Demon Inside

Chapter 10

She hadn’t expected the doors to be locked. Weren’t churches supposed to be open all the time?

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 Grant Falls’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 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 Grant Falls, 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 when he spoke the demon tongue. Megan assumed they, like the other non-human-looking demons, were invisible to most people. Lucky her, she was able to see most of them. It certainly made walks in the park more interesting.

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.”

“Excuse me?”

“I allowed him to stay here, even after you left. After you defeated the Accuser the first time and handed over your Yezer—some of whom were my Yezer—to him, stealing from me. I allowed your father to run his business, to keep his home, everything he had was due to me.”

“Give it a rest, Orion,” Greyson said. His anger brushed against her skin, then withdrew, but the edge in his voice still seemed to echo in her chest. “Dr. Chase owes you nothing. She’s come here to apologize for not informing you she was coming. She’s done so. That’s all.”

“You know that isn’t true, Greyson.” Maldon’s eyes didn’t leave hers for a long moment, then he blinked and turned away, becoming once again just a wiry little man, vaguely threatening, like a small-time hood but nothing to worry about.

If anyone knew how deceptive appearances could be, it was Megan.

A servant appeared with a tray of drinks. Megan accepted one after Greyson, but did not sip until he’d done so.

“I was just about to sink some putts,” Maldon said, holding out one arm. A servant appeared, or perhaps one of his rubendas, and handed him his coat. “In the yard. Join me.”

Greyson gave her a look that said, I’ll go to the mat on this one if you want. She shook her head. If the demon wanted to play golf at night in the December cold, that was fine. She just wanted to make him happy so she didn’t have to worry about him anymore.

And some of his Yezer? Were the defectors returning to him, as well as to Ktana Leyak?

She wanted to find out. So she followed him, her heels sinking into the tawny carpet, while Greyson rested his hand reassuringly on the small of her back.

Maldon hadn’t been lying about putts. He selected a long, slender steel club from a rack outside the door and trotted off into the yard, where a strip of AstroTurf seemed to glow in the dead brown of the grass.

“This is bizarre,” she whispered to Greyson. “Like Alice in Wonderland.”

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave the small form now teeing up in his bulky coat. “Just remember the Red Queen, bryaela.”

“So,” Maldon said when they reached him. “What do you propose to offer me?”

“I—” She stopped when Greyson gave a slight shake of his head. “I’ve already offered it. My apology. I’ll be leaving on Thursday.”

“Not good enough.” Maldon watched the little ball roll down the artificial grass. It missed the hole. “Damn!”

“Why don’t you just tell us what you want, Orion.” Greyson sounded bored, lazy, but his arm next to hers was tense.

Maldon glanced at him. “So curt,” he said. “As if you’re the one giving the orders. As if this is your land.”

Greyson didn’t respond.

“What do you think is an apt price to pay, Greyson? For invading another man’s territory?”

Shit.

“That debt’s been paid.”

“And now I’ll take another one. The human shouldn’t be here. She stole my demons and I couldn’t do anything about it because she bound them to the Accuser. Now they’re bound to her. She’ll pay me for them. In cash.”

“Fine.”

Was he crazy? She didn’t have any money, especially now she didn’t even have her practice. Her radio paychecks weren’t that good.

He didn’t know about her practice, she remembered. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him.

“And she’ll pay for her trespass.”

“She apologized.”

“Not enough.” He looked at Megan, his eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light. “I have another form of payment in mind. An hour in my bed.”

“No—” she started to say, but Greyson’s voice sliced through hers like an icicle.

“Do you want to fight me, Orion? To start a war you can’t win?”

“Those are my terms.” But Maldon’s gaze faltered as he spoke.

“You don’t have the authority to make a request like that of a Gretneg and you know it. You could be censured just for suggesting it.”

Maldon glared at them. Anger thrashed around him, hitting Megan, hitting Greyson. She stood firm, her eyes steady. The thought of this demon’s hard little hands on her body made her stomach clench.

“Fine,” he spat. “But I can request blood. You know I can.”

Silence. Megan wanted to speak, to run, but she concentrated on standing perfectly still. Blood…Greyson’s rubenda had asked if he could have it…she herself had wanted it…

“You can have mine,” Greyson said.

Maldon’s face split into a grin. “No. Hers. I’ve had yours.”

Greyson took her arm and led her away, out of earshot. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. The lights from the windows of the house reflected in his dark eyes. “We can try to talk him down further.”

“But you want me to.”

“Hell, no, I don’t want you to. But he’s not lying. It’s an excessive request, but the bastard’s within his rights to make it.”

She looked at the ground, at her shoes disappearing into the shadows made by her legs. “Is he…why does he want it?”

She thought she already knew, and she was right.

“He’s a blood demon. He wants to feed on it.”

“Oh God.” She pressed her hand against her mouth as the Scotch threatened to come back up. Already in her mind she could see it, the sharp knife, her blood flowing into a silver bowl…Orion Maldon lifting the bowl to his lips.

“I’ll talk him down,” Greyson said. He turned away, but she grabbed him.

“Would he touch me?”

“I won’t let him.”

“What will he do if…if we don’t?”

He sighed. “It depends. He could make us stand out here all night—to hurt you, you know, he knows the cold doesn’t bother me much—and eventually just let us go. Or he could stick to his guns, in which case we either give him what he wants or he talks to his boss, who talks to me, and we have to give in or we have a minor war on our hands.”

“He doesn’t strike me as the giving-in type.”

“No.”

Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. “Okay,” she said. “But I want another drink first.”