She hadn't thought it possible to enter the dining room in a good mood, but her apprehension had definitely faded, or perhaps she was too buzzed on power to feel scared. Greyson's energy roared through her body, searching for a place to escape, and she shut it up as tightly as she could with the strongest shield she could muster. He hadn't given her this much energy without a reason. She'd hold on to it until the time came.
Maybe he planned to bust them out of there, or maybe he simply wanted her to go into the night with more confidence. Either way, the cheery, slightly euphoric feeling lasted until she walked into the dining room and saw Art Bellingham sitting at the table.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Megan,” he said, rising from his seat. “Always a pleasure."
Her dry throat clicked when she tried to swallow. “Art.” Automatically she turned to look for Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud, but they were nowhere to be found. She was completely alone.
Greyson, the bastard, didn't even have the grace to pretend to be surprised. He practically whistled as he headed for his chair.
"Megan, please sit down,” Templeton said. “We'll be eating soon."
Megan turned to stare at him while wheels turned in her head and facts clicked into place. She wanted to pick up one of the bone china plates on the table and smash it over his head.
Templeton had made a deal with the Accuser. He was handing her over. All the interrogation earlier, the torture ... just some demon game, a bit of fun on a dull Saturday afternoon.
And Greyson had known. What's more, he wanted her to know he knew.
He'd kept her here. She'd wanted to escape, and he'd ... he'd kissed her and petted her, and refused to help. Perhaps he'd even lied about their chances. There would be time later—she hoped—to think about how his lies made her feel. She'd trusted him. She'd liked him. Had he felt anything for her at all? She shot him a look of pure loathing.
He caught it. His eyes widened and he looked away.
"I'm tired of this,” she said. “If you have something to say, say it please."
She spoke to Greyson, but it was Art Bellingham who answered. “Let's have pleasure before business, for once. There's plenty of time. Besides, I'd rather you not weaken yourself. I've waited a long time for this, and it wouldn't be sporting if you weren't in good shape."
"I'd hate to spoil your fun."
"It's not fun,” Templeton said. “It wouldn't be honorable for the Accuser to engage you in battle before you've eaten."
"Oh yes, honor. I forgot it's such a big deal for you guys. How honorable is it for you to trade me to him for—what do you get in return, exactly? I'm a guest in your home. This isn't very hospitable."
Templeton's face darkened. His anger crackled in the air. “I've kept you alive for the last week. My demons. My bodyguards."
"Why? Why not just hand me over several days ago? Or did you ... oh. You just made this deal, right? When was it, you shithead? Last night? I'm surprised it took you as long as that.” Why could she feel his anger?
But then, she'd felt Greyson's as well, hadn't she, a few days ago in her kitchen? She couldn't read demons, but somehow she could pick this up. She hadn't thought about it then. So much had been going on it hadn't even occurred to her. Now ... she didn't want to look at Greyson, but she felt his gaze on her.
Which pissed her off. Which made Templeton's anger seem to grow around her. If she opened up to it, she could probably suck it in, direct it back at him. What had Tera taught her about pulling energy in from outside sources?
"Oh, Megan,” Art said. “You'll spoil your digestion if you let negative emotions fester within you, you know. You don't want your last memory on earth to be of stomach cramps, do you?"
"Go to hell."
Art laughed. “How ineffectual."
The servants brought in the food, another feast Megan could hardly stand to touch. When had she last enjoyed a meal?
Other than this morning's French toast, which she didn't want to even think about thinking about, it was the pie she'd made for the brothers. Now she would never see them again, their crinkled faces smiling proudly at her ... she pressed her palm against her forehead, trying to push the memory away, and elbowed her plate out of her line of vision.
Greyson didn't seem to be very hungry, either. Whenever she dared to peek at him, he was looking down, or playing with his fork, or checking his watch. Odd that he'd worn a watch. He hadn't at the ball, and she had the feeling he would regard this dinner as formal enough to leave it off.
