Demon Inside (10 page)

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. Cassie, Amy, and Jen ignored her. So much for catching up.

The sticky floor sucked at her feet as she made her way to the back of the room and the dull illumination of the cracked bathroom sign. There might be a storeroom, another way out, so she didn’t have to walk through the small crowd again.

There wasn’t. She ducked through the ladies’ room door anyway, to gird herself.

In the bathroom mirror she looked sallow, half dead. The flickering bug light above the rust-stained sink did not flatter. Megan thought of the women who came in here to check their lipstick or brush their hair. What did they see when they turned their drunk gazes on themselves? Did the ugliness of their lives reflect back at them?

Silly thought. They saw what they wanted to see.

She turned back and opened the door, keeping her head down. She could probably slip past the girls without them seeing her; hell, they probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone. If she couldn’t gossip with authority about various useless heiresses and the general misery of raising children, they weren’t interested.

Megan clutched the strap of her purse and entered the bar, only to be assaulted by hostile glares. Coming to the bar had been the wrong thing to do. Leaving it, even worse.

Keeping her head down, she tried to push her way through the crowd, but the bodies would not budge.

“Excuse me,” she said, then again, louder. “Excuse me, please.”

A few people blinked and moved. Most didn’t. Megan glanced up and saw demons, Yezer Ha-Ra, on every shoulder, in every corner.

Not hers. Roc was at her mother’s house. These belonged to someone else, perhaps Ktana Leyak, perhaps a different demon entirely. A different family. The Meegras didn’t tend to divide land territorially, at least not in the city, but who know what subset ruled here, or in whose power the local Yezer were?

Whoever it was, she was willing to bet they weren’t particularly friendly.

“We don’t like murderers here,” said a man’s voice, low and threatening, from the back of the crowd.

Megan glanced at Cassie and her friends. They looked away, as if they didn’t see what was happening.

Anger boiled in her chest. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? She hadn’t killed anyone. She hadn’t killed Harlan Trooper, all those years ago. She knew it and the judge knew it. She hadn’t even been charged.

If I wanted to, I could have you all killed,
she thought, and was stunned when the thought didn’t shock her, didn’t scare her the way it should. She looked at their faces, stony and stubbled, shiny with alcoholic sweat. The power in her chest hadn’t worked against Ktana Leyak, but it could against them, this miserable bunch of humans with their heavy boots and beer guts.

She pictured those guts exploding. She pictured the terror in their eyes when they realized they were messing with the wrong fucking demon, they were—

Demon?

She wasn’t a demon. She was human. She was
not a demon,
no matter what lump of flesh crowded next to her heart and tried to grow.

She was human.

“Mr. Maldon doesn’t like you here,” one of the Yezer hissed. Her gaze flew to him as he hunched in one of the booths, bigger than the others. The Rocturnus of his family, she assumed.

“Then I’ll leave,” she said, her voice loud and clear as a bell in a forest, answering both the man in the back and the Yezer. She summoned as much of her anger as she could, let it fill her and give her strength, and shoved her way through the crowd and out the door.

She’d stopped shaking by the time she left the gas station with a six-pack of cheap beer and a couple of magazines. Something light, undemanding, gossip about people she didn’t know and didn’t care about, shiny pictures to look at while she tried to focus and relax. Anything to take her mind away from what was happening to her, away from the death of her father and how she felt about that, away from memories of the coldness in her mother’s eyes.

Away from herself. She thought of what she might advise a client to do—back when she still had clients—in this situation, when the misery of their existence and uncertainty as to who they really were closed in on them like rusted iron bars. She might suggest they take up a hobby. That they try and join some organizations to make friends. What bullshit! Jesus, had anything she’d ever said really helped anyone? Had anything she’d ever done in her entire life actually been worth a damn?

And who could help her now? The demon who shared her bed a few times a week? The witch she went shopping with? The psychic reporter who dated a cop and thought what Megan really needed was a good dose of religion?

She turned right and headed back toward town.

Perhaps vandals were a problem even in a small town like this—a dying town. Perhaps that was the type of place that had the most to worry about from them, from the spray paint and broken glass. Nobody liked to watch their own destruction creeping up their walls and into their buildings, and to realize they couldn’t do anything to change it.

She edged around the building, trying every door she found, looking for something, anything. She’d never been here before. Apparently her parents had found religion of some kind after she’d left—Diane and David praise the Lord, another photo for the wall—but who knew how much of that was the desire to worship and how much was social climbing. United Methodist was the church of choice for GrantFalls’s movers and shakers, if she remembered correctly. Certainly in this town any other church was regarded more highly than this one, Holy Innocents; undeniably Catholic, from the illuminated statues of Mary to the stained-glass image of the Sacred Heart she could barely make out.

Brian was Catholic. Brian was very happily Catholic. He’d once told her he had a priest, as if it was a normal thing, to have a priest who talked to you regularly about everything from women to psychic abilities. Maybe it was.

