Demon Possessed

Chapter 22

Nick realized it only a second after she did. They sprang apart as if they’d just found a dead cat in the bed between them.

“Megan, please open the door. I need to talk to you.”

The mirror above the dresser showed her a wild woman, hair bunched up in the back and falling in tendrils down the side of her face, the straps of her gown falling off her shoulders. Her lips looked bruised, her mascara smeared. She looked as if she’d just been doing exactly what she’d been doing.

Nick turned shame-filled eyes toward her. “Shit, I knew he’d do this, fuck, I—”

“Just calm down, okay?” She tucked her hair back behind her ears, yanked out the pins holding it up, and tried to fluff it out. “We didn’t do anything.”

Greyson’s voice through the door again. “Meg, please. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me but . . . shit, please.”

“We didn’t not do anything.” Nick seemed to be fighting some sort of minor war with his shirt; he tucked it in, then apparently decided that didn’t look right and tugged it back out, then repeated the process. “I mean—shit, I’m drunk—we did do something. We did.”

“No, actually, we didn’t. A little kissing is nothing.”

“It won’t be nothing to him,” Nick muttered.

Megan was inclined to agree and furious about it. Why the hell was she worried he might find out? They’d broken up, hadn’t they? What fucking business was it of his whom she kissed? Or let feel her up, a little bit. She refused to feel that guilty about it; they hadn’t gone any farther than a couple of high school kids might have while their parents went out to pick up pizza. What was it, first base? Possibly second? She had no idea, but she was pretty sure third was bare skin, so—oh, whatever. It hadn’t gone very far, was the point.

“Bryaela, I know you’re awake, I can see the lights on. Please don’t make me say this through the door.”

One more glance in the mirror, a quick swipe under her eyes and over her mouth in an effort to normalize. The doorknob pressed cold into her hand while butterflies jumped in her stomach. It was not really the most comfortable sensation, on top of the nerves, fear, and misery. Not to mention the sex energy still simmering in her blood.

“I’m begging you, please—”

He was leaning against the door frame, looking every bit as drunk as he had earlier but considerably less elegant. Dark circles edged his eyes; his shirt hung open, and a splotch of what she was pretty sure was spilled scotch decorated his chest. The smell of scotch and cigarette smoke blew through the doorway in waves. Not unpleasant but worrisome; fire demons, especially, smoked sometimes. It gave them energy. But he didn’t do it often, and never in such quantities as to reek of it.

Seeing him was like hitting herself in the chest with a hammer.

They stood there, staring at each other, for what might have been a minute or maybe an hour. She didn’t know. Her head still spun; she didn’t know if she should yank him into the room and hold him or tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. He’d lied, yes, and she was still pissed off about it. Still incredibly hurt by everything else.

But she loved him so much. And he looked so sad, and she missed him, God how she missed him.

“Thank you,” he said. “May I come in? Please?”

She nodded; given half a chance, she was pretty sure her voice would squeak or croak or something else both embarrassing and unflattering. Voices had a way of being sneaky like that. So she just nodded and stepped back, closing the door behind him.

“Meg.” He started to reach for her, then stopped. His gaze stayed fixed on her face. “Meg, I’m so . . . fuck. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, I fucked up. I fucked everything up, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her mouth fell open.

He’d never said that before. Never. Not to her, not to anyone; she’d never heard the word “sorry” cross his lips about anything. Her eyes stung. Of all the things he could have said, he probably couldn’t have picked one that would have meant more to her.

Maybe he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Ordinarily she would have thought for sure he did, but he didn’t indicate it, didn’t pause to see if his words had any effect. “But I know we can . . . I’ve been thinking about this. About us. We can work this out, can’t we? Figure something out. I can’t . . .”

His fingers touched her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut. Now she was crying, damn it. “I know I never said—oh. Hey, Nick.”

Megan turned her head to see Nick standing just outside the bathroom door with his hands deep in his pockets and his gaze cast down. “Hey.”

“Listen, would you mind giving Megan and me a minute? I just need to talk—”

He stopped so short Megan didn’t realize at first what was happening; for one wild second she thought he’d finished his sentence and she’d simply misunderstood the words.