In fact ... that wasn't his watch. It had a leather band. Greyson's watch was silver. She'd seen it on his wrist a few times, shiny and expensive. Why was he wearing a watch not his own?
He caught her looking and scowled, pulling his sleeve over the watch and dropping his hand to his lap. She scowled back. Jerk. He was an asshole, and she was an idiot for believing him. What was wrong with her? Why had she trusted him, even for a second? He was a demon. What in the world had made her think one night was worth this, was worth anything?
To think she'd been upset when they tortured him, to think she'd almost given in to him up there in his room. Good thing she hadn't, the creep. She didn't need his friendship or his affection. His body? Well ... he didn't do anything a good vibrator couldn't do.
Except make her feel beautiful.
Fuck him.
Conversation died down while everyone ate. Now, as silverware started to clink against empty china, talk picked up again.
Megan's stomach fluttered and tightened. It was all very easy for Greyson to say he was calm because there was nothing he could do, but Megan didn't feel that way at all. She felt as if her skin was about to crawl away, as if her heart would leap out of her chest and take her brain with it. She felt like she was about to die. Which made sense, since she probably was. And they all just sat and ate like nothing out of the ordinary or particularly interesting was about to take place.
She couldn't beat the Accuser. She hadn't succeeded when she was sixteen or he wouldn't be back here again. She'd only managed to send him away for a little while and erase the entire thing from her mind. She couldn't do that again, either. She didn't think she wanted to go on living, knowing she would have to do this again in another fifteen years. What kind of future was that to have? Watching the days and months tick past, every minute gone a minute of freedom lost?
These thoughts seemed to take a long time to go through her head, but only a few seconds had passed when Templeton cleared his throat.
"Well,” he said, addressing the entire table. “We have a few more guests waiting outside and then we're going to have cause to celebrate. As you all know, I've been waiting for years for the opportunity to set Meegra Sorithell apart, to broaden our power. It is the dream of every Gretneg to conquer the other families. Tonight, we will succeed.
"I am sure you all know by now who our guest is.” He nodded at Art, who smiled back. Sweat ran down Megan's temple. “Some say he is only legend ... certainly the Vergadering believed it and the other Meegras believe it. Even now they doubt. They have no idea what awaits them when he stands behind us, when he inhabits a body wearing our colors and his power is ours to use. My rubendas, tonight we will make that happen."
The cage Greyson had earlier been chained to descended from the ceiling again. A body wearing our colors ... Art Bellingham would invade her body again. She had a feeling this time he wouldn't let her stay in there, too.
Well, fine. If this was going to happen, let it happen. She'd fight as best she could, but if she didn't win, she didn't win. At least she went down trying.
What had Tera said about pulling in power? So many memories leapt through her panicked mind, it was hard to pick one out. Megan tried to calm down, to stop thinking and remember. Remember what Tera said, remember what she knew about the Accuser.
He feeds on despair. She'd been pretty upset that day she met him, hadn't she? Despairing. That made it easier for him. If she was convinced he would win ... he
would win, wouldn't he?
The opposite of despair was hope. Determination. Would that defeat him?
The servants opened the wide double doors. Templeton smiled. “Ah. Our guests."
Megan didn't expect to see the other Meegra heads—they obviously didn't know what Templeton was up to. But she absolutely did not expect to see the people who entered now, gazing around themselves in awe.
The Fearbusters clients. All of them. Grant the psychic teenager. Hanna, the lonely woman in another faded-looking dress. Tall, angry Bob. Joe, who looked even more nervous than he had when she'd met him. And Kevin, Kevin who'd started it all.
The atmosphere in the room changed when they walked in, projecting so strongly that for a minute Megan felt as if she was them, each of them. But instead of the images she'd received at Fearbusters, the mundane pictures of their lives, this time she saw the same thing in all of them. The Accuser. His face hovered over them, his energy pervaded theirs. Their personal demons overshadowed them and the Accuser overshadowed the demons, so completely Megan couldn't imagine how these people still lived. They were empty shells.