She just wanted someone to talk to her about something. To look at her with eyes that didn’t judge or hate. So she’d thought of Brian and his stubborn insistence on doing the right thing, and come here, and found it locked against her. The metaphor was so good she almost laughed.

“Can I help you?”

She turned, startled, and found a man standing, silhouetted by the safety light behind him. “Um—I was just—”

“Trying to get in,” he finished, moving slightly so she could see him better. A priest, his collar gleaming.

“I wanted to talk to someone,” she said. “I thought maybe here…”

He looked at her for a long minute while hope rose inside her. He was a priest, after all, it was his job—no, not even his job, his
calling
—to help people, to counsel them and show them the way, wasn’t it? To believe in God and demons and angels? Maybe he could explain to her why she had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t a demon, why she even wanted to still be human when it seemed all they ever did was try to hurt each other?

“It’s a little late, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Well, yes, but—”

The priest shook his head. “You’ll have to call and make an appointment if you want to talk to someone.”

She blinked, expecting him to say something else, to smile, to change his mind. But he just stood there.

“I’m sorry, F-Father,” she managed. “I didn’t mean to disturb anyone, I just—do you believe demons exist?” The words came out in a rush. She wanted to hook him, to make him listen.

He shook his head. “You just need a good night’s sleep, I bet,” he said. “Good night.”

He turned and walked away. He didn’t look back.

Megan stared after him, her blood heating her cheeks, becoming aware of how stupid she must look. So much for that idea. There was no help, there was no sanctuary, there was nothing but the icy wind whipping around the corners of the building and insinuating itself through her coat.

The feeling of letdown lasted as long as it took to pull into the parking lot at the Holiday Hideaway, replaced by a different emotion, one she couldn’t quite analyze, when her headlights skimmed over one very familiar black Jaguar parked outside her room.

She didn’t know what to say.

She’d wanted him here, wanted him as badly as she’d ever wanted anything, but now that he was…she fidgeted, she couldn’t meet his eyes, she thought about hiding.

Not that hiding was possible, not when Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud practically leaped on her, so eager were they to express their sympathy. Spud didn’t speak, of course, just patted her back—hard enough to make her cough—with tears in his eyes. It took several minutes to free herself, and another deep breath before she forced herself to meet Greyson’s eyes. His were completely unreadable, remote.

“How did you…how did you find out I was here?”

He shrugged. “They called me.”

“They?”

“The local crew here.”

Ah. “Mr. Malton.”

“Maldon, yes. His boss, Winston, called me.”

The brothers kept shooting little glances in their direction, like they were waiting for either a fight or some explosive sex. Or both.

“Why did he call you? I mean, why you?”

“He didn’t have a number for you and he was pretty sure I would, Meg.”

“Oh. Right.”

She felt his gaze on her, tasted the awkwardness in the air. He didn’t know what she wanted, or maybe he did and didn’t know if she wanted it from him.

Neither did she. She wanted to be held. She wanted to be kissed, to be reassured that the world outside this shitty little town existed and that she had a place in it. Was welcome and wanted in it.

But her soul cringed at the thought of his arms around her while he checked his watch behind her back. Of a kiss given with perfunctory ease because it was expected. She wanted his empathy, not his sympathy, and it was an emotion she didn’t know if he understood or was willing to give—if he cared enough about her for her problems to really matter to him, enough for her to penetrate that smooth, hard veneer.

For the first time since the night she’d let him take her home, she wanted him to be someone or something other than what he was. Not {at me a demon. Not someone who looked at the foibles of humanity with a sardonic eye because they didn’t affect him. But just a man.

He took the six-pack from her hand, and the chips. The chips he tossed to Maleficarum; the beer he kept, and with his free hand he grabbed hers, enveloping her fingers in heat.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s too cold.”

“Come on.” He set out across the parking lot, pulling her after him.

They walked in silence for a while, down the deserted street, past the scanty forest marking the edge of the town proper. The street continued, all the way into the heart of GrantFalls, but Megan stopped. “I don’t want to go there.”

“Why not?”

She looked away, down at her shoes, until his hand under her chin forced her to look up at him. Damn it. Her lids fluttered. “They…they remember me.”

He was silent for a moment, digesting that. “Why didn’t you call me?”

She shrugged. In her head she heard her own voice, reassuring a client, floating into people’s homes and cars from the radio.
Never be afraid to talk about your feelings. Speaking up is bravery. If they don’t know how you feel, they can’t respond to your emotions.

Bullshit.
“So I guess whoever this Maldon guy is, he isn’t very happy I’m here. He sent some of his Yezer to the bar, I was at this bar in town, and they—”

“Why didn’t you call me, Meg?”

“You were in New York.”

“Didn’t you think I’d come back?” He paused. “Or did you not want me to?”

She shrugged. “You were mad at me.”

“And
you
were mad at
me.”
He let go of her chin and sat down on the curb. Glass clinked loudly in the crisp air as he pulled two beers out of the pack and opened them, their caps ringing on the sidewalk. “Are you still mad?”