Then she realized he was glancing around the room, an expression of pure horror spreading across his face. His fingers pressed tighter against her cheek, dropped to her hand and squeezed. His energy breezed over her hand, up her arm, a weak imitation of what it would be had they been closer but still enough that she felt it slip over her, felt it recede. “No.”

What? No what? What had he—

She looked again. Saw Nick, his hair mussed. Saw the faint smear of lipstick on his throat, the rumpled cover on the bed, the two glasses cuddled together on one of the small bedside tables. Oh fuck, oh no, oh shit—

Greyson shook his head. “No. No, tell me—I’m, shit, I must be crazy, right? Drunker than I thought?” His forced laugh echoed in the dead air. “Please, please tell me—”

Megan opened her mouth, ready to say something—she wasn’t sure exactly what. Probably something along the lines of “What are you talking about?”

She never got the chance. She didn’t know what did it—the look on Nick’s face, maybe, shameful and distraught. Or possibly it was that when he touched her—when he slid his power over her—he felt Nick’s energy, felt the last vestiges of that screaming, desperate lust that had engulfed her before. It could have been either, or any combination of the two, or anything else. He wasn’t a stupid man; he hadn’t gotten where he was without being quick on the uptake, without noticing things.

And it didn’t matter what tipped him off. What mattered was that one second he was looking around the room as if the bodies of his nearest and dearest hung on the walls dripping blood, and the next he was gone. Halfway across the room before she realized what was happening.

His fist slammed into Nick’s face with a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Nick fell against the wall, his hands up. Not fighting back.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, but that was all before his head snapped back from another punch.

“Greyson, stop!” She ran over there, then hesitated, feeling like some goddamn weak girl in an action film but genuinely unsure what to do next. Nick was on the floor, blood running from his nose and smearing down his cheek. Still not fighting back as Greyson hit him again, yelling something in the demon tongue. Should she try to pull him off, should she—

Fuck this. She reached out, grabbed his arm, then yanked back when his fist burst into flame.

It spread up his arm and across his back, eating his shirt, leaving his bare skin covered with blue-white fire. Heat so intense sweat broke out on her forehead, and made her step back, but she didn’t stop speaking.

“Greyson, please stop, we didn’t really do anything, it was my fault, please stop hitting him, please—”

He jumped back. She caught one glimpse of his stricken face, his glowing-coal eyes, before he buried them in his hands and fell forward.

His flaming skin touched the carpet. Megan started to scream, ready to leap over him to fill tiny hotel glasses with water, but the flames died, both on the carpet and on his skin.

“Oh fuck, oh God, no, tell me you didn’t. Not with Meg, Nick, tell me not with her.”

“Wait a minute.” This was probably one of the dumbest things she’d ever said, but at that point she didn’t care. Not when Nick was still on the floor, his nose and eyes already starting to swell, staring at the ceiling.

And it was her fault.

“Don’t I have some responsibility here? This was my fault, Greyson, I made him—”

“What . . . You—what?”

Oh, shit. She was supposed to be an intelligent woman. How the hell had she managed to fuck everything up with such brutal efficiency?

“I kissed him,” she said, as calmly as she could. “I started it. But that’s all it was, a couple of kisses, it didn’t go—and what the fuck are you so mad about anyway? We broke up, remember? You went off with Leora tonight. What were you doing with her?”

“With—what the hell do you mean, what was I doing with her?”

“I mean exactly what I said. You certainly made a big enough show of leaving with her tonight. What was I supposed to think? You think I didn’t—”

He sprang to a stand. Those burning eyes focused on her; she had to look away. She couldn’t stand to see the pain in their depths, the anger and disbelief. The shattered pieces of his trust in her lay in those eyes like mirror shards. “Are you—is that why you did this? Some kind of revenge? You dragged Nick into—because I left with Leora?”

“You hurt me,” she said, and it sounded so lame she wanted to smack herself. “You left with her, and you made sure I saw you do it, and you—you—”

“So you used Nick?”

“Didn’t you use Leora?”

“That’s different. I don’t give a fuck about Leora!”

“So you did use her.”

“Maybe I did,” he snapped, “but I didn’t run off and leap into bed with her. I didn’t even touch her.”

