Personal Demons (6 page)

He looked wounded. “I'm not a demon-man. I'm full-blood demon.”

“You don't look like a demon.”

“How do
you
know?”

She blinked. “I need another drink.”

“I think you've had enough.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Because you don't look scared, nervous, or even particularly angry at me, and because you're not calling me crazy.”

“I'm a counseling psychologist. We don't call people crazy.”

“Okay, you're not calling me delusional.” He sat up, taking his foot off the table and leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees.

“How did you do that?” She wasn't asking how he'd taken his foot off the table.

“I already told you.”

“Demons can set themselves on fire?”

“Some of us, yes. It depends on what kind of demon you are.”

“What kind are you?”

“
Vregonis
. Fire demon.” He snapped his fingers and another small flame appeared. He cupped it in the palm of his hand, then tilted his arm. The flame crawled back around to the top of his hand. As Megan watched, it crept up his forearm to almost touch the edge of his rolled-up sleeve, then back down.

Megan was impressed but determined not to show it. “That could just be a party trick.”

“Like separating two metal rings?” He grinned. In spite of herself, Megan smiled back.

“I was thinking of you pulling a rabbit out of your hat.”

“There are some demons that can. Although you generally wouldn't want to see what they do with the rabbits afterwards.”

Megan shook her head. “Let's not get sidetracked here,” she said. “You say you're a demon. I say they don't exist. Where's your proof?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at the little fireball still burning merrily in his hand.

“Yeah, but that could still be a trick. For all I know, you've hypnotized me.”

He shook his head. “You'd know if I had, I think. It's almost impossible to hypnotize a psychic. Haven't you noticed?”

A bell rang in Megan's head. Something about what happened at Fearbusters earlier, but she couldn't quite pin the memory down…she rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” She'd think about it later, when her mind was a little clearer. “Okay, you can't hypnotize me, but—”

“I didn't say I couldn't, just that it's very difficult.” He closed his hand and put out the little flame. “But I'm very good.”

There was too much innuendo in that line to ignore, but she would try. “You didn't hypnotize me, but how do I know you're telling the truth?”

He stood up, unfolding his tall, lean body. “All right.” His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, and he started undoing them. “Let's get this over with.”

“Excuse me.” Her throat was dry. “I don't think—”

“Hush.” He finished unbuttoning the shirt and opened it, peeling it back off his shoulders to expose his muscular chest and flat stomach. Demon or man, jerk or savior, Greyson Dante looked awfully good without a shirt on and she was acutely aware that the bedroom was only a few feet away.

He finished removing the shirt, tossed it onto the couch, and turned around.

Megan gasped. A black line of tiny, dull spikes started an inch or so below his neck and ran down the center of his broad, strong back, stopping just above the line of his belt.

“Are those…what are those?”

“They're called
sgaegas
in the demon tongue. It loosely translates to ‘spinelets'.”

Megan stood up. “May I touch them?”

She did not want to touch him. Not when something in the atmosphere of the room had changed, something small but still big enough to make it hard to breathe. She didn't want to
not
touch, either. For all she knew the
spinelets could be made of black rubber, glued on in an effort to fool her.

His upper body twisted as he turned to look at her, giving her a quarter view of his trim waist. “Yes.” His dark eyes were unreadable.

It only took a couple of steps to reach him. Heat radiated from his bare skin when her hand got close. She hesitated, letting him warm her palm. No matter how clinical she tried to be, she could not deny that touching his back made her nervous. Unsettled. She was alone and tipsy in her living room with a strange—and handsome—shirtless man, who may or may not also have been a little the worse for drink. It wasn't the safest situation she'd ever encountered.

Dante cleared his throat. “It's okay. I know you have to be sure.”

Megan bit her lip and laid her fingertip on one of the little spikes. It was as dull as it looked. Without realizing it, she'd been expecting the spikes to feel slimy, alien. They did not. They felt like skin, no different from hers than anyone else's.

Goosebumps appeared on his back. She ignored them. Ignored, too, the way her heartbeat quickened as she ran her fingertip all the way up his spine and back down. She repeated the motion with her palm. His skin was soft. The firm muscles beneath it seemed to ripple as she touched them. Heat gathered between her legs.

Drawing in a long, shaky breath, Megan forced herself back to earth. This was not a seduction. The very idea was laughable—to her, at least. She had no doubt Greyson would be willing. She suspected Greyson would somehow manage to put off the apocalypse if doing so would get him laid.

Just lightly touching the things didn't prove they were real. She swallowed. “I'm going to really test now.”

He nodded, but did not speak or turn to look at her. She took another deep breath and took the tip of a spike between her thumb and forefinger. She twisted it as hard as she could. The skin bunched, but clearly the spike was beneath it.

