Demon Inside

Chapter 13

No, no,” Greyson said into the phone. “Kadagia. Yes. Goraner lisket ti bressma, okay?”

Megan stepped in front of him, her back to him so he could unzip her dress. This he did, giving her bra strap a tiny tug when he was done—a habitual gesture that made her smile.

They had about forty minutes before they would meet Brian and Tera for lunch. Just enough time for him to make some calls and her to—well, to flip through a magazine or watch lame daytime television.

Maybe she should get used to it, get herself hooked on a soap. She had nothing else to do during the day, after all. When Megan was little her mother had followed Guiding Light—she still remembered sitting next to her, watching. One of the only memories she had of feeling close to her mother.

Damn it! Why were these memories still hurtful?

“I need hin beranto etcha bayena, and sint restor. By tonight, escazer.”

She opened her suitcase and grabbed a black sweater and jeans, while Greyson kept ordering around his minions or whatever it was he was doing. The demon language flowed through the motel room like water, soothing and oddly comforting at the same time, a backdrop for her thoughts that was better than the talk show set to low volume.

Once she’d gotten past the initial terror at the thought of feeding from her demons, it didn’t seem so unmanageable. Creepy, yes. But she didn’t eat much as a rule. She could handle this. None of the urges she’d had so far had come to fruition, after all, which meant they didn’t have to.

Today it had been forced on her. It wouldn’t be again.

Fooling herself? Very possibly. But it made her feel a little better, and right now she would grasp at just about anything that would make her feel better. It was easier too, in the unreality of Grant Falls, so far away from her real life. Here the fact that she’d lost her practice didn’t seem as important. The worries plaguing her receded.

The Christmas season always had an air of time suspended anyway, especially at the Serenity Partners office, where they tried to give their patients a sense of family and celebration. There, and at every other job Megan had ever worked, the last couple of days before the holiday were spent eating rumballs and doing shots—which were basically the same thing, if Megan was doing the cooking—opening presents, running into other offices in the building with cookies and snacks…it was as if a bubble existed, and in that bubble responsibilities disappeared.

Death was kind of the same way, although with far less tinsel and photocopying of private parts.

Speaking of which…

Greyson hung up, then immediately started dialing again. He glanced back at her, still standing in her bra and panties, and raised his eyebrows, but lifted the phone to his ear just the same.

She could have blamed it on her fear, and the need to be held and comforted. She could have blamed it on her sadness and the need to forget. She could even have blamed it on that strange biological urge to reproduce that takes over so many people when a death occurs.

But those were all excuses, and she knew it. And she didn’t care.

Her bare feet made no sound as she crept up to him, circling his waist with her arms. He kept talking, but his free arm stole around her, his palm resting possessively on the small of her back as she stood on tiptoe to nibble at the smooth, smoky-scented skin of his throat. His fingers found the top of her panties and insinuated themselves underneath. She felt goose bumps rise on her back.

“What? No, tell them no. Not until they hear from me.”

Good, but not quite good enough. One by one she undid the buttons of his white shirt, then lifted his T-shirt to expose a slice of hard, flat stomach. She scratched it lightly. His breath hitched in his chest. Megan slid her hand down far enough to know his mind wasn’t entirely on his conversation anymore.

His voice didn’t falter until she’d undone his belt and tucked her hand under his waistband, closing her fingers around him. Her bra came loose; he’d unfastened it with his free hand. Sparks flared throughout her body, tiny spots of tingling heat adding to the warmth already there.

“Oh, I know, I…what?”

She sank to her knees in front of him and pulled down his zipper.

“I’ll call you back,” he said, and the phone fell to the floor.

Afterward she lay collapsed on top of him, her forehead nestled under his chin while he stroked her back. Every inch of her body felt relaxed, all the tension gone. Which had kind of been the point, really.

“We should get up,” he murmured. “We’ll be late.”

“Mmm.”

“And I didn’t get to finish my call.”

“Are you complaining?”

“I’m not a complainer.”

She slid sideways to lay next to him, one leg thrown casually over his. From that angle, looking up at him, his cheekbones seemed to cut the air around his face. “Greyson?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you…do you think you were a good son? To your father, I mean?”

“Couldn’t give a fuck, bryaela.” He reached down and stroked her thigh. “In fact, I rather hope I’m not.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Unfortunately.”

“But—where? Georgetown?”

“Mm-hmm.” Where he grew up, she knew. He’d told her once about watching his parents dress for an inaugural ball when he was a little boy. He’d never mentioned them in the present tense, and she knew his mother had died when he was young—she’d just assumed they were both dead.

“Do you ever see him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why haven’t you been back here for thirteen years?”

“Point taken.”

“Come on. I’m hungry.” He kissed her forehead and started to slide away, but she grabbed his arm.

“Why?”

The bed shook a little as he dug his fists in the mattress and pushed himself up to a sitting position, his dark eyes opaque as he studied her face. “Okay. I’ll tell you a story about him and then we need to get dressed.”

