And then she knew he did,
because his energy pushed into her too, red with lust and black with anger. She
opened herself to it. To all of it.
For a moment she floated on it like a dust mote in the sun,
dancing lazily, twirling and drifting. Her shields were already down; she
willed them to disappear, let the energy flow through her entire body. Let it
become magic inside her while Roc’s voice kept going and something wet touched
her lips.
Roc’s blood. Just a smudge. And then Roc’s lips, and she
started to jerk away when she realized he wasn’t kissing her. He was breathing
into her, and that was necessary too, and she flew so high she thought she was
scattered in the stars.
Then the pain hit.
Everything went red. Her brain screamed. Her mouth screamed.
Every muscle in her body caught fire. Her heart pounded, pounded, pounded; it
was all she could hear, faster and faster, her blood rushing through her body
and through her brain. That hurt too, her head throbbing, a migraine times a
million, and tears fell down her cheeks, and sweat soaked her dress, and blood
poured from her nose.
Her muscles snapped and stretched. Her stomach roiled. She
threw up, and blood came with it. It hurt so bad, so much worse than she’d ever
imagined it would. She didn’t want this anymore and it was too late.
It felt as if her bones were breaking. It felt as if her
body was breaking, curling in on itself. Somewhere in there she felt Nick’s
hand still in hers and realized she was squeezing it. Her organs rang like
bells and that was Tera nearby.
She didn’t know how long it went on, the pain. Deep beneath
it something else was happening. A strengthening. A deepening. Her
consciousness spread around her until she felt every person on the roof, every
one of them, as a separate and distinct entity. Felt their connection to the
angel. It was like grabbing each string between her teeth and snapping it; she
was doing it, she could do it, and it seemed so much easier.
Her legs shook when she tried to stand. They wouldn’t
support her. Instead she leaned on Nick, let his strong arms hold her up as she
turned again to the angel.
Tera had been holding it off, screaming spells, waving her
hands, and shooting what looked absurdly like neon
flares at it. She wasn’t beating it, but she was distracting it.
Brian ran through the crowd; large portions of them had stopped
screaming, were huddled together on the floor, crying. “What do you need?
Megan, what can I do?”
She didn’t reply. Instead she took his hand. His shock
transmitted to her; he felt it then. Felt her new power. Knew what she’d done.
Time to worry about that later. Right now—Greyson still
hadn’t moved—she had some business to take care of. And if that was an overly
dramatic way to think of it, she couldn’t help it.
She drew on his energy as much as she could. Drew on what
her Yezer were getting, which was so much more now that the angel’s hold on the
crowd had been broken. Took it from Nick.
And thrust it all, flaming, at the angel, as hard as she
could.
The impact nearly knocked her over again. It would have, had
Nick not been there to hold her.
The angel screamed. It was the kind of scream she never
wanted to hear again, the kind that made her want to cry and scream herself.
The pain and rage in that sound horrified her.
But feeling the angel’s shock, its misery, feeling its power
weaken and rebound into her . . . that elated her.
Maybe it shouldn’t have. It hadn’t been easy to deal with
that feeling the first time. But this time? All she had
to do was look at the people around them, at Greyson, and anger overshadowed
any sense of shame.
It fought her, pushing back. She gritted her teeth. Kept
going. Kept shoving at it, sending every bit of anger and rage, every bit of
energy, every bit of pain into it.
It sank to its knees. Tera shouted something, and it
convulsed. Again. And again. Its energy fading, it felt so weak ?
Megan pulled back. She couldn’t keep going, not anymore. It
didn’t seem so evil anymore. It seemed so helpless, so—
It shouted something, and Reverend Walther flew through the
air at her.
“You will not—foul—” He shouted something else, but Megan
didn’t hear it. She was too busy trying to jump out of the way, because Walther
held a knife in his hand, moonlight glinting off the edge of it, and it was
aiming straight for her heart.
Her heart. Not her two hearts. Only one leaped; only one
pounded. It was done.
No time to think about that. She jumped sideways. Nick and
Brian grabbed at Walther and tackled him.
The angel screamed. Megan looked up in time to see Spud
bring his own knife down and ducked before it finished falling.
Silence fell. The wind died. The rain stopped.
She peeked up through her fingers. People milled around,
crying; some of them headed back down the stairs, some clutched at each other
as though they’d never leave. Tera stood panting by the wall, edging away from the angel’s body toward Nick and Brian. Spud got
up and turned to look at—
Greyson. Not moving.
She moved faster than she ever had. Faster than she ever
thought she could move.
He was warm. She thought he was breathing. She couldn’t be
sure, though, and her hand was shaking too hard to check his pulse.
“Greyson, wake up.” He wasn’t dead. Couldn’t be dead, right?
Did demons go into comas? Jesus, did they go into comas they never came out of?
He looked so pale. He was warm, but he was pale.
She slapped him lightly. “Greyson, wake up!”
He stirred, coughed. Opened one eye and stared at her. And
like a silly girl, she burst into tears.
“Now?” he croaked. “Now will you fucking marry me?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Yes, I will.”
The afternoon sun shone beneath the thick curtains on the
window by the time they woke up the next day. Megan didn’t really remember
going back to their hotel or falling, exhausted, into bed. She had a vague
memory of Greyson helping her undress and another, much sweeter, of him pulling
her close before her eyes fell shut.
She opened her eyes, rolled over, and found him staring at
her. She jumped.