Had they been this bad at Fearbusters? Or had Art somehow kept her from seeing it then?
"Megan, you remember my clients? And I'm sure you all remember Megan Chase. Megan has agreed to help me tonight, when you all graduate."
Megan's fingernails dug into her palms. What the hell was he planning, why were these people here?
"Hi, Dr. Chase,” they all mumbled. Grant was uneasy, probably because of his abilities. He could feel something was wrong here, even though the others couldn't.
"Why don't you all sit down here,” Art said, indicating the floor by his feet. “We'll dim the lights, and you can start your special graduation affirmation as soon as you feel comfortable."
"Mr. Art, I'm a little nervous,” Grant said, sitting close to Hanna. “I don't feel ready."
"Don't you worry, Grant. I say you're ready. Soon, everything will be very different for you, I promise."
Megan wanted to scream. To warn them, to do something. She opened her mouth and started to stand, only to be shoved back down by Templeton Black.
"Don't try anything. If you cooperate, he'll let them live. If you don't..."
"Well done, Temp,” Greyson said. Megan's head snapped up to look at him. He looked cool and calm as man holding four aces. “She's a little slow, our Megan. Best to spell everything out so her sad human brain can understand."
"It's a bit better than human,” Templeton replied.
Greyson shrugged. Megan stared at him, waiting for him to wink, to do something, anything to show her he didn't mean this, that this was part of some plan she didn't understand yet. He didn't. Instead he said, “Not really. Her abilities are somewhat better than average, but she's mediocre everywhere else.” He leaned forward a little, and now he did look at her. “Everywhere else."
"No more than you deserve,” Templeton said. “How you thought you could convince her to help you overthrow me, I'll never know. All you did was buy punishment for yourself and death for her."
Greyson shrugged. “Worth a shot. Spending time with her was dull, but it would have paid off if I'd succeeded."
The only way to keep from bursting into tears was to get angry. Megan did, letting her fury build, letting herself picture what she'd like to do to him if she ever had the chance and a nice array of weapons. She read a particularly effective torture scene once involving a seatless chair and a carpet beater wielded from below. Now she pictured Greyson sitting in it and her own hand holding the beater. It made her almost smile.
Something flickered in Greyson's eyes. He looked quickly away. He was scared, was he? Scared of her anger? She'd show him anger. The bit of power he'd given her earlier still buzzed around in her head, in her body. In a flash she remembered how he hypnotized her that night, watching the city lights. He'd done something, put some sort of demon protection in her ... had he planted something, some link to the Accuser that would be activated by his energy? He'd given her his word ... but despite all their talk of honor, she'd seen now exactly what a demon's word meant. She assumed they'd promised snowballs in Hell there was no danger of melting, too.
She should unleash that power. She could open it up, open herself up, and let all that anger spill out over all of them. If she could read theirs, maybe they could feel hers. Maybe she could even hurt them with it. Maybe there would be a chance, a moment, while the Accuser entered her, when she could fight back.
The opposite of despair was hope. Now Megan had some. The hope that she would live to get her revenge on them all. Especially Greyson.
The lights dimmed. The chanting started.
At first the words sounded much like the ones she'd heard at Fearbusters, but after the first minute Megan realized they were different. Still familiar, but not...
No. They were familiar. They were the words she'd spoken in her bedroom at sixteen, the words that allowed the Accuser to enter her body. Now they were being spoken by the Fearbusters clients, and the power in them rose and swirled around Megan. It was all she could do to block them, all her anger and plans forgotten as she focused on putting every bit of energy she had into keeping herself safe.
Hands grabbed her and lifted her from her seat. She felt herself being carried to the cage, felt the metal close around her wrists, but she didn't struggle. She couldn't spare the strength for her body. She needed it for her head.
Blackness rose in a seductive cloud, dancing and swirling, filling the space. She could hardly see anyone in the room, or anything, just the twisting darkness growing and spreading like a stain. Despite her focus she shrank back from it, convinced she would scream if it touched her.
