Demon Inside

  If she lost them all, she could die. She could lose all of her power and become like a flower with no petals. Nothing.

  Come on, Megan…you can do this.

  “Not the way we want. Not the way we should.”

  God damn it, why was nothing in her life simple anymore?

  Her power was always stronger here, always seemed to come more readily to her call. Keeping her face impassive, she lowered her shields and let it go, not all of it, just enough to knock Halarvus across the room.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” She stood up, hating herself, hating the tiny flare of pleasure in her chest. If she did the ritual, would this be easier? Would she be able to accept it? Or would it be worse, putting her more at war with herself than she was already?

  Maybe this would be a good test run. See exactly what she could handle.

  Halarvus got back to his feet. Dark blood ran from his nose. Megan forced herself to look at it as he wiped it away, making a thin streak across his face.

  No desire to taste it came to her, no crazy urge to lick it from his papery skin. Maybe that had ended?

  “Just because you’re angry—,” Halarvus started, but Megan interrupted him.

  “I’m not angry.” She willed it to be so, knowing he could sense it. “But I’m keeping what’s mine.”

  She turned to Roc. “Take him into the hall.”

  The others waited for her, the white light from the high ceiling bouncing off their multicolored heads.

  Their silence followed her as she stepped up onto the little dais and took the seat that had once belonged to the Accuser. Now it was hers, a heavy, ornate gold thing that looked like Louis XIV had designed it in an opium haze. Knobs and carved leaves dug into her skin when she sat; she’d had the original cushion burned and kept forgetting to get another one.

  Another reminder, if she’d needed one, of how far she’d been letting things slip here. She should know better than that. Problems and complications didn’t go away simply because one wished they would.

  Rocturnus brought Halarvus to stand before her, in the center of the space cleared by the others, and climbed up himself to the chair beside her. She couldn’t get out of this one by lashing out at all of them and running away, which was exactly what she’d done the last time no matter how much she didn’t want to admit it. She needed to take charge, to really and truly show them she could protect them, could help them, could be to them everything Ktana Leyak was promising to be.

  Because if she didn’t she probably wouldn’t survive.

  “Halarvus, you’ve been working against me?”

  “I’ve been telling the truth,” he said. His little eyes gleamed. “That you aren’t strong enough. That your human heart isn’t in this. You haven’t gotten involved with the other Meegras and their businesses. You haven’t been looking out for our interests.”

  Megan snapped her head toward Rocturnus. “What’s he talking about?”

  “The other Meegra Yezer have been horning in on us,” he whispered. “We’re small. We don’t really have any defenses. When they send some of their bigger demons to force us out…” He caught her glare. “What? I told you this before.”

  “Yes, but…” He had told her, and again, she hadn’t really paid attention. That was so unlike her! Had she been so wrapped up in—well, okay, yes, he’d taken up a lot of her time. Plus the radio show, and her practice…

  Greyson had been right. Maintaining her practice and her demons was too much work. It made the decision to give up the practice sting a little less, like a child giving up a job in the city to go home and take care of an elderly parent. At least she’d made the right decision once in the last few weeks, even if it left her finances awfully tight.

  She cleared her throat. “Tonight I attend the funeral of Templeton Black,” she announced. It felt a little self-important and ridiculous, but the demons seemed to like the change in her demeanor.

  “I want a list of names, if you know them, of demons who’ve harassed you and what houses they’re in. I’ll see the other Gretnegs and tell them to leave you alone.”

  The demons shifted on their feet, looking both slightly mollified and doubtful.

  “I’ll make sure you stop losing humans. But my rules stand. No child abuse. No murder.”

  “Not even of criminals? Bad guys?” one of the demons asked hopefully.

  She started to say no, then stopped. All the power in the world was no good if she couldn’t hold on to them long enough to exert it. “Case-by-case basis,” she said, trying not to feel like a monster and failing. “It has to be approved by me.”

  They waited, their gazes on her, and this time she knew what they expected. Once again that chasm stood in front of her, filled with flames, but this time it was the fire of Hell, of destruction, not of desire.

  There was no choice to make. There hadn’t been from the moment she’d tied the Yezer to herself. There hadn’t been from the moment her father sold her to demons for a piece of land and a successful accountancy practice. Megan took a deep breath. “Rocturnus, Halarvus must be punished.”

  The Yezer relaxed, their silent pleasure floating through the air. Halarvus’s eyes widened as Rocturnus said something in the demon tongue, widened further as he was chained to a frame like the one she’d seen Greyson chained to three months before.

  She forced herself not to blink when the whip cracked the air.

  This was her life now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The white marble floors of Iureanlier Sorithell glowed orange with reflected flames from the torches burning along the walls. The high ceiling, normally white with a dragon mosaic that twisted and shifted, was black. Mystery and power whispered in the dark corners of the entry hall.

  Megan stood in her black dress and waited to be noticed, twisting the thin cord of her little silk evening bag between her fingers. Rocturnus perched a few inches above her shoulder, riding weightlessly on the pad of psychic energy all humans had there. He’d been to the mansion only a few times. Normal security kept all demons but family from crossing the threshold, just as it had back at Orion Maldon’s place in Grant Falls.

