Demon Possessed

Chapter 3

Brian shifted in his seat. “So . . . yeah, I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” Damn. Damn, damn, damn. And one more for good measure. Yes, Brian was there about the FBI investigation, and worse. Brian was there because in this instance, at least, it seemed the FBI was working casually, getting background information, from local law enforcement.

In the person of Brian’s girlfriend, Sergeant Julie Richards, among others.

“Megan, I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah. I know you are.” She managed a smile, one that almost made the furrow in his brow disappear. He looked tired, she noticed; shadows lurked beneath his blue eyes, and his light-brown hair stood out in little tufts at the back of his neck. He needed a haircut. “Brian . . . Julie wouldn’t exactly be pleased if she knew you told me this, would she?”

“No.”

“Right. So why, then? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He shrugged. Looked away. “You’re my friend. And it really isn’t about you, you know. I mean, nobody thinks you’re—”

“Yeah. I know.” Oops, that came out a little too sharp. Why did the idea that everyone thought she was some sort of innocent bystander bug her so much?

Especially when that’s what she was. She didn’t know what sorts of crimes were being investigated. She didn’t know what sorts of crimes were committed, at least not beyond minor ones like the casino.

But she wasn’t involved in them. She wasn’t some sort of moll. The very idea was laughable. She wasn’t busty enough to be a moll. Oh, and she doubted most molls had PhDs, although she supposed it was possible.

Perhaps that was it. Everyone assuming she had no idea whom she shared a bed with, who he really was, was basically the same thing as them all patting her on the head and telling her they knew she was just a silly little woman, easily taken in by a handsome face, a flashy car—although that wasn’t fair; Greyson’s Jaguar wasn’t really flashy—and some expensive gifts.

She did know who he was. She’d never been under any illusions about that, not ever.

But she knew who she was too. Part demon. In charge of a gang of little personal demons who spread misery everywhere they went, or at least tried to. Someone not perfect, in other words. But someone who felt perfect when she was with Greyson.

“Hey, I’m not trying to—” Brian started, but she cut him off.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. This whole thing just puts me on edge.”

“I guess that’s understandable.”

“Yeah, but it’s not fair of me to take it out on you, especially not when you’re trying to help. It’s just been kind of a shit day, really, what with— Hey. Do you know anything about exorcists?”

Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “I think if you’re planning on breaking up with Greyson, you could find a less dramatic way to do it, don’t you?”

“Ha ha. No, I mean for real. Or not real, I guess.”

“Oh, it makes so much sense now.”

The laugh felt good, and sharing it with someone felt even better. Laughter wasn’t a rare occurrence in her life, it had just been a particularly bad day. “One of my patients thinks he’s possessed. Apparently he’s found one of those faith-healer guys, you know the ones I mean?”

“Oh. Right. That kind of exorcism. Not Catholic.”

“No. Sorry, I probably should have said.” She’d actually forgotten for a second that Brian was Catholic, a regular mass-goer and everything. Of course he’d be picturing chanting and pea soup or whatever.

Brian leaned forward, grabbed his almost-empty Coke can and twisted it in his hands. Without speaking Megan got up, opened the sliding patio doors, and handed him the heavy glass ashtray she kept in the liquor cabinet.

He blinked. “Oh. No, that’s okay, I—oh, what the hell.”

Megan smothered her smile and sat back down as he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter out of his pocket. Brian claimed not to smoke. And true, he didn’t smoke a lot; she’d spent entire days with him in which he didn’t even reach for a cigarette. But she’d never met an actual nonsmoker who smoked as much as he did.

Still, she let him have his illusions. She, of all people, understood what it was like not to want to admit things to oneself.

“I don’t know a lot about it,” he said after he’d lit up. “Catholic exorcism is an ancient ritual. I mean, it’s been around almost since the beginning of the church. But it’s—well, you know, I’m sure. It’s not something they do on a whim or anything. I don’t think what you’re talking about has the same kind of caution behind it.”

“No. At least not this guy.”

“I remember something about it, a few years ago, maybe? Someone died, and it was because of a botched pseudo-exorcism.”

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

“Did you google it?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded. “Give that a try. What’s the guy’s name, do you know? I can ask around, check the paper’s archives and stuff if I have time.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate it.”

He stood up, ready to go, but she stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Brian . . . I really do appreciate it, you know.”

“I know.” He smiled. Not for the first time, she wished she’d been attracted to him. Things would have been so much easier if . . . Well, no, actually. They wouldn’t have. She might not have had the FBI at her door, but Brian wouldn’t exactly have been happy when she had to get out of bed in the middle of the night to deal with a problem with her demons. He certainly wouldn’t have had a snack waiting for her when she got back, the way Greyson always did—some cheese and crackers, usually, or warm toast or cookies, whatever was on hand. Something light that didn’t require a lot of effort, but it was the thought that counted.

Brian wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t have understood what she was doing and why. Wouldn’t have hung back and only offered advice when she asked for it or held his tongue when she did things he didn’t agree with—which was often.

So no. A relationship with Brian couldn’t have worked. But, as always, she was glad for his friendship. In fact—she’d forgotten. “Oh, hey. Come with me.”

“What?”

He followed her into her small kitchen and waited while she opened the fridge and took out a Tupperware container.

“Here.” She handed it to him. “I made peanut-butter cake yesterday. Two of them.”

