Personal Demons

Chapter 6

Megan didn't know if she should laugh or start crying. The man was obviously not well. But was his illness dangerous to her?

"I see," she finally said. "There are demons out there after me. Hmmm. I haven't seen any, but I'll keep my eyes open from now on, okay?"

He pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. "You arrogant woman. You're a psychic and you refuse to believe there might be supernatural beings living on earth?"

Megan stiffened. "Psychic?"

"Cut the shit, Megan. You know it and I know it, just like I know you tried to read me the other night, just like I know you read your patients all the time."

She cleared her throat. Her eyes stung. "Why do you care?"

Dante shifted in his seat. Megan, her eyes focused on the door of the glove compartment, only caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. "Looks like this will have to wait," he said. "You have company."

Brian Stone stood near the front of the car, peering through the windshield with his arms folded. His lips were set in tight, thin lines.

Megan picked up her purse. "This is not over."

"Not by a long shot." He sounded as glum as she did. Brian would probably think they were having some kind of lovers’ spat. Radio Counselor Cannot Handle Stress of Romantic Relationships.

Megan and Dante got out of the car like condemned prisoners who'd just finished their last meal.

"Hi, Brian." She tried to sound cheerful and relaxed, but she suspected he wasn't fooled. Or maybe he was just too angry to care.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

A negative reply was on the tip of her tongue, but she changed her mind and shrugged. He might as well. "Come in."

The three of them trooped up the steps to the porch, where the men waited and did that peculiar looking-at-the-sky thing like strangers in line at the ATM while she unlocked her door.

She'd barely even turned on the lights when Brian grabbed her arm and steered her into the blue-gray kitchen. Dante walked past them, presumably into the living room but Megan didn't trust him to stay there. Her bedroom was right off of it. It wouldn't have surprised her one bit to find him nosing around in her drawers.

Brian glanced over his shoulder to make sure Dante wasn't lurking behind him. "Why didn't you tell me, Megan?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you aren't crazy about this whole interview thing. But I'm a good journalist, and something like this was sure to come out. You should have told me."

"Told you what?" Her eyes shifted towards the living room.

Brian followed her gaze, then looked back at her. "I got a email this evening, from an address I didn't recognize. Normally I'd delete it as spam, but the subject line was your name, so I opened it."

"And?"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out two folded sheets of paper. Opening them, he handed her one.

Dear Mr. Stone,

I know you are writting about Megan Chase. Megan is a murderor. She don't deserve your story.

A Concerned Friend

"Oh my god." The words left her lips before she realized it. She leaned against the countertop. The marble lip made a cool stripe across her back and soothed her. It felt real. Nothing else did.

She cleared her throat and started to hand the paper back to him. "Some crazy, I guess."

He didn't reply. Instead he handed her the other sheet.

She took it with unsteady hands. It was a scan of a photocopy, she guessed from the slightly out-of-focus look of the page, but it was clear enough to read the headline: Teen Will Not Face Charges.

Megan closed her eyes.

"Read the article."

"I don't need to read it," she said. "You know I don't."

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

The TV went on in the other room. Dante was channel-surfing. Each time the sound changed she cringed. Brian loomed over her in front, Dante made himself right at home in her living room. Even her house wasn't private.

Her life certainly didn't seem to be.

"I try not to think of it. It was a long time ago, I was innocent and the story never made the bigger papers. I thought it was forgotten."

She'd thought she'd left it behind. Left it in Grant Falls along with everything else. That's why she hadn't said anything. She wanted to kick herself. How arrogant she'd been, to think she could move on.

"We talked about your childhood," Brian said. "About small-town life, remember? Just today, in fact. But you kept this hidden." He put the papers back in his pocket. "Don't you see the position you put me in by hiding this from me?"

"You're writing a puff piece. Why do you need to know that when I was sixteen I was a suspect in the murder of a local homeless man? A murder I did not commit?"

"Not just a murder, Megan, a violent, ritualistic murder, and I need to know because my editor got a copy of this, too, and wanted to know why I hadn't discovered it on my own. There was nothing about this in the papers in Redwoods City. Which makes sense, since it turns out you lied about where you grew up." His anger throbbed around her. "I'm used to reticence. I can even understand why you didn't mention this. But I would have found out anyway, you know. Like I said, I'm a good journalist."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to do what I have to do." Tears sprang to her eyes, but he wasn't done talking. "If you'll help me, if you'll be open and honest about this, I can turn it into nothing—a brief mention in an otherwise glowing article. If not—if you keep lying and hiding things from me, and ditching me so you can go on dates like you did tonight—"

"I wasn't on a date. Dante picked me up. My—car wouldn't start. I called him." What the hell was his problem with her anyway? So she'd lied about her past. She couldn't imagine she was the first of his interviewees ever to do so. Did every local socialite tell the truth about her age and upbringing?