  Tonight those barriers had been lifted. Megan recognized a few faces, other Gretnegs, sipping cocktails and talking quietly. All of them wore black. It was like an incredibly formal Halloween party, except she’d never been to a party that glowed and throbbed with so much energy. It bulged around them all, too large even for the cavernous room, and made Megan’s heart skip faster in her chest. The atmosphere was charged with possibilities, with savagery. This would not be an ordinary funeral.

  The empty air next to her shifted, and Greyson slipped his arm around her waist.

  “You’re late,” he said, handing her a gin and tonic. She meant to take only a sip but somehow ended up drinking down half of it while he greeted Roc. Still not quite settled from her meeting with her own demons, she guessed, or perhaps it was just plain nerves, or maybe even surprise.

  “What are you wearing?”

  He smiled. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him this excited—at least, other than in the biblical sense. He fairly vibrated with it, although outwardly he was as calm as ever. “It’s ceremonial.”

  “It’s a cassock.”

  “Yes, but a demonic one.” He leaned over to kiss her, sending a little shock through her body.

  Whatever the black outfit was called, it looked great on him. The stiff, straight collar framed his strong chin and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while the snug, severely cut fit and long skirt—there was nothing else to call it but a skirt—made him look taller, as if his body was a pillar of black smoke erupting from the floor. He’d never looked as much like a demon as he did in the uniform of Catholicism. The only thing missing was the white square in the collar; the fabric peeking out from the notch was blood red.

  “You look beautiful, by the way,” he said.

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

>   He smiled and kissed her again, his hand slipping down over her bottom. For a moment she caught a glimpse of how he must have looked fifteen years earlier, when he was apparently cutting a swath a mile wide through the women of the District of Columbia. “We’re going to get started in a minute, so I’ll need to go take my place. Nick’s going to walk with you, okay?”

  “I won’t be with you?”

  “I have to escort Temp’s widow behind the catafalque.”

  “Oh. Well, look, I’ll be fine with Roc.”

  “I can do it,” Roc said.

  “I know. But I’d rather you have someone to help. The floors are rather uneven where we’re going.” He looked pointedly at her heels.

  “Grey!” The woman’s shiny red lips stretched in a needle-sharp smile as she undulated across the floor, the sequins on her formfitting black gown catching the light and throwing it back so she seemed to glow. She looked like a particularly festive Morticia Addams, with bright red hair flowing down her back.

  “Grey,” the woman said again, holding out her hand so Greyson had no choice but to kiss it. She totally ignored Megan. “You look splendid in that robe. But then I knew you would, remember? I’m so glad you decided—”

  “Thank you, Justine. You remember Megan Chase, right?”

  Justine didn’t even glance at her. “Of course I do.” She stroked her scarlet-tipped hand up Greyson’s arm. Her impressive cleavage shifted with the movement. “Have you thought any more about my request?”

  “I think of nothing else, my dear.”

  “Who is she?” Roc whispered. “Wow!”

  “Go away, Roc.”

  “But I want to—”

  “Go.”

  Roc obeyed. Justine stroked Greyson’s cheek and Megan stood still and resisted the urge to slap her. Justine was head of Meegra Concumbia. Starting a fight with a Gretneg was never a good idea, even if that Gretneg was staring at Greyson as though he was the only glass pipe in the crack den and it had been hours since her last hit.

  “You let me know when you decide,” she said. “I can be a very powerful ally.” The reverse implication hung heavy in the air. Powerful allies could be powerful enemies as well.

  “I would never doubt it,” Greyson replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get one last drink before the ceremony. Come on, Meg.”

  Megan forced herself not to look back toward Justine as they walked away, but she felt the woman’s eyes on them just the same. “What was that all about?”

  He shrugged. “Justine did me a favor.”

  “And what does she want in return?”

  “She’s a succubus. What do you think she wants?”

  “But—” She snapped her mouth shut. What was she supposed to say? “You can’t?” “Please don’t?” For all she knew, he was banging half the city on the nights he wasn’t with her.

  He glanced at her as if waiting for her to continue, but when she didn’t he turned away and got drinks for them both. “Here’s the plan. After the funeral everyone comes back up here for a drink. Then they leave. You can go if you want, but I’d like you to stay and wait for me. The ceremony doesn’t take long. An hour and a half, maybe.”

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  He leaned a little closer. “Ever been made love to by the most powerful vregonis demon in the country?”

  “I thought I had been.” She let the sharp pang of desire his words invoked sink into every nerve ending in her body.

  “Hmm. I suppose you have, at that. Want to do it again?”

  “If you’re lucky,” she said. “What happens at the ceremony, anyway?”

  “No, no. No telling.”

  “Greyson.”

  “Yes?”

  She put her hand on his arm, drawing his gaze. “This is a big deal for you, isn’t it? Not just for the prestige, but for you.”

  He stopped smiling when his eyes met hers. The rest of the room seemed to fade away. “It’s what I’ve worked for all my life.”