Over the chant and the whispering sound of the cloud rose Bellingham's voice. Not out loud, inside her head. “Are you ready, Megan?” he said. “Repeat the chant, and it will all be over."
"No."
"Yes. Or I'll start killing the clients. I think I'll start with Hanna. Poor Hanna. You identified with her, didn't you? A woman, all alone in the world, no man, no friends ... a woman just like you. But a much better person, Megan. Hanna's demons have made her do many things she didn't want to do. But she always felt bad about it. Not like you. You haven't had a demon for a long time, but you still haven't been a very good person, have you?"
"Shut up."
"All the terrible things you've done ... all your own choice. Such a selfish woman you are, so cold, for all that your job is in one of the so-called caring professions. You don't care and you never have."
"That's not true.” Was it? The woman with the DVD, the girl with the notes, parking spaces, people she hadn't held the door for or cut off in traffic ... she wasn't a terrible person, was she?
"Then prove it. Say the words, Megan. Let me in, and save these people's lives. They can be good people, happy people. It's all up to you."
"You son of a bitch!” she shouted, but over the anger, over the power, her sadness and despair seeped in.
Was she going to give up? Just let him in?
Did she have a choice? She couldn't let him kill those people. If she could prevent that, it would be worth it. Payment, maybe, for the things she'd done in her life she wasn't proud of. Payment for Harlan Trooper, a man who gave his life to try and help her.
She started to speak, the words coming as readily to her lips as her own name. She was barely three words in when she felt him invade, ripping into her. Her back arched; the words were interrupted by a scream. He was reading her, taking everything from her, her thoughts, her memories.
It seemed as if everyone she'd ever known flew through her mind again. Her stomach squirmed and shifted inside her body. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks. She'd never felt pain like this before, not even the last time, because this time the Accuser was rifling carelessly through her mind and discarding her soul, taking what he thought he might use and letting the rest fall away.
She waited for the oblivion of death. Any hell had
to be better than the cold dread of the Accuser. Any hell would be better than seeing the failure of her life again, seeing even the events of the last week and the first time she'd ever felt like she might belong anywhere disappearing in Greyson's cruelty at the table.
She tried to focus on the anger which had been so strong a moment ago, to grab it and be ready in case an opportunity to fight presented itself, but it was fading. Fading like the last vestiges of light in the room, leaving her broken and alone, and as she opened her mouth to choke out the final words of the chant she felt the last bit of Greyson's energy flare with rage in her body, a spark that could not ignite.
* * * *
The light hurt her eyes, so bright and pure it burned. Megan squinted against it and sat up, trying to clear her head.
She'd been ... oh. She'd been chained up. She wasn't now. Her arms and legs were free, her body aching but intact.
What happened? Why hadn't it worked?
As her eyes adjusted she realized it had. Wherever she was now, it wasn't the Solithell.
She lay on the floor of a room with a ceiling so high she couldn't see it well. Shapes and colors shifted up there, but the pattern eluded her.
The hardwood floor shone. Megan stood up on shaking legs and tried to ignore the pain in her head. Did dead people get headaches? Was she dead? Or simply in some other dimension?
Or was this heaven?
It looked familiar enough that if she'd been religious, she would have believed it. Her soul, before birth, had lived in this silent place, and now she returned, and perhaps through the large door at the end sat god on a golden throne...
But Megan didn't think such things waited for her. Perhaps through that door was Hell, or something worse. Greyson never had fully explained everything about the demon world, or even most of it. Greyson. Why had he betrayed her so cruelly? For fun? Was she another power notch on his slim leather belt?
Her footsteps echoed in the still air as she started across the wide, clean expanse of floor. The door at the end looked so far away. It could take days to reach it, or minutes. Her depth perception didn't seem to work properly here. She didn't care. It was enough to be here at all, to be thinking and feeling instead floating in space. Instead of being nothing but extinguished.