Something deeper hid behind Brian's anger, but the thought of reading him and finding out what it was filled her with exhaustion. Tomorrow she'd do it. Tomorrow she'd take care of all of this.

"Sure." He didn't meet her gaze. "Anyway. Tomorrow we have a lot of talking to do. Just promise you'll tell the truth."

Megan bit back a sharp reply and nodded. "I promise."

"Great." He reached out and took her arm, his hand cold through the fabric of her shirt. "I like you, Megan. But I'm not going to pretend a story doesn't exist if there is a story. So play fair with me and stop trying to make me look like an idiot."

"I wasn't." Now that the conversation she dreaded had been put off for at least a day, Megan didn't want to stand in the kitchen anymore. She wanted to go sit down. Preferably with both men gone and a nice large drink in her hand.

"Sure you weren't."

"Hey, Brian? Don't talk to me like that. I didn't want to do this stupid story to begin with. The only reason I am doing it is because my boss is making me. I'm not here to help you or make sure you get a good story, I'm here because I have to be."

He didn't move. The TV in the other room was still blaring and Megan wanted to go in and see what Dante was up to. If she didn't hurry up he'd probably order pay-per-view pornography or something. She wouldn't put anything past him. He was trying to convince her he was a demon. She doubted costing her a few bucks for Sex Planet Five would worry him.

"Megan? I'm making cocktails." Speak—or think—of the devil. Dante's voice floated into the kitchen, breaking into the glaring silence. He must have found her liquor cabinet. "I need some ice."

She looked at Brian. "Are we done?"

He dropped her arm. "Yeah. Except I guess your friend is making us drinks."

Actually, she thought, he was probably making drinks for himself and her, but she didn't say anything. She couldn't exactly kick the reporter out of her house, not if she hoped to keep that damn article secret. Of all the nights. She hadn't thought she wanted to be alone with a man who claimed to be a demon, but she now realized she did. Being alone with Dante was the only way she was going to get the entire—probably ludicrous—story of what he thought was going on.

"Why don't you stay? We'll declare a truce."

"Ice, please?" Glasses clinked in the other room.

Megan yanked the freezer door open and pulled out a tray of ice cubes and took it to the living room. Brian trailed behind.

"I see you made yourself comfortable," she said to Dante. His jacket was off and draped over the arm of her favorite chair; his sleeves were rolled up and top shirt button undone. He stood in front of the television with the remote in his hand.

"Was I not supposed to?" He took the ice tray from her. She noticed he'd already dug out a selection of bottles. "This is a nice liquor cabinet," he said. "You're not a teetotaller, are you?"

She glared at him and snatched the tray back, twisting it to free the cubes. "What do you drink, Brian?"

"Gin and tonic, if you have it."

She plopped ice cubes into the scotch Dante had poured for himself and then assembled gin and tonics for Brian and herself. She tried to draw it out, hoping that one or both of them might disappear while she wasn't looking, but when she turned back they were both still there, watching her. She handed them the glasses.

"What was this group you were at tonight?" Brian put a chatty conversational tone to the question that made Megan feel more like an interviewee than she ever had. She debated what to tell him.

"It's a group called Fearbusters," she said. "At the hospital."

"And you're working there?"

Dante raised his eyebrows. She ignored him.

"No, I'm not," she said. "I was asked to go sit in on a session, so I did, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't write about that. I'm not associated with the group and I'm afraid it might seem an endorsement."

"You wouldn't endorse it, then?"

"I didn't say that." Not for the first time, she felt like a bug under a magnifying glass in the face of his rapid-fire questions. He didn't seem to want to give her time to think, just looking for whatever answer popped into her head. Certainly an effective technique, if an irritating one.

"You didn't have to," Dante murmured.

"I'm not allowed to endorse any groups," Megan said. "Part of my contract at the station."

"But would you endorse them, if you could?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "Just curious."