  Even with her heels on, she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him. Just a quick press of her lips, nothing inappropriate for the somber occasion, but enough to send tingles all the way down her spine. It was like kissing a live wire.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Now, where is—ah.”

  Nick Xao-teng’s skin glowed in the firelight. He looked like a warrior, like a samurai. Although samurai were Japanese, weren’t they? What were warriors called in imperial China? Why was she focusing on dumb trivia in an effort not to meet his eyes?

  He looked less uncomfortable than she did, but only slightly. “Hi, Megan. Nice to see you again.”

  “You too.” Even a few feet away from him she could feel the low-level sexual energy emanating from his muscular frame. What was Greyson thinking, sticking her with this man he knew embarrassed her?

  “Okay,” Greyson said. “I have to go find Lytha. See you guys later.”

  He squeezed her shoulder and was gone, leaving her to glare after him.

  “It’s because he trusts me,” Nick said. She started; she hadn’t realized he’d be able to read her expression so easily. “Everyone in the family has to walk with the body. I’m the only one outside it he’d let near you. Can I get you a drink?”

  She lifted her glass. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Look, Megan…I really am sorry. About what I did to you the other night. I didn’t realize—I mean, I didn’t know who you were.”

  “What did he do?” whispered Roc, slipping back onto her shoulder.

  She ignored him. “Would it have been okay if I wasn’t who I am?”

  She wasn’t sure what she expected his response to be, but she knew she didn’t anticipate the smile that broke across his face. Nick did not need whatever supersexy mojo he had by virtue of being an incubus. Women would have fallen at his feet without it.

  Although it certainly didn’t hurt. She would never forget their first meeting.

  “No, I guess it wouldn’t have been,” he said finally. “But most women aren’t as susceptible as you are.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Because you’re psychic.” He shifted on his feet, while she enjoyed watching him sweat. He deserved it, after what he’d done to her. In front of a restaurant full of people. “Can’t we just forget it? Greyson’s my friend.”

  The murmuring of the crowd grew louder. They were about to start.

  “I promise, I’ll never do it again.”

  He was still smiling, still charming. But Megan knew she’d gotten to him. He wasn’t lying when he’d said Greyson was his friend, and that touched her. She decided to let Nick off the hook.

  “Okay. Apology accepted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, which Meegra are you in? Concumbia, or—”

  He looked surprised. “I’m not.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Not me, despite Grey’s efforts.” He shook his head, a ghost of a smile flitting over his handsome face. “There are lots of us who aren’t full members—a sizable minority, at least. We go to them for protection or help if we need it, but we don’t get involved. Some demons disapprove of them entirely.”

  “So what do you do?”

  The smile became fixed. “All sorts of things. I’m an independent, let’s say.”

  Megan nodded. That ended that line of questioning. She should have known better than to ask.

  “How long have you known—” she started, but she was interrupted by the ringing of a bell, a gloomy, mournful deep chime. A funeral bell.

  Nick offered his arm. “They’re ready.”

  The torches went out, as if a sudden wind had blown them out en masse. In the perfect blackness of the room Megan heard rustlings, a few footsteps loud on the marble floor, then nothing.

  Dead silence.

  The bell gonged again. Megan jumped, suddenly glad Nick was there. He put his hand over hers, sending a short b
ut thankfully minor shiver through her. He must be shielding awfully hard. She knew she was.

  A voice in the darkness, deep and raw. “Templeton Horatius Black ga chrino.”

  “Alri neshden Templeton Black,” the crowd responded.

  A single light flared in the darkness. A tall, thin man, taller than anyone Megan had ever seen, held his hand high above his head, cupping the tiny flame in his palm. Its faint glow made his face a mask, with nothing but deep shadows for eyes and long grooves down his cheeks that would be wrinkles in ordinary light.

  He glared into the crowd. “Cha krishien.”

  Beside her Nick bowed, the movement of his body pulling her down as well. When they came back up, Megan had the sense that something loomed behind the gaunt man. He was the priest, she supposed, or whatever they called them. The spiritual leader, maybe.

  Still holding his hand up, he stalked forward. As he vacated the spot where he’d been originally, the torches behind him flared.

  The light hurt Megan’s eyes. She closed them for a long second then opened them again, to see Malleus and Spud through a gap in the crowd. They stood below and on either side of a large platform, its legs gripped in their beefy arms. On top of the platform lay the body of Templeton Black.

  Megan couldn’t really see him. He was up too high. All she saw was the top of his head, the salt-and-pepper hair thinner than she remembered. For a moment, despite everything he’d done to her, she felt terribly, sharply sorry for him. He’d had everything, been head of this house and this family, and he’d died alone in a witch’s prison. In the hands of the enemy.

  Would they ever find out what killed him? Or had he realized his pet witches, the ones who’d tried to murder her and Greyson, had been killed, and decided the only thing left to do was die?

  The procession inched ahead. Behind Spud, Maleficarum held one of the rear legs of the catafalque. Megan only vaguely recognized the fourth bearer.

  Each time the catafalque passed a torch, the flames flared into life. The footsteps of the procession made almost no sound on the marble floor, so it seemed to float, created by black mist. Megan had never seen anything like it. It was beautiful.