Personal Demons

  Malleus glanced back at her. “All right, Miss Chase?” He grinned and winked, delighted to be pulling off “Miss Chase” with such aplomb.

  "Yes, thank you, Mr. Brown.” All three of them guffawed. Megan turned to Richard. “Richard, these are ... the Misters Brown. They're friends of a friend. Guys, this is my station manager, Richard Randall ... and Don Tremblay, a colleague."

  The brothers nodded, but they folded their arms across their chests and did not shake hands.

  "Megan?” A blond woman in a loose smock top advanced on her, smiling. “I'm Dana Cross. Nice to meet you. I'll be doing your make-up."

  She reached for Megan, only to end up almost grabbing Spud, who did not move out of her way. “Excuse me,” she said, her smile turning uncertain on her wide, friendly face. Spud still did not move.

  Too late, Megan realized she needed to say something. “Mr. Brown, could you move, please? I need to go get my make-up done."

  All three of them looked at her with varying degrees of disapproval.

  "I mean it,” she said.

  They moved away, every stiff muscle in their big bodies letting her know what a mistake they thought she was making. Megan sat in the chair Dana indicated, yelping when someone swooped down on her with hot rollers and started twisting them into her hair. The brothers stood against the wall to her left, scowling at the hairdresser, but obediently making no move to intervene.

  "They seem very ... nice,” Dana said, smoothing a cotton ball soaked in something that smelled like plastic over Megan's face. It left cold, tingling wet trails on her skin. She resisted the urge to scratch at them.

  She had to resist the urge to scratch her entire body, in fact. For some reason she was restless. Dana's soothing chatter as she did Megan's make-up was irritating rather than fun, and for all her reservations Megan had expected to have fun. What woman in the world hadn't dreamed at some point of being a model? Of having people fawn over her and bring her bottles of water before making her look beautiful forever, preserved in a perfect moment on film?

  For Megan the dream hadn't lasted much longer than it took her to realize she would never be tall enough to be a model, even if she was pretty enough, which she wasn't. Pretty enough for everyday life, sure. Pretty enough for the cover of Vogue? No way.

  Maybe that was why this made her uncomfortable, and not just because Hot Roller Man was now gouging into her scalp with a comb. The memory of young Megan realizing that in a world full of attractive girls, she was just one of the crowd? Or maybe it was leftover anxiety from the night before?

  She wanted to turn around. Something or someone was behind her, weren't they? Her skin was prickling, as if someone was watching her. As if someone was reading her.

  She spun around, half-expecting to see Dante standing there grinning, but there were only the photographer and his assistant, her boss Richard and Don Tremblay. None of them were even looking at her.

  Perhaps Don was the problem. His aggression, his anger and hatred, were charging the air around her.

  She returned to the mirror, only to jump in her seat when something crashed behind her. She turned to see Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud giggling, while one of the photographer's assistants lay in a heap on the floor, surrounded by equipment.

  "I tripped,” he said to the photographer. Megan caught Malleus's eye. She frowned and shook her head. He looked down. The hairdresser grabbed her head in both hands and positioned it firmly, then gave her a final yank, patted her shoulder, and disappeared in a cloud of Aqua-Net. He had not spoken a word to her through the entire process.

  "Close your eyes.” Dana picked up a pot of greenish brown eye shadow and a brush. Megan gave the shadow a doubtful glance but obeyed. The woman did this professionally.

  With her eyes closed, the voices and activity in the room reduced themselves to a low hum. The strong claylike smell of the panstick makeup Dana had applied to her skin mingled with the various colognes and soaps and something else, something sterile and cold that was the room with its generic furnishings.

  Six hours of sleep was more than enough to get an old insomniac like herself moving, but leaning back in the comfy chair, with Dana's soft fingertips patting her skin, made Megan start to tune out the room. She had the sensation of her mind climbing beneath soft white sheets, burrowing down into the silent blackness of sleep.

  "Megan."