She nodded.

“Right after my mother died, I found him in my bedroom, going through my stuff. He was taking everything she’d ever given me, all my books and clothes and—well, everything. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, ‘Well, the whore is gone, so we can get rid of her shit too.’”

“Oh my God.”

He shrugged. “The sentiment behind it wasn’t surprising. They never liked each other. It wasn’t the words, you see, or even what he was doing. It was that he didn’t think I might not see it the same way. It never occurred to him that I wasn’t him. And until then, it hadn’t occurred to me either.”

“How old were you?” she asked softly.

“Nine.”

“What was—”

His lips on hers cut off her question before he slid off the bed, unfolding his long, lean body and opening his suitcase. “Don’t you get enough of this at work?”

“I quit.”

“What?”

Megan pulled the thin hotel sheet up, covering her bare breasts. “I quit. Monday morning. I left.”

His brows furrowed for a minute as he stood by the cheap dresser. “Just like that?”

“This business with Gerald…I didn’t want to stay anymore.” It was mostly true, right?

He nodded, but she thought she saw something else in his eyes. Suspicion, maybe, or just curiosity?

“I can still pay my bills,” she said, not sure why she was being defensive but being it just the same. “The show pays me enough.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.” He slipped a white T-shirt over his head, then a charcoal V-neck sweater, one of her favorites.

“But…I mean, don’t you have an opinion?”

“Yes, and you know what it is. What did you expect, that I’d be shocked and disappointed? I’ve wanted you to leave that damned practice for months.”

“That’s not why I did it.”

“I never would have assumed it was.” He buckled his belt and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Come on. Unless you want to stay in bed? You do look fetching under that flimsy sheet.” His teeth scraped her throat. “We could send the boys out for food, and spend the day—”

“No. Brian and Tera are waiting.” This was so typical. He opened up, then retreated. Now she was doing the same. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him why she’d left, how scared she was, that her radio pay would cover the bills but not much else. That she didn’t know if she could ever do her job effectively again, that in her darkest hours she’d found herself actually considering taking up the station’s offer of a TV spot on their evening infotainment show because at least there she wouldn’t find herself accidentally sucking out people’s pain like oysters from a shell.

But something held her back, as firmly as a hand over her mouth. If she told him he’d want to help. He’d offer to cover her bills. He’d as much as offered several times already, and she just…she didn’t want to be kept.

She didn’t want to look weak.

“Ah, yes. Our friends Brian and Tera. How long do you think it will take before Tera brings up those witches again?”

She smiled in spite of herself. “About two minutes.”

“That long?” He took her hand and tugged her gently up from the bed, encircling her bare body with his arms so his palms rested hot on her back. “And speaking of time…we have ten minutes or so, don’t we?”

They were fifteen minutes late, in the end, long enough for Brian and Tera to be thoroughly annoyed.

“We were worried about you,” Tera said, for the second time. “You should have called.”

“I—we fell asleep.”

“You told me you never nap.”

“I did today,” Megan said lightly, grabbing a menu from the stand. This restaurant—a tidy little diner off the highway—wasn’t close enough to town for her to run into anyone she knew, at least so she hoped, and it was crowded enough to make her think the food might be decent.

Tera raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Instead she turned to Greyson. “So, Grey, about those witches…”

“I win,” he muttered. Megan elbowed him.

“I just have a hard time believing it’s a coincidence,” Tera continued.

“It probably isn’t, but I don’t see why I’m your chief suspect when the one you should be looking at is already in custody.”

“Templeton? He couldn’t have done it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s—he’s in prison. He couldn’t have gone out and—”

“And I was in New York, but you’re perfectly willing to believe I was behind it all.”

Megan had seen the implication earlier, outside the church, but it wasn’t until that moment that it fell into place. The witches were Templeton’s guards. The witches had tried to kill them—or at least warn them, if shooting at them from a speeding car and chasing them through the city flinging foul, oily smoke at them could be considered a warning.

Templeton Black must have been behind it.

Jesus, was there anyone who didn’t want to cause trouble for her this week?

“Look, Tera, if there’s a problem I’ll come to your office after the holidays, but you know as well as I do that I’m not stupid enough to go after witches, and I don’t think there’s any need to bore Brian with this anymore, do you?”

Tera glanced at Brian, who was studying his menu. Medieval monks transcribing holy texts could not have concentrated harder.

“Fine,” she said. “But I—”

“C’n I take your order?”

Brian practically leaped out of his skin. Megan smiled, but her laugh died in her throat. She felt awfully jumpy too. She’d thought it was just the tension from Greyson and Tera’s conversation, but the butterflies in her stomach didn’t want to settle even now, when Greyson and Tera seemed to have reached at least some kind of accord.

In fact, as everyone ordered, they were only getting worse with each passing second. Megan asked for a Caesar salad she knew she wouldn’t eat. The thought of food, so appealing ten minutes before, now made her queasy.