She tucked her coat beneath her to try and guard her behind from the freezing pavement. “No. You?”

“No.” He drank his beer and made a face.

“It was all they had,” she said, smiling for what felt like the first time in days.

“No wonder you went to a bar. What happened?”

She told him, as quickly as she could, not wanting to think for too long about the sullen faces and bulky bodies in her way. When she got to the part about the Yezer appearing, he interrupted.

“Where was Roc?”

“He’s at my par—my mom’s house.”

“You should keep him with you. Especially when you’re not in the city.”

“I just…didn’t want to deal with him tonight.”

Greyson nodded. “Maldon isn’t happy you’re here. He wants to meet with you.”

“Oh, for—”

“Yeah, I know. I tried to talk him out of it but…honestly,
bryaela,
he’s probably pissed off because of me. He doesn’t care for me too much.”

“Why not? Do I want to know?”

“I seduced his wife.”

She choked on her beer. “Really?”

He nodded. “Five years or so ago. They were in town for some kind of meeting. I was bored.”

“Well, at least you found something to amuse you.”

Why did she love his smile so much? In spite of everything she’d been thinking only ten minutes ago—and it was all true and she knew it—he could smile at her like that and she didn’t care anymore, despite the tiny, almost unacknowledged stab of jealousy. “Such as it was. Yes, I did.”

“I guess when I go meet this guy you won’t be with me.”

“Oh, no. I definitely will be.”

“But if he hates you—”

“He hates me, yes. But he also knows I’m more powerful than he is. Which, by extension, makes you more powerful than he is. I don’t want him to forget it.”

“Why do I have to go at all?”

“Because it’s courteous and you have enough to deal with here without his Yezer—or who knows what else—following you around.”

She sighed. “When do we have to do this?”

“When is the funeral?”

“Eleven, tomorrow.”

He checked his watch. “We might still be able to catch him tonight. If not, we’ll try for morning.”

“Do we have to? Tonight, I mean?”

“Best to get it over with.” He opened another beer. “Besides, he’ll probably have decent scotch.”

An hour later they arrived at Maldon’s house, a bland split-level in a new development. Megan, accustomed to the homes of important demons being as opulent as imperial palaces, felt like she’d arrived at the gates of Hell and found Heck instead.

Not that the grand Iureanliers actually resembled Hell, or that Hell even existed—apparently it didn’t, but she hadn’t yet learned the true story. The analogy suited her anyway and won another smile from Greyson when she whispered it to him.

“Maldon does have some power, though, and his boss is Winston Lawden of House Caedes Fuiltean,” he murmured as they approached the guards out front. “So try not to piss him off, won’t you?”

The pig-faced guards communicated in low grunts, but seemed to understand Greyson well enough.

They stood outside for so long Megan was starting to think they’d be refused entry. Her legs—she’d changed into the black dress and jacket she planned to wear the next day—were numb. She was cold, she was tired, and with every minute that passed she grew more and more irritated.

Finally one of the grunting beasts nodded and bowed, sweeping the front door open behind him. Greyson ushered her through the door, into another very ordinary earth-tone foyer. She half-expected the Brady kids to come down the stairs any minute.

“Grey,” a voice boomed. “And you must be Dr. Chase.”

Megan didn’t notice, or pay attention to, Greyson’s power as a rule. It was just there, something humming in the background, much like her own. But she remembered meeting his old Gretneg, Templeton Black, and the easy strength emanating from his stocky frame. Lord Maldon had the same kind of energy, but Megan knew without even having to think about it that Greyson had been right. Maldon wasn’t as strong as Templeton had been, or as strong as Greyson was now. The knowledge made her simultaneously more sympathetic—her presence here really was a threat—and more pissed off. Who did he think he was, sending his minions out to threaten her?

Especially not when he looked like a mangy dog, with his messy dirty blond hair and grizzled face. His entire body, in fact, seemed slight and a little too loose limbed for reality, but she had the distinct impression he could move quickly if he wanted to. Like a ferret.

Greyson towered over him. “Orion,” he said, nodding. Neither man offered his hand to the other.

Maldon glanced at him, then looked back at Megan. His eyes, a vibrant, shocking blue, raked her body from head to toe. “So you’re Greyson’s little human,” he said, his voice—loud and calm—at distinct odds with his meager frame.

“She’s Gretneg of House Io Adflicta,” Greyson corrected. “She’s not my little anything.”

“That’s not the way I hear it.” He reached out to touch her hair, but Megan, moving with a speed she didn’t know she possessed, grabbed his hand before he could. His skin was cool and smooth, hard like an apple.

“Is touching part of this?” she asked innocently. “Because I don’t generally allow men I don’t know to fondle my hair.”

Greyson’s lips twitched, but he didn’t speak.

Maldon’s eyes darkened. “And I don’t generally allow others to do business in my territory without greeting me.”

“I’m not doing any business. I’m just here for a funeral.”

“Yes, I know about your father. Doubly important, then, that you give me my due.”