  The voice was right in her ear. Megan's eyes flew open. The quality of sound in the room had changed, and it took her a few seconds to realize what was different. The brothers were no longer talking.

  She turned to look at them, only to have Dana's fingers on her chin gently bring her back. “I'll be done in a minute."

  Swallowing her panic, Megan opened up and gave Dana's mind a quick scan. There was nothing distressing there, no indication Dana should be feared. Just the normal worries of a single woman in the city: an ex-boyfriend who was trying to come back into her life, a job that didn't pay enough.

  Why were Malleus, Maleficarum and Spud not chatting? And why had that voice in her ear made every hair on her body stand on end?

  A hand touched her shoulder. “You stay calm, Miss Chase,” said Malleus.

  "About what?” Her gaze sought the small mirror Dana had propped on the desk. The black plastic frame wasn't centered in front of Megan, so she could only see a small slice of the room.

  It was enough. A horrible, grinning face filled the glass, just long enough for Megan to get an impression of greenish skin and sharp teeth before it disappeared. She gasped.

  "Are you peeking?” Dana laughed. “You know, everyone does. Nobody trusts me to make them look good."

  It took a minute for Megan to find her voice. “I'm sure you'll make me look great."

  "It's not hard with you, hon,” Dana replied, with the easy familiarity of a woman preoccupied. She reached over and grabbed the mirror, handing it to Megan. “See?"

  Megan barely glanced at her reflection. She had a fleeting glimpse of her own eyes, looking impossibly wide from either shock or Dana's skilful makeup, before she started tilting the mirror, trying to find the thing again.

  She couldn't. The room looked just as it had when they arrived. Megan turned to Malleus, still standing right at her side. “What do you think, Mr. Brown?"

  He glanced at her, but he wasn't paying attention. Instead he, too, scanned the room. Maleficarum and Spud were no longer standing by the wall. “Lovely, Miss Chase. Don't you worry."

  "Is there something I should worry about?” she whispered. The uneasy feeling from earlier was starting to spread into a full-blown panic.

  "Not while we're here.” He wouldn't look at her.

  "I think everyone is ready, Megan.” Brian appeared at her other side. Megan jumped. “Don't be nervous. You look very pretty, and I'm sure the pictures will be great."

  Megan plastered what she hoped looked like a smile across her face and stood up. On shaking legs she made her way to the desk, surrounded by umbrella'd lights like an urban oasis.

  "I'm Gene,” the photographer said. “Just relax."

  Did she look that bad? Probably. Her skin was cold. She still couldn't see Maleficarum or Spud. Malleus stood next to the desk, just out of her direct field of vision.

  "Okay, Megan, let's lean forward towards the mic,” Gene said. “And smile. Look happy. Look welcoming. A lot of people will see this picture, so let's have some fun."

  Like telling her the world was watching would help her relax. Megan leaned forward anyway, folding her arms on the polished wood in front of her.

  Something scuttled across the floor at the back of the room, something dull mud-brown with clawed feet and a bald head. She just caught a glimpse of it, like a huge scaly rat. More than one of those things lurked in the studio today, then.

  Megan jumped, her eyes wide. The first flash of the camera preserved her look of terror.

  Chapter Ten

  Megan jumped back from the desk at the same time Malleus reached for her.
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  "Is something wrong?” Gene faked concern well, but Megan could feel his impatience. He had a date after this job. She ignored him.

  "We know about them, m'lady,” Malleus muttered. “The boys is keeping an eye out, and I'm ‘ere, so they won't get to you, okay? You just smile pretty, cuz nobody sees ‘em but you an’ us."

  "Poor girl,” Don Tremblay muttered to Brian. “She's always been like this, you know. High-strung. Nervous. I hear it's been worse lately. I think the pressure is getting to her. Such a shame."

  Brian, damn him, got out his recorder.

  "Dr. Chase, we do need you at the desk."

  Richard came over and took her arm, shooting Malleus a look. “Megan, what's the problem? Are you going to do this or what?” A gnarled hand with long, filthy nails curling over the fingertips waved at her from behind his head.