Dante's muscles twitched. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

She tried a different one, then another, twisting, pushing, pulling. Dante twitched each time but said nothing.

Finally she lowered her hand and stepped back. Her palm tingled.

He turned around. “Anything else?” His handsome face was a little flushed.

Megan crossed her arms over her chest and avoided his gaze. “I don't know. Do you have horns, or a tail, or a forked tongue?”

“No, no, and not really.”

“Not really?”

He stuck out his tongue. She watched, fascinated, as the smooth pink tip of it split, leaving a tiny indent in the center.

“Oh.” She wasn't even going to come close to mentioning what that made her think of. “And is—is that all?”

“You sound disappointed.” He turned around to pick up his shirt and put it back on. Megan blinked as his chest disappeared from view. “Would it help if I told you I was born with webbed feet?”

“No.”

“Well, I was. Plastic surgery is a godsend.”

“Are you allowed to say that?”

“Allowed to say what?” He finished buttoning his shirt and picked up his glass from the table. A thin layer
of scotch still covered the bottom. He gulped it down and poured himself another.

“God.”

“Why wouldn't I be? Oh…right. It's very complex and would take a long time to explain, but basically, the Christian god has very little to do with demons. It's not a rivalry, there's no competition for souls—well, not exactly, but I'm sure we'll get to that—and he has no power over us. There's quite a lot more to it all than the battle of Good versus Evil or whatever you want to call it.”

“There is a god?”

“Of course there is. There are all kinds of gods. There's a god of shallow ponds, there's a god of walking under ladders. But how relevant those gods are to you is your choice. It stopped being a requirement for the various afterlifes a long time ago.” He paused. “Except the Norsemen. They're still very picky about Valhalla.”

“What does all this have to do with me?” Her hand trembled as she poured another drink.

“Haven't you figured it out? I thought you were smarter than that.”

She had. She just didn't want to admit it. “The radio show,” she said. “The demon slayer thing. They think it's real.” She glanced at Dante.

He nodded. “They think it's real. And they want to get you first.”

“H
ow much time do I have?”

She hadn't intended to ask, but the question fell out of her mouth just the same.

Greyson shook his head. “I don't know. A lot of demons are involved in this. They don't like you right now and they're not forgiving enemies.”

“But you're not scared?” How dumb was she? The man was a demon—or the demon was a demon, could she still refer to him as a man?—and she was trusting him. She sat in her living room alone with someone who could be the demon equivalent of a hired assassin. He had originally mentioned clients, hadn't he?

“I'm not scared,” he said. “I was, shall we say, nervous at first. I came to see you. It was obvious you didn't know what I was. Even after you saw the demon in the restaurant last night you didn't know what you'd seen.”

“The de—that thing, that thing on the woman's…it was a demon? You saw it?”

“Of course I saw it. It was showing itself. Only you humans don't see them when they do that, no matter how powerful your psychic abilities may be.” He took another sip from his glass. Now that they were both back in their chairs and fully clothed, some of the tension in the room
had eased. Or maybe it was just that being told she was in danger of being killed by demons tended to put a damper on a girl's sex drive.

“But you didn't say anything.”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, you saw a demon, don't worry because I'm sure you'll be fine'? I wasn't going to say anything at all and try to just take care of it myself, but then you had to go and accept that offer.”

Was he going to harp on that forever? “What the hell is the big damn deal about accepting offers?”

He leaned forward in his chair. “It's demon rules of engagement. You made a promise to me, which should have been binding. You broke it. You accepted an offer, but now you're going to refuse to follow through. Another broken promise.”

Megan stood up. This was ridiculous. This was beyond ridiculous. She started pacing, pausing only to turn off the television, which had been on with the sound off the entire evening. Not evening anymore. She glanced at the clock. It was just after midnight. “I didn't accept Art's offer. He wanted me to come work for him. I said no. And what does he have to do with all of this anyway?”

“You didn't say no, you said maybe. Then you showed up there tonight and asked questions in a professional capacity. Even worse, when he told his clients you were there to work, you didn't argue.”

“I didn't ask any—” Oh, no. She had. She'd asked Hanna about her voices. She'd treated one of the group's clients in the group setting. She didn't need Greyson to tell her what that might mean. If she was understanding him properly, it was the appearance, the actions, that mattered. The intent or equivocation was unimportant.

“How did you know that?”

“Word gets around.”

“And now they all know.”

He nodded. “You asked questions, which means in Art's eyes, in the demon world's eyes, you're working for Art. But first you made a promise to me, which I duly reported to my…superiors. That made them angry. They think you're his weapon now.”

She stopped pacing. It wasn't helping anyway. “Weapon?”