“We didn’t do anything,” she said again. She wanted to say it loudly, to sound strong and confident, but she just couldn’t manage it. “Nothing really happened. I kissed him—we kissed a few times. That’s all. Greyson, I’m sorry, and I’m drunk, and I feel sick, and I was so mad . . . Can’t we just forget it? Can’t we just move past it?”

His head jerked back, as if she’d waved ammonia under his nose. “I can’t believe—I can’t do this right now. I can’t be here. Not now.”

“I—”

“I never thought you would do something like this.”

“And I never thought you would lie to me like you did.”

“Right. This is my fault. Because I’m such a fucking beast, how dare I try to wait until the right time—”

“If that’s the way you feel about it, why come here to apologize? If you were right all along, why do that?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have fucking bothered.”

He glanced down at Nick, who was struggling to sit up. “Sorry, Nick,” he muttered, and turned and sped out of the room.

The pounding of her head woke her up. For one dizzied, horrified moment, her nightmare followed her into waking, and she thought the pain came from the angel, perched on the head of her bed, squeezing her temples in vise-tight palms.

No such luck. With full consciousness, memory flooded back, and all the bright morning sunlight in the world couldn’t chase Greyson’s horrified black gaze from her mind. Her groan sounded more like a sob; she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

“That’s not a happy morning face,” Tera said.

Tera? What the hell— Megan looked up to see Tera perched on the edge of the bed, holding in each hand a mug of what Megan could only hope was coffee. Or hemlock. She’d be happy with either at that moment.

“Hear you had some excitement last night,” Tera continued.

“Oh God.” Megan slumped back to the pillow. “Does everyone know?”

“Um, yeah. It’s all over the hotel. Are you surprised? It’s not like people wouldn’t hear about something like that. The demons are all in an uproar.”

“Because I kissed Nick? How—”

Tera almost spluttered her coffee. Almost but not quite. “You kissed Nick? What in the world?”

“Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”

“What the hell happened? You kissed Nick? You mean like a real kiss, with tongue? Was it good? He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Look at you, all racy gadabout. Didn’t take you long.”

“Racy gada—what century do you live in?” Megan reached for the coffee and took the biggest gulp she could manage. It burned her tongue. She didn’t care.

“Hey, I’m not the one running around kissing people. Does Greyson know?”

She cringed. “Yeah. He knows.”

“Ooh. That good, huh.”

The bathroom door opened; Nick emerged in a cloud of listless steam. His chest was bare above jeans. “Oh. Hi, Tera.”

“Wow. I guess it didn’t go well.”

Demons healed very quickly as a rule; only the faint est shadows of bruises remained on Nick’s face. But it was enough, the tinge of darkness around the slight swelling of his nose.

He cleared his throat. “Morning, Megan.”

The words made her want to cry. How could he still be speaking to her? Still be willing to greet her in the morning after what she’d done to him? Every tiny discoloration on his face, every bit of swelling, every second of pain he’d suffered since the moment Greyson saw the smear of lipstick on his throat . . . her fault, all of it. Entirely her fault.

Something told her this wasn’t the time, though, not with Tera there. Instead she forced herself to say “Good morning,” in what she hoped was a tone cheerful enough to let him know she appreciated him acknowledging her but subdued enough to let him know she was sorry.

Tera turned back to her. “So how much sleep did you get, then? I thought you might want to go shopping with me, but if you’re too tired, that’s okay. I don’t suppose you slept much, what with the kissing and I guess Greyson beating Nick up or whatever he did and the murder—”

“Murder?”

“What?”

She and Nick both spoke at once. They glanced at each other, a glance that gave her a bit more reassurance, then he nodded for her to continue.

“Murder? Tera, what are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?”

Nick sighed. “She’s a genius, Megan. I can see why you’re friends.”

Tera gave him a sour look. “I’m just surprised. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t know. I thought it was a huge deal when a Gretneg died.”

Megan’s heart stuttered in her chest. It couldn’t be Greyson. Couldn’t be. Even Tera wouldn’t be so blasé if it was Greyson dead, Greyson murdered. Would she?

“Tera, who was it? It wasn’t—was it? Who?”

“Oh. Um, what’s-her-name, the bitch. What’s her name?”

Megan swallowed. “Justine.”