"Why don't we all sit down?" Dante suggested. He settled himself onto the couch, smiling. Was he helping her? But then, if he had some kind of problem with Fearbusters, he wouldn't want to take the chance of her saying something nice. He never had said what he did for a living, unless somehow "demon" had become a valid profession while she wasn't paying attention. Maybe he was the attorney for some other group, one that was suing Fearbusters—no, that was nonsensical.

"What exactly do you do, Dante?" The question was out of her mouth before she even thought about it.

Both men stared at her. Shit. She'd totally forgotten that Dante was supposed to be another counselor from a different city.

"Very funny," Dante said. He turned to Brian, who sat on the other end of the couch. "I think that's Megan's charming way of suggesting you bother me for my opinions about group therapy. I'm happy to give them, if you like."

Brian smiled politely while Megan's heart started beating again. If Brian caught her in another lie just then he'd probably make her out to be a serial killer in his article. "No, thank you. Perhaps another time."

"You let me know." Dante got up to pour himself another scotch. "I have lots of opinions on things."

"You certainly do," Megan said. "Lots of ideas, too."

Dante turned to her and grinned, lifting his right hand into the air. He waved it. A small flame appeared at the tip of his index finger. As she watched, transfixed, the flame grew and spread down his hand, then disappeared. She glanced at Brian. He was watching her.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." She took a large swallow of her drink. It had to be a trick. Some kind of magic trick. Nobody could set their hands on fire. Nobody could make flames appear from nothing.

Somehow, though, the image of Greyson Dante pulling rabbits out of hats on some cheap, hollow-sounding stage in a dive bar by the airport didn't ring true.

Brian rolled his glass between his palms. "Are you going to that big charity thing the station is doing on Friday?"

"Yes."

"Maybe we can go together?"

"Sure."

Dante sat down. "The Femmel Foundation? I'm going to that, too."

Megan raised her eyebrows. "You support charities?"

"I support all kinds of things, my dear," he said. "I guess I'll see you two there."

"What a delight." Megan finished her drink and got up for another. This evening was never going to end.

"At last," Dante said. "We are alone." He lounged on the couch, one stockinged foot resting on the edge of her glass-topped coffee table. She stared at it. He did not move.

"Yes." Was she too drunk to be nervous or too nervous to be drunk? "Just me and the demon man."

He looked wounded. "I'm not a demon-man. I'm full-blood demon."

"You don't look like a demon."

"How do you know?"

She blinked. "I need another drink."

"I think you've had enough."

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't look scared, nervous, or even particularly angry at me, and because you're not calling me crazy."

"I'm a counseling psychologist. We don't call people crazy."

"Okay, you're not calling me delusional." He sat up, taking his foot off the table and leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees.

"How did you do that?" She wasn't asking how he'd taken his foot off the table.

"I already told you."

"Demons can set themselves on fire?"

"Some of us, yes. It depends on what kind of demon you are."

"What kind are you?"

"Vregonis. Fire demon." He snapped his fingers and another small flame appeared. He cupped it in the palm of his hand, then tilted his arm. The flame crawled back around to the top of his hand. As Megan watched, it crept up his forearm to almost touch the edge of his rolled-up sleeve, then back down.

Megan was impressed but determined not to show it. "That could just be a party trick."

"Like separating two metal rings?" He grinned. In spite of herself, Megan smiled back.

"I was thinking of you pulling a rabbit out of your hat."

"There are some demons that can. Although you generally wouldn't want to see what they do with the rabbits afterwards."

Megan shook her head. "Let's not get sidetracked here," she said. "You say you're a demon. I say they don't exist. Where's your proof?"

He raised his eyebrows and looked at the little fireball still burning merrily in his hand.

"Yeah, but that could still be a trick. For all I know, you've hypnotized me."

He shook his head. "You'd know if I had, I think. It's almost impossible to hypnotize a psychic. Haven't you noticed?"

A bell rang in Megan's head. Something about what happened at Fearbusters earlier, but she couldn't quite pin the memory down ... she rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She'd think about it later, when her mind was a little clearer. "Okay, you can't hypnotize me, but—"

"I didn't say I couldn't, just that it's very difficult." He closed his hand and put out the little flame. "But I'm very good."

There was too much innuendo in that line to ignore, but she would try. "You didn't hypnotize me, but how do I know you're telling the truth?"

He stood up, unfolding his tall, lean body. "All right." His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, and he started undoing them. "Let's get this over with."