“Brian,” she murmured, leaning over the table toward him, “what’s wrong?”

“I don’t—I’m not sure.”

“There’s a demon in here,” Greyson said.

“Of course there is.” Tera raised her eyebrows. “You’re here and your men—”

“No.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he leaned back, glancing casually around the restaurant. “Not like us.”

Malleus and Maleficarum also leaned back, shifting their chairs so they faced more toward the restaurant than the table. Spud got up entirely and plunked himself down next to Megan.

“Is it—” Megan started, but she didn’t need his warning glance to tell her not to finish the sentence.

“I think that’s a pretty good guess, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“What are you talking about?” Tera asked. “Who?”

“A demon. One we don’t want to mess with. Maybe we should go.” Megan tried not to look around the room, but couldn’t help stealing one glance.

No one else in the diner seemed to notice anything wrong. All around them were smiling faces, people chatting as they ate, families with little children playing tic-tac-toe on napkins or paper place mats. Megan folded her arms across her chest in a fruitless attempt to warm herself. Was one of these people, these happy diners, possessed? And if so, would they survive?

Gerald hadn’t.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s aware of us,” Greyson said. “But it might not know we’re aware of it.”

“Is it the waitress?” Tera asked. “I mean, you guys didn’t seem to get really nervous until she came, right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“How do you not know? Don’t you guys all recognize each other?”

“Whoever she…it is, it’s possessing someone. So no, I feel it, but I don’t know who it is. I’d have to look into their eyes or touch them to really know.”

Megan caught Brian’s eye. He tilted his head back and to the right. She nodded. He’d read that side, she’d read the other.

“Don’t,” Greyson said. “Don’t warn it.”

“But if—”

“No. I know what you guys are thinking, but we don’t know who or what it is. Let’s not—”

Their waitress appeared, balancing their tray on one hand while she flipped open a wooden stand with more force than seemed necessary with the other. She shot a glare back toward the kitchen.

“Here.” She set the tray on the stand and started handing out plates, her brows knitted in a grouchy frown.

“Is something wrong?” Megan asked.

“No, it’s just the cook.” The waitress smiled faintly. “He’s got a bee in his bonnet today, you know? Like none of the rest of us work hard. He practically threw your plates at me, at least your food is hot—”

The words turned into a scream as a knife flew past her face and embedded itself in the wall next to Megan’s head.

Megan started to jump back, but before she could move more than a few inches Spud was on top of her, his bulky body pressing her hard against the floor of the diner. A dried scrap of bacon sat only inches from her nose; she made a face and tried to twist away, but Spud’s weight was unmovable.

Screams erupted around the room. The floor shook as diners got up, scattering chairs and knocking over tables, sending plates crashing to the tile. At least so Megan assumed. She heard the sounds and felt the tremors but couldn’t see much beyond the petrified bacon.

“God damn it, Spud, get off me!”

“Megan!” Tera’s voice, calm but with an edge of panic. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, Spud,” Megan muttered, and brought her fist up with as much strength as she could muster into the side of his head. Pain shot from her fingers all the way up her arm. His head was like granite.

He pulled back a little; the reproach in his eyes would have made Megan laugh if she hadn’t been so mad.

“I’m sorry, but get the fuck off me! Now!”

“Let her up, Spud,” Greyson said, sounding very tired and far away. Spud moved.

The restaurant was almost empty, save for one elderly couple calmly chewing as if nothing had happened. Megan grabbed the edge of the table and pulled herself up.

Greyson, Tera, and Brian were standing in a line together, watching the entrance to the kitchen, with Malleus and Maleficarum flanking them. In the doorway to the kitchen stood the chef, his chest heaving, his eyes red, and a handful of knives clutched in one muscular fist.

Megan barely had time to take this in before he noticed her. His mouth opened, lips curled in a snarl, as he hurled another knife.

Spud’s hand snapped over the blade two inches from her face.

Megan jumped back as the chef wound up again.

This time the blade disappeared, dissolving somehow into a harmless trickle of water before it was out of the chef’s hand. They all turned to look at Tera, who shrugged.

“He surprised me last time.”

The chef, obviously frustrated, eyed them with the air of a cat who didn’t understand why the ball of yarn wasn’t dead already. His arm swung back, but froze on a muttered word from Tera.

“You witches come in handy,” Greyson murmured. Tera frowned but didn’t take her eyes off the chef.

“Is he the one? The demon?”

“I don’t know, I—”

“Larry? Larry!”

They all turned—except Tera—to look as the elderly woman in the restaurant, the dedicated eater, started screaming. Her entire body shook as she backed away from her husband, dropping her fork with a clatter that seemed much louder than it should have.

Larry stood up as well, his thick body expanding, his head waving from side to side like he was trying to shake away a fly. Megan watched in horror as his shoulders broadened, as his torso stretched long enough for his shirt to come untucked, exposing a long line of fish-belly-white skin.

“I’m guessing it’s him,” Greyson said.