  Megan swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “I'm fine,” she croaked. “I just, ah, need a drink."

  Malleus pressed a bottle of water into her hand.

  Richard glared at both of them. “Get your drink and get back there. We don't have the studio all day, you know."

  The water, cool and delicious, soothed her parched mouth. “I know, Richard,” she said when she was done swallowing. “I'm ready."

  Smiling while listening to the rumble of Tremblay's voice telling tales about her was not easy. Smiling while lies were being spread and an occasional nasty little face or hand or foot appeared in her line of vision was next to impossible.

  "Megan, what's wrong?” Richard folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. If she lowered her shield his irritation would snake itself around her and squeeze.

  "Fine, Richard.” Her stomach fluttered and twisted in knots. Little beads of sweat ran down her forehead.

  "Megan ... Megan ... Megan...” It was a chant, whispered at first, but getting louder.

  Maleficarum and Spud appeared, stationing themselves around the desk, far enough away to make their movements unobtrusive but close enough for Megan to take comfort in their presence. Malleus stayed in his position in the corner to her right.

  Still the chant continued. Megan could hardly hear Gene's directions over the voices.

  Her face felt like it was going to break. She leaned forward, she touched the microphone, she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse just as she was asked to do, all the while feeling like she was someone else, somewhere else, watching another woman in her body act happy and personable while inside she wanted to scream.

  A giggle made her turn towards Brian and Don Tremblay. Some sort of ... gremlin ... sat on Don's shoulder.

  Obscenely naked, it turned and grinned at her, the same face she'd seen in the mirror earlier. Dark green skin stretched over sharp bones as its lips opened, revealing row after row of pointed teeth. It waved, its fingers long and thin with bulbous joints.

  It had no ears to speak of, just indents in the sides of its head, and as she watched its tiny eyes started glowing red.

  "Hello, Megan,” it cooed, and giggled again.

  More giggles sounded. Megan tore her gaze from Don and the thing on his shoulder to see more of them. One stuck its tongue out at her from its perch on Dana's shoulder while she smiled and nodded at Megan, her face innocent and open. Richard had one, a dark blue one who leapt about in the air by his head. Brian's was red, Gene's orange.

  She clenched her jaw so tight it hurt. She might be about to break a tooth but she could not let up the pressure. If she opened her mouth she would scream. If she started screaming she wouldn't stop.

  Everyone in the room had one of those things on their shoulder. Seven or eight danced around on the floor by Don's feet. To whom did they belong? Every one watched her and grinned, or made jokes or faces.

  Did she? What did hers look like? Was hers as horrible, as disgusting, as the rest?

  Slowly she turned her head ... and saw nothing but her own reflection staring back at her from the glass window of the studio.

  * * * *

  "What the hell was all that about?” Richard grabbed her arm. The crew had cleared out, taking their horrible little creatures with them. Megan assumed they were the personal demons Greyson had mentioned. She shuddered. If those were the things that were after her—

  They had stayed away, though. At least the presence of Malleus, Maleficarum and Spud had done that much for her, even if the looks Richard gave the three demons told her no one else was impressed with them.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know exactly what I mean, Megan. You show up with these three ... men, who look like they stepped off the set of some British gangster film. You proceed to act strangely, to ignore people when they speak to you, and to behave as though having your picture taken is a fate worse than death.” His fingers hurt her arm. She glanced down at them. He let go. “Look, I know you didn't want to do this. But you agreed. It's in your—"

  "Contract. I know, Richard.” What was she supposed to say? ‘Richard, you have a horrible thing living on your shoulder?'

  She knew it was still there, even though it had thankfully hidden itself again. She could still feel its presence, dark and disturbing, insinuating itself into her consciousness.

  "I gave you this job because I thought you were a professional. If you're not going to act like one, I'll fire you and find somebody else who will."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go ahead and fire her. She'd agreed to do the damn show to try and help people. Now she was stuck in some nightmare world of demons and zombies and fear, and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and pull the covers over her head.