“Jesus, you scared me. What are you doing?”
“I was awake.”
“So you decided to lie there and stare at me?”
“Well, actually, no. I got up, and I made some calls—I have
a few things to tell you—and then I got back into bed and waited for you to
wake up. How are you feeling?”
How was she feeling? That was a good question. “Okay. Kind
of achy everywhere. And a little loopy, maybe. But other than that, okay.”
He nodded. “So you did the ritual last night.”
“Yeah. I guess I did.”
“And . . . you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah.” She smiled a little. “I guess I am.”
Their eyes met for a second, but he blinked and started to
sit up. “I talked to Winston this morning. He and Baylor showed up just after
we left and took care of Gunnar. So we’re not sure who’s going to take over his
House just at the moment. He asked us please to let him deal with Leora. I told
him I’d have to talk to you about it.”
“What do you think?”
“I think we should let him. She’s just a child.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That’s so generous of you. I’m
surprised.”
“You wound me. I’ve always been generous. In
fact ?”
He leaned over, giving her a lovely view of his bare back,
the muscles stretching under the skin, and came back with a tiny wrapped
package. “Here. Happy birthday.”
“Oh, shit, I—it is my birthday, isn’t it? I forgot.”
“Well, you have had rather a lot on your mind.”
“True.” She tore open the thick silvery paper to reveal a
small velvet box. Her breath caught.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said, but the smile
didn’t quite make it. “Still want to say yes?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He flipped open the box. Her eyes felt as if they were going
to fall out of her head. It wasn’t that it was a large diamond; it was, but not
ridiculously so. It was just so . . .
perfect. Just what she would have picked for herself.
“I’ve been carrying this damned thing around for a month and
a half. How about you put it on now, so I don’t have to anymore?”
Her hand shook when she held it out to him. She was elated.
She was terrified. And she loved him.
The ring slipped over her knuckle, rested perfectly at the
base of her finger. She sat mesmerized for a moment, watching it sparkle,
unable to believe this was really happening. Had really happened.
“I’ve been thinking about your job,” he said. “You know,
there are a lot of demons who could use some counseling. Right at the
Ieuranlier. There’s plenty of room; you could have your own office in one of
the wings if you like. If you hate the idea, we can talk about it, but I
thought ?”
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t counseling humans in her own
practice. But how much of that would she be able to do now that she was fully
demon?
And she didn’t really feel any different. They’d been right
about that, Roc and Greyson. She felt exactly the same. She’d just been afraid
of change, afraid of moving forward.
It was time to stop being that way.
“I think it sounds great.”
“And the radio show, if you want to keep doing it, we can
work something out. You can take the brothers with you when you go, maybe. I’d
rather you not do it. But I’d rather have you, period.”
“You do have me,” she whispered. She couldn’t keep from
looking at the ring, feeling its weight on her finger.
“I love you, you know. My little pilgrim soul. I
really . . .
I really love you, Meg.”
“Is that where bryaela came from? That poem?”
He nodded.
“I never guessed.”
“Yes, I was always rather surprised about that, but
whatever. I suppose it’s not your fault if you don’t have my dazzling
intellect.”
She stuck out her tongue.
He raised an eyebrow. “Now . . . I believe I
can’t really see that ring very well. There seem to be all those clothes in the
way. I think you should take some of them off, so I can get a good look. I
spent a lot of time hunting for that ring, you know. I deserve to see it
properly, don’t I?”
She giggled and slipped the strap of her nightgown off her
shoulder; they’d played this game before. “How’s that?”
“Hmm. No, I think that makes it worse, actually. You’d
better take that thing off entirely. It’s in my way.”
He reached for it, but she stopped him with her hands on
either side of his face. “I love you.”
His expression changed; a flicker of relief, of happi ness, and he was his smooth self again. “It’s a good
thing you finally agreed to marry me, then, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” she replied, and slipped off the nightgown.
The rest of her life looked as though it would be awfully
interesting. She couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
MEGAN’S PEANUT-BUTTER CAKE
TOPPING
½
cup all-purpose flour
½
cup packed dark brown sugar (dark muscovado sugar is best; Megan gets hers at a
gourmet grocery store)
¼
cup peanut butter
3
tablespoons butter or margarine (butter works better)
Stir
together flour and brown sugar. Use a pastry blender to cut in the peanut
butter and butter until mixture is damp and sticky, like wet breadcrumbs. Set
aside.
CAKE
2
cups all-purpose flour
1
cup packed dark brown sugar (again, muscovado preferred)
2
teaspoons baking powder
½
teaspoon baking soda
¼
teaspoon salt plus another pinch or two
1
cup milk
½
cup peanut butter
¼
cup butter or margarine, softened
2
eggs, well beaten (this is a fairly stodgy cake; you want to introduce a lot of
air into the eggs to get it really to rise)
2
tablespoons white sugar, approximately
In a
large bowl, mix the cake ingredients. Beat these with a mixer on high speed for
three minutes, scraping the bowl frequently.
Grease
a 13-inch-by-9-inch-by-2-inch baking pan. Pour the mixture into it. Sprinkle
topping mix over the top.
Bake
at 375 degrees for about thirty minutes; test with a toothpick for doneness.
Don’t
panic if it smells a little burned. It’s the sugar topping.
This
cake is much better the second day. It’s good the first but excellent after
it’s had a chance to sit (covered, of course) at least twenty-four hours.