His eyes lit up. “For me?”

“Yes, for you. Just bring back my Tupperware when you’re done.”

“And this is why I help you,” he said, lifting the lid of the container and reaching in. “You bake.”

“Such journalistic integrity.”

“Hey, I’m like any other guy. I can be bought.”

“No, you can’t.”

“No, I can’t,” he agreed through a mouthful of cake. “But it’s tempting when you make me stuff like this.”

“Just save some for Julie,” she said, ignoring the little twinge that ran through her at the mention of Brian’s girlfriend. Brian’s girlfriend, who was currently assisting an investigation that could conceivably put Megan’s boyfriend—for lack of a better term—in prison.

She didn’t think it would actually happen. But she didn’t want to think about it anyway.

What she did want to think about was the packing she had to do and the week ahead. And a bit about Reverend Walther. So she closed the door behind the still-chewing Brian and headed for her bedroom.

She was still thinking about all of those things an hour later when she loaded her luggage for the next week into the car. The July night smothered her like a hot blanket; the air barely moved. A week and a half into a heat wave and no relief in sight.

She slammed the trunk down on her suitcases and turned back toward the house, only to have her blood run cold.

It was some relief from the heat but not the kind she was looking for. Someone was out there. No, not someone. A demon. She felt it, those shivers up her spine like when Roc fed off her. But it didn’t feel like Roc. Wasn’t Roc.

Who, then? Who was out there, reaching out to her but not speaking? Tasting her, reading her?

Trees lined her street. Silent cars hunkered like bugs in driveways. So many hiding places, and suddenly she was aware of them all, aware of the road stretching before her eyes and the houses full of people. People living their own lives, watching TV or having dinner, or whatever it was they were doing as the sky faded above them. Darkness came late this time of year, but even with the sun barely set, the shadows were long and deep.

Reflexively she lowered her shields. Yes, lots of people in their houses; she felt them all, saw what they saw, a flood of information easier than it should have been to control. Psyche demons—which the demon inside her now was, fully and completely—assimilated that information without hesitating, without thinking, and so did she.

But none of these people were responsible for that shivery feeling. Something else was out there, watching her, and threat hung heavy in the still air. It quivered against her skin. This was not just a visit. Whatever was out there wanted to harm her; it felt malevolent. Wrong.

It took every bit of strength she had to lift her foot and take one step toward the front door. Not all demons were visible all the time. Was it standing right beside her? Right behind her? She spun around, her breath loud and harsh in her own ears, searing her lungs. She couldn’t get enough oxygen from the hot, thick air. It choked her.

The soft dusk light blinded her, turned everything gray in a way she normally loved. Now it was as though the street, her house, everything around her was wrapped in dusty shrouds. She wanted to see and couldn’t. Wanted more light, but the sun was rapidly setting, and she was alone.

And only fifteen feet from her house. This was silliness. Summoning as much courage as she could, girded by the glow of her own windows, she took another step, trying to look unconcerned.

Another shiver up her spine. Stronger this time. Her casual act was only giving her tormentor—or whatever it was—confidence; it was getting closer to her.

Her front door was unlocked. She couldn’t just get into the car and go. Even if she sent Malleus, Maleficarum, or Spud—Greyson’s guards—back to lock it up, it would still be open for close to an hour. An hour in which her unknown lurker would have full access to her home. Her belongings. Everything.

A scrape, the faint tinge of metal against pavement. Again she spun around. Again she saw nothing. Her head pounded almost as hard as her heart. Whoever—whatever—it was out there had to know she knew it was there. And it hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t stepped forward, even though she knew her fear was strong enough to taste, to feel. Her watcher knew she was afraid and wanted her that way.

Which pissed her off, and that was a good thing. Someone wanted to lurk in the shadows as the sun went down and intimidate her? Fuck that. She straightened her spine, forced her head high. The simple act of looking unafraid grounded her.

One step toward the house, and another. The air around her thickened, pressing like a hot iron against her skin. Danger. Danger. The word echoed in her head, vibrated through her body.

Her flip-flops slapped impossibly loudly on the sidewalk, announcing every step she took. She tried to ignore it, just as she ignored the sweat trickling down her spine and temple. It didn’t work. Hidden in that hollow flapping sound, in the too-loud beat of her heart, were whispers and giggles, the sound of her watcher’s footsteps or breath.

She stopped, spun around again. A flicker of movement this time. A shape? Or her panicked imagination? She had no idea which. All she knew was at any moment a hand would close over her arm or her mouth; any moment someone would grab her and drag her down.

Pain erupted in the back of her calf, a stinging horrible pain. She stumbled. Shit, what was that? No time to look. She kept going, but her next step felt as if it was taken through seaweed, and her hands and feet tingled in a way she didn’t like.

The door in front of her wavered, tilted at an odd angle. Why wasn’t it upright?

Another sharp pain in her leg. She opened her mouth to try to scream, but she couldn’t seem to make any sound come out except for a queer, muted gurgle.

Panic started taking over. She could feel her blood racing through her veins, faster and faster. Could feel her palms hit the hot sidewalk. She’d fallen. She’d fallen and her sweaty hair clung to her neck and her mouth wouldn’t close and something icy touched her leg where it hurt. The last thing she saw was a flash of impossibly bright light bleaching the front of her house.