“You call yourself a demon slayer. You're a psychic. That's powerful. It means something to us. It especially means something to the personal demons, because it's their game you're interfering with. Now it looks like you've taken sides and joined the fun. What are they supposed to think?”

She must be dreaming. That's what this was, a dream, a horrible nightmare that she would wake up from any minute and it would be morning…She let herself imagine it for another minute before she had to give up. This was no dream.

“The personal…” She shook her head. Every word she spoke or heard dragged her deeper into this and she didn't want to go any further down the slope tonight. Or any night, for that matter. “Maybe you could tell them? Just tell them I'm not a demon slayer or anything, and they'll leave me alone.”

He shook his head. “That might have worked before,” he said. “But now they think you're playing sides. Demons don't leave you alone. You may have noticed we're rather a persistent bunch. There's no ‘out' with demons. You're in. You have to win or you have to die.”

 

S
HE HADN'T WANTED
to talk anymore. She wanted out. Out out out. She was too drunk and tired to think of anything else.

There had to be some way to accomplish that, other than death or battle. She didn't know if she believed Greyson's story about her options or not. On the one hand, it sounded reasonable. On the other, she still didn't know exactly what his purpose in being here was. Was he protecting her or what? Was he just waiting for his chance to kill her and get whatever glory she presumed would come to the demon who killed her? Did he just want to see if he could get her into bed?

She was inclined to believe the last, especially after he'd spent ten minutes trying to convince her he should spend the night with her. All the offers to sleep on the couch in the world meant nothing when a man had that look in his eyes.

Not that she thought his desire had anything to do with her personally. Dante was a user and she was a challenge, it was that simple. If she ever did sleep with him—which she wouldn't—he'd never call her again.

Maybe that was the way to get rid of him. Sleep with him, tell him she expected him to marry her, watch him inform the demon council or organization or whatever that she wasn't a threat and they should all stay very far away.

Focusing on the amusing aspects of that image and not the sensual ones, she climbed into bed with a bag of tortilla chips, a glass of water, and a book. She wasn't especially hungry or thirsty, but
Hot Spot
had scheduled a photo shoot for the next day and it would be best if she wasn't too hung over. It would be nice to have some professional photos of herself, with her make-up and hair done.

The book was no help. For once she couldn't lose herself in the adventures of Lord Gruffydd and his reluctant bride. There were too many worries to be dealt with.

She checked the phone next to her bed and set Dante's card next to it. He'd insisted on scribbling his home—where would a demon live, anyway?—and cell numbers on it. Much as she wasn't sure what to do about him, she had to admit she was glad she had them. Just in case.

Maybe the chips and water were a bad idea. Maybe she should have just kept drinking until she passed out. At least then she wouldn't be turning off the light and trying to fall asleep with images of Greyson Dante's naked back in her mind, as clear as a photograph.

Damn demon.

 

M
EGAN WASN'T SURE
what woke her, dragging her from a sound sleep and flinging her into a state of hyperconsciousness. She reached for the lamp next to the bed, only to stop before she touched it.

Something was outside the large picture window on the wall to her right, something human-shaped. It stood framed by the window, the moonlight behind it casting a fuzzy shadow on the sheer curtains of her bedroom. She wasn't seeing a profile, either. Whatever it was, it was looking into the room.

Looking at her.

Slowly, she pulled her arm back under the covers, gripping the edge of the comforter with both hands. Her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest.

Part of her wanted to huddle under the covers and pretend nothing was wrong. Just like she'd done as a child. Hiding while her parents talked about her, argued about her, while her brother started bringing home more and more unsavory friends to fill the house with pot smoke and loud music.

Mentally she chastised herself. You're a grown woman, Megan. Get out of that bed! Fight, damn it! GET UP!

Over the rasping of her breath came a tiny scraping sound.
Skritch. Skriiiitch
. Fingernails scratching at the glass, at the lock. He was trying to get in. He was trying to break into her bedroom.

A scream fought to escape from her throat. She bit it back. Sweat broke out on her forehead.

Something clattered in the kitchen. Had she locked the door after Dante left. She had, hadn't she? It didn't matter, did it, because someone was trying to break into her bedroom and someone was in her kitchen and
oh my God I'm going to die if I stay in this bed—

She took a deep breath and tried to center herself mentally. She could do this. She had to do this.

One…two…THREE!

She leapt out of bed, almost tripping on the bedcovers, and grabbed the phone and Dante's card as she ran into the bathroom, yanking the door shut behind her and turning the lock. Fighting back sobs, she scrambled into the tub, flipped the bolts on the window and flung it open. The ground a few feet below was soft dirt. Nothing had ever looked more inviting as that dirt, or her cool moonlit yard beyond it.