  She didn't, though. Aside from the public humiliation and the very real chance that the attendant bad publicity could spell the end of her practice—if the partners didn't put an end to it first, which reminded her she had some calls to make—the chances that the demons would just give up were slim to none. Greyson said it was a challenge to them. She'd picked a fight, however inadvertently. She wouldn't be allowed to just walk away.

  Not to mention the callers. People like Regina, who needed help and didn't know where else to get it.

  Richard stared at her, waiting for her answer.

  "I guess I'm still a little shell-shocked from last night,” she said. “I should have rescheduled, but I ... well, I was excited about the photo shoot and thought it would cheer me up."

  Richard softened a little. “I guess you have had a lot to deal with,” he said. “Okay, I'm sorry. Gene thinks he still got some pretty good pictures, so we'll just forget it ever happened.” He glanced at Brian, who waited by the door, ostentatiously not listening. “And you have more talking to do, I see. You go ahead. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

  Megan left, with Brian and the three brothers trailing behind her. She'd forgotten she'd agreed to have dinner with Brian. For a minute she thought about canceling, but she couldn't. Not after the very clear reminder that failure to cooperate meant the loss of her job.

  She was stuck with him.

  * * * *

  Once again the parking garage gave Megan chills. It was worse this time than it had been Sunday night with Richard. The ceilings seemed lower, the shadows deeper. Maybe it was time to start finding another place to park—or at least parking on the roof.

  One of the shadows moved, twisted, and somehow became Art Bellingham.

  Megan blinked. Was that a trick of the light? Had he just been hiding back against the wall?

  Brian stopped walking and looked back at her. “Megan?"

  Two hands grabbed Megan's arms. She jumped and opened her mouth to scream before realizing it was only the brothers, flanking her, guarding her.

  Art insinuated himself across the garage, grinning. His movements made the air around her vibrate. How had she not felt this before, his power? It mingled with the wind whirling through the open walls of the building, lifting her hair from her shoulders, pressing her clothes to her body.

  Brian's skin was an odd shade of yello
wy-pale, washed out by the bug lights in the garage. “Are you okay?” His voice echoed off the cold cement.

  She tried to reply but couldn't. Not when the black, oily-feeling energy of Art Bellingham was coming closer and closer to her. Maleficarum took a step forward, ready to shove Art away, but Megan stopped him. Not with Brian watching, not unless it became absolutely necessary.

  "Megan.” He stood so close to her she stepped back. Her foot landed on something softer than floor, and Spud's faint gasp behind her told her she'd stepped on his toes.

  "Hi, Art.” The words felt like marbles she was trying to spit out.

  "Lovely to see you again.” He reached for her hand. She snatched it away and almost stumbled.

  "You too. But we're just leaving."

  "Oh, no. I wanted to talk to you about when you're coming back to Fearbusters."

  "I'm not."

  "Of course you are. You know it, and I know it. Why fight it?"

  All of the anger and fear and pain she'd experienced over the last few days suddenly crystallized in her breast. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway?

  He thinks he's some supernatural being a hell of a lot more powerful than you are, Megan, and he's right about that, please just let it go and don't do anything stupid, you know your temper—

  Too late. “I'll tell you why,” she said. “Because I don't know who or what you are, but I want nothing to do with you or any of your evil little buddies. Just leave me the hell alone and tell your friends to do the same, okay?"

  She spun around, catching a glimpse of Brian's shocked face before she managed to turn her triumphant exit into a farce by walking directly into Spud.

  "Oh, Megan,” Art said behind her. There was laughter in his voice. “I think if you're worried about evil, you ought to be more careful about the company you're keeping. Or have you not figured out yet who your Greyson Dante is?"

  Malleus growled and stepped forward. Megan grabbed him. “Never mind.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

  It's not smart to make me angry, Megan. Art's voice in her head. Somehow he'd managed to get past her shields, so easily she didn't even feel him. Little girls who make big speeches often find out they aren't half as strong as they think they are.