"Excuse me." Her throat was dry. "I don't think—"

"Hush." He finished unbuttoning the shirt and opened it, peeling it back off his shoulders to expose his muscular chest and flat stomach. Demon or man, jerk or savior, Greyson Dante looked awfully good without a shirt on and she was acutely aware that the bedroom was only a few feet away.

He finished removing the shirt, tossed it onto the couch, and turned around.

Megan gasped. A black line of tiny, dull spikes started an inch or so below his neck and ran down the center of his broad, strong back, stopping just above the line of his belt.

"Are those ... what are those?"

"They're called sgaegas in the demon tongue. It loosely translates to ‘spinelets'."

Megan stood up. "May I touch them?"

She did not want to touch him. Not when something in the atmosphere of the room had changed, something small but still big enough to make it hard to breathe. She didn't want to not touch, either. For all she knew the spinelets could be made of black rubber, glued on in an effort to fool her.

His upper body twisted as he turned to look at her, giving her a quarter view of his trim waist. "Yes." His dark eyes were unreadable.

It only took a couple of steps to reach him. Heat radiated from his bare skin when her hand got close. She hesitated, letting him warm her palm. No matter how clinical she tried to be, she could not deny that touching his back made her nervous. Unsettled. She was alone and tipsy in her living room with a strange—and handsome—shirtless man, who may or may not also have been a little the worse for drink. It wasn't the safest situation she'd ever encountered.

Dante cleared his throat. "It's okay. I know you have to be sure."

Megan bit her lip and laid her fingertip on one of the little spikes. It was as dull as it looked. Without realizing it, she'd been expecting the spikes to feel slimy, alien. They did not. They felt like skin, no different from hers than anyone else's.

Goosebumps appeared on his back. She ignored them. Ignored, too, the way her heartbeat quickened as she ran her fingertip all the way up his spine and back down. She repeated the motion with her palm. His skin was soft. The firm muscles beneath it seemed to ripple as she touched them. Heat gathered between her legs.

Drawing in a long, shaky breath, Megan forced herself back to earth. This was not a seduction. The very idea was laughable—to her, at least. She had no doubt Greyson would be willing. She suspected Greyson would somehow manage to put off the apocalypse if doing so would get him laid.

Just lightly touching the things didn't prove they were real. She swallowed. "I'm going to really test now."

He nodded, but did not speak or turn to look at her. She took another deep breath and took the tip of a spike between her thumb and forefinger. She twisted it as hard as she could. The skin bunched, but clearly the spike was beneath it.

Dante's muscles twitched. "Ow."

"Sorry."

She tried a different one, then another, twisting, pushing, pulling. Dante twitched each time but said nothing.

Finally she lowered her hand and stepped back. Her palm tingled.

He turned around. "Anything else?" His handsome face was a little flushed.

Megan crossed her arms over her chest and avoided his gaze. "I don't know. Do you have horns, or a tail, or a forked tongue?"

"No, no, and not really."

"Not really?"

He stuck out his tongue. She watched, fascinated, as the smooth pink tip of it split, leaving a tiny indent in the center.

"Oh." She wasn't even going to come close to mentioning what that made her think of. "And is—is that all?"

"You sound disappointed." He turned around to pick up his shirt and put it back on. Megan blinked as his chest disappeared from view. "Would it help if I told you I was born with webbed feet?"

"No."

"Well, I was. Plastic surgery is a godsend."

"Are you allowed to say that?"

"Allowed to say what?" He finished buttoning his shirt and picked up his glass from the table. A thin layer of scotch still covered the bottom. He gulped it down and poured himself another.

"God."

"Why wouldn't I be? Oh ... right. It's very complex and would take a long time to explain, but basically, the Christian god has very little to do with demons. It's not a rivalry, there's no competition for souls—well, not exactly, but I'm sure we'll get to that—and he has no power over us. There's quite a lot more to it all than the battle of Good versus Evil or whatever you want to call it."

"There is a god?"

"Of course there is. There are all kinds of gods. There's a god of shallow ponds, there's a god of walking under ladders. But how relevant those gods are to you is your choice. It stopped being a requirement for the various afterlifes a long time ago." He paused. "Except the Norsemen. They're still very picky about Valhalla."

"What does all this have to do with me?" Her hand trembled as she poured another drink.

"Haven't you figured it out? I thought you were smarter than that."

She had. She just didn't want to admit it. "The radio show," she said. "The demon slayer thing. They think it's real." She glanced at Dante.

He nodded. "They think it's real. And they want to get you first."