Demon Inside

Chapter 18

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 but 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.

Nick edged her closer. Considerate of him. Even with heels she was shorter than almost everyone in the room.

The impression of the catafalque floating didn’t change, although she could now see where the legs ended, could see the feet of the bearers blurry…there was smoke. Black smoke, sliding silently over the floor, coiling around the legs of the bearers and the priest.

It seemed to take a long time for Templeton’s body to pass. Up close she could see the heavy black satin covering the frame. Templeton was wrapped in it like a toga, with a long-sleeved black shirt beneath it to cover his arms. His face and feet were bare. So were the hands clasped neatly together over his stomach. The diamond pinkie ring she remembered seeing on his left hand shot orangeish sparks onto the wall.

Megan held her breath as the body passed, only belatedly realizing a slow drum was beating somewhere in the hall. Like a march it played, while the procession stepped forward with every beat. Her heart started beating in time, and without thinking she knew the same was happening to every demon in the hall. The piece of demon in her chest, the thing she’d started thinking of as a second heart, caught the rhythm too.

Next came Greyson, his expression solemn. Beside him with her hand on his arm walked a woman, her head high, her eyes damp at the corners. She too wore a long black gown, velvet, with a string of pearls around her neck like tiny moons against the darkness. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing a face that Megan instinctively felt drawn to. Motherly, it was kind even in sorrow, but fiercely proud. Templeton Black’s widow, so different from the other widow Megan had recently seen that for a moment her mouth flooded with bitterness.

The drum kept beating. Megan wondered if Greyson would turn to look at her, but he didn’t, staring straight ahead as they passed.

Next came the rubendas, in dark suits. Some wore shirts of the same blood red as the collar of Greyson’s cassock, others white. White, black, and red were the colors of House Sorithell.

“The colors are by rank,” Nick whispered. “In case you wondered.”

She nodded her thanks.

Almost all of the torches along the walls of the long hall were lit now as the procession passed, on its way to an enormous set of wooden double doors standing open at the end. Megan had never seen those doors open. Beyond them darkness loomed, like the entrance to a cave.

Beat…beat…beat…The drum continued its mournful order as the last of the family passed. Megan turned her head to the left to watch them go, the black smoke still swirling and roiling over the floor, obscuring their feet. Her skin crawled. The energy in the room, the pure, unbridled sense of power, made her hair stand on end.

More than that was the sense she’d somehow stepped back in time. With the torches lit, only the suits of the rubendas indicated they hadn’t all somehow traveled to the inside of a pyramid, or a Viking longhouse. It was creepy and mournful and exhilarating, all at the same time.

Still creepier were the servants following the rubendas. Their faces were smudged with soot and downcast, their hair was tangled and matted. Bare feet peeked out from beneath their shapeless black togas.

She leaned closer to Nick. “Why—”

“It’s to show mourning,” he murmured. “They absorb the misery of everyone else, and it destroys their physical appearance. Purely symbolic, of course.”

“I’ve heard of that.”

The shadow of his profile bobbed up and down. “A lot of cultures took aspects of our funerals. The Romans copied it almost exactly.”

“So every house does their funerals like this?”

The silhouette bobbed again. “With a few minor changes here and there—the colors, the smoke—but basically, as far as I know.”

Megan gasped, her hand tightening on Nick’s arm. Behind the servants were—demons. Not demons as she’d come to know them, but the demons of legend and nightmare. Red scaly skin peeked out from beneath hooded black capes that dissolved into the smoke. Horns curved into the air over their heads.

Worst of all were the faces, shiny and white, expressionless—masks, she realized. China masks. Some of the features looked familiar.

“Sorry,” Nick whispered. “I should have warned you about the masks.”

She didn’t answer. The blank artificial faces towering over the crowd transfixed her. If they were on stilts—and she imagined they must be—they were obscured by the smoke.

“The masks are ancestors. All the Gretnegs are cast. They attend the funeral, see? To welcome one of their number to death.”

Megan didn’t bother to hide her shiver.

The last one had a “traditional” demon face, with a hooked nose and cruelly twisted lips. His mask seemed to float above his head, gleaming white and pale. Templeton Black’s mask, younger, thinner, but undoubtedly Black.

She glanced at Rocturnus, uncharacteristically silent through this service. His little mouth hung slightly open. “Roc?”

His eyes came back into focus. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“That was beautiful,” he said. “We’ve never done something so elaborate. You don’t even have a mask.”

“Oh God.”

“What? You should have one, I mean, what if—”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

Would she have a funeral like this one day? Would her body, old and wrinkled—hopefully—be displayed like this? Who would walk behind her?

“Why? We should—”

She shuddered. “Not now, Roc.” Nick was leading her anyway, to join the line of demons following the procession.

“Keep hold of my arm,” he said. A few quiet voices rose around them as her feet fell into the rhythm of the drumbeats. Heat flared from the torches to play over her skin as they made their slow way past. “I think the floor’s going to get pretty rough.”

“Where are we going?”

“Into the catacombs,” he said. “Into the dungeon.”

Ahead of them the darkness seen through the doorway loomed.