She grabbed the phone and business card and set them on the sill, then shifted her weight so she balanced on the thin inner edge of the tub on her toes, with her bottom pressed to the narrow windowsill.

Her neighbors' house was about forty yards away. Why had she moved to this goddamned secluded neighborhood?

Glass smashed in the house. She jumped, slipping back into the tub. The phone fell from the windowsill onto the soft earth outside. No big deal. She'd pick it up when she hit the ground. She didn't need it anyway. They would have a phone at her neighbors' house, it was safe there, she would be safe there.

Tears poured down her face. Adrenaline pumped through her body. She had no idea where her intruders were. The glass could have been the window or the coffee table or anything.

Something moved in the bushes in her yard. A head appeared, then shoulders. A man lurked there. She didn't need to read him to know something about him wasn't right. Blackness seeped from him like a dank fog.

Noises came from her bedroom. Even over the beating of her heart she heard it, the sound of the closet being opened, of the lamp breaking.

The phone was on the ground. The man in her yard was looking right at her. She did not know if she could get through the window and grab the phone in time. If she didn't get the phone she would die here. The people—or demons, go ahead, call them demons—would know where she was. They would check the bathroom door in a minute and find it locked. Would they shoot the lock? Would they shoot her? Did demons use guns to kill? She hoped they did. She would rather be shot, die quickly, than be…ripped apart or eaten alive or any of the other nasty ends Greyson had alluded to. Was she the rabbit who would be pulled out of a hat tonight?

The man emerged fully from the bushes. He moved so slowly, jerkily. The moonlight fell on his face. Megan choked on the terrified sob in her throat.

The bathroom doorknob rattled. The man in the yard, half his face missing, rotted, started towards her, his feet dragging through the stiff dying grass.
His face was rotted
. Bones and teeth were visible through the shreds of greenish skin. It had to be some kind of demon, had to be, because the word her brain came up with, the word
zombie,
was not possible. Demons might exist. Her exhausted brain rebelled at the thought of zombies.

She might be able to outrun him. She might not. She did not want to be eaten by some horrible, decayed thing, to have her last vision on earth be that terrible grinning face.

Another figure appeared in the yard, a woman, walking towards Megan with the same jerky gait. Then another. How many more were out there?

A knife—or, oh god, fingernails, long hard fingernails—scraped the door. Someone moaned.

Crying, she climbed through the window and lowered herself to the ground. The man heading towards her sped up, limping across the yard in a way that reminded her horribly of the way she and her girlfriends used to play horses when they were younger—
clopclop, clopclop
, a sort of bastard skip that nonetheless carried him faster than she'd hoped. The other creatures in the yard did the same, destroying her hopes of escape to the neighbors' house.

The earth was cool under her feet and smelled safe. She longed to bury herself in it.

No, she did not! Buried meant buried, dead. She was not going to die.

The thing headed for her wailed, a horrible dead cry. The others echoed it, their voices tearing the silence of the night to shreds. Megan screamed too. She picked up the phone and threw it into the bathroom. Indoors she might have a fighting chance.

She grabbed the windowsill and lifted herself, her arms shaking, her feet scrabbling and scraping against the stucco wall. In her hyperaware state, the sound of grass shuffling and sighing beneath the feet of the outside creatures reverberated through her head.

Her toes stung. They slipped against the wall, wet with her blood.

Finally she managed to hook one arm over the sill and into the bathroom. The door shook as the beasts pounded on it. It needed to hold long enough for her to think, long enough to call Dante. Long enough for him to get there or send some hellbeasts or whatever he would do…

She got her entire upper body into the bathroom and was in the middle of her final heave before the thing…the demon…the zombie…the whatever it was, grabbed her ankle. Ice-cold fingers pulled harder than she'd ever imagine anything could pull. Megan screamed. She kept screaming even as she fought, as it pulled her partway back out of the window. Teeth sank into her calf. She kicked with her other foot as hard as she could, her body shaking. She kept kicking after she felt something cave, as something slick and cold and wet coated her foot and the teeth and hands holding her let her go.

The bathroom door shook and bowed inward every time the creatures hit it. Megan grabbed the phone in shaking, hurting fingers. She could barely press the buttons.

She called Dante. Holding the phone to her ear with her left hand, she hunted for a weapon with her right. Bottles and jars crashed to the tile floor as she scrabbled along the countertop for something, anything to use. The only razor she owned was a safety razor and it wasn't a very good one. She was a waxer. Once in a movie she'd seen a woman beat a man over the head with a toilet tank lid, but she only had one free hand at the moment. She grabbed a book of matches she'd used for a candlelight bath one night.