by Stacia Kane
Seemed rather silly to her, to stay in a hotel for a week when everyone involved had perfectly nice homes right nearby. Well, no. She had a perfectly nice home. The other Gretnegs had mansions.
But the politics behind who hosted what on which day and how many servants and assistants everyone needed and would be allowed or whatever had proved too frustrating, and thus the Bellreive was being used as a compromise. Everyone could make their own arrangements and stay in whatever suites they liked. It had taken almost two months to get everyone to agree and to get everyone booked, and now . . . shit, where would they go?
Maybe they’d cancel the damn thing altogether, which wouldn’t bother her. It wasn’t as if she had a lot to do there, since she refused to get involved in Meegra money schemes. In fact, she’d prefer them to cancel, since she knew one topic of discussion was bound to be the Haiken Kra ritual and why she hadn’t done it yet.
They all wanted her to. Wanted her to allow the piece of demon inside her, nestled by her heart, to grow. Wanted her to magically somehow become demon, or at least more demon than human. A demon majority, as it were, right there in her body.
She didn’t want to do it. She’d come close to it back in December, when she’d had to allow the demon—not just the demon but the part of her that connected to the Yezer—to grow. She’d thought at the time that might have actually been the Haiken Kra and that the decision had been made without her actively having to make it, but no. It had consolidated the demon, had set its power on a direct path, but it hadn’t physically made her a demon.
It had simply defined her. Psyche demon. A demon with mental powers, not physical ones. It had turned her own gifts into something far more intense, but it hadn’t gone farther than that.
A happy medium, in her opinion. Not so in those of the other Gretnegs. Why doing the ritual was so important to them she had no idea. And she liked it that way.
“You don’t look very happy.”
She raised her head, every inch an effort, like hand-winching up a drawbridge. Oh, good. Just what she needed when she was feeling down. “Hi, Roc.”
“I thought you had an appointment with Ted.” The little demon’s eyes darkened for a second, becoming little more than marbles in his dark green face. Rocturnus, who was both her assistant—for lack of a better term—and her own personal demon, liked Ted. Or liked Ted’s problems. For him it was the same thing.
“Ted’s not coming anymore.”
“Oh?” Another little flash in the eyes. Not because of Ted this time but because of her.
“Would you not do that, please? Not while you’re looking right at me. It bugs me.”
Roc shrugged. “We have a deal. I help you, and in exchange I get to feed off you. You’re upset, that’s food for me. I’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
“You think that because you have all the empathy of a piece of newspaper. I mean it, Roc. Feed off me if you must, but do you have to let me see you do it? It’s weird.”
“You feel it anyway. What difference does it make?”
Her arms tightened around her, an unconscious hug that she stopped the moment she realized what she was doing. Yes, she did feel it now. She hadn’t before, but now she did. One of the dubious joys of her new . . . demon-ness? Whatever. “I just wish you didn’t enjoy my personal problems so much.”
“Hey, it’s not like you’ve been awash in misery lately. I take it where I can get it.”
“I watched Schindler’s List for you the other night! And cried. Which I hate doing. Just because you said you were feeling light-headed.”
“Yeah, that was good. Maybe tonight we can do it again?”
He was impossible. No, he wasn’t; that wasn’t really fair of her. Roc was what he was, and, in a way, so was she. As she looked at him, a little warmth that could only be fondness stole over her heart.
He frowned. “You’re not playing fair. That’s useless to me, you know.”
“Fine. I’ll think about Ted some more, if you promise not to look at me. He’s gotten himself mixed up with one of those exorcists. A faith-healer type.”
Roc giggled. “Really?”
“It’s not funny, Roc. He could get hurt. He honestly believes he’s possessed, that some demon is, I don’t know, stealing his strength or whatever. When I read him, he seemed to think it was dragging him down somehow.”
Roc’s wizened little face wrinkled even further as he fought his grin. “You do realize—”
“Yes, but not like how you guys do it. He thinks of it as something inside him that controls him. He thinks he doesn’t have a choice.”
Roc finally stopped smiling. “But choice is the most important part. If there’s no choice there’s no victory, and if there’s no victory it’s like . . . like cookies without frosting.”
Not exactly the tack she was hoping he would take, but at least he was getting the point. Mostly. “Right. But I’ve seen these guys on TV before. It can be really dangerous, even without the psychological damage it can do. Some of those men tie their subjects down, they don’t feed them or give them water for hours on end . . . I think people might have died, if I remember correctly.”
She was sure she did. Something else she’d seen on that TV newsmagazine? Perhaps that was why they’d done the story to begin with?
She’d google it later. Thinking about being tied up without food or water made her think of torturous interrogations, which made her think of the FBI. Which didn’t make her happy, which also caused the slight shiver down her spine that told her Roc knew she wasn’t very happy and was having himself a nice little snack. Ugh. The less she thought about that, the better.
Having Roc around was rather like eating nothing but fast-food French fries and ice cream for dinner. Not a problem until she really stopped and considered it. Then it made her want to scour out her insides with steel wool. Which wasn’t appealing either.
“What else are you thinking about?”
“A—an FBI agent came here. Right before Ted. She wanted to ask me about the meeting next week.”
“An FBI agent? Really? Did she have a big shiny badge like the last one? Did you see her gun? I—”
“Yes and no.” Agent Reid had certainly had a gun, but Megan hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t looked. On purpose. “And that’s not the point. The point is, she knows about the meeting. The FBI knows about the meeting.”
Roc tilted his head to the side. One papery ear moved faintly in the current of air from the vent; with temperatures outside approaching one hundred, the air conditioning was working overtime. “What did Lord Dante say?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s working all day, and I don’t want to bother him. It’s not an emergency. I’m going to see him in a few hours anyway.”
“Oh, right. You’re taking tomorrow off. I forgot. Should I go pack your bag?”
“No. I have to pack for the whole week, so I’ll do that tonight.”
“Suit yourself. Is Erica coming today?”
“Yes, in . . . half an hour.”
“I’ll stick around. I wanted to check in with Altarus anyway.”
She nodded. Altarus was one of Erica’s demons, one Roc seemed to particularly like. Megan had a sneaking suspicion Altarus was female, but frankly, she didn’t want to think too much about how her demons reproduced. It was enough to know they did and that when they did, she had to congratulate them. The mechanics of the process were not her concern, and she was exceedingly glad of that.
Of course, that might not have been the reason Roc wanted to check in with Altarus. He often did hang out during her appointments, pulling her patients’ demons aside to chat with them and see how things were going, then reporting to her later. As much as she hated to admit it, it was a big help, a way to keep track of her demons and make sure they were obeying the rules while still having some freedom and enough to eat. If “eat” was the correct term, which it really wasn’t, but “fe
ed” still gave her the willies. Especially as it related to her patients.
Her cell phone buzzed from the depths of her purse, distracting her from the narrow and pitted little alley of her thoughts. It took her a minute to dig the damned thing out, especially after she banged her forehead on the edge of the desk.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hey, Megan. I thought I’d be leaving a message.”
Her spirits rose. A little. “Hi, Brian. No, my patient—my appointment got canceled. What’s up?”
Silence. Hmm, that probably wasn’t good. Brian Stone was an investigative reporter for the city’s largest paper, as well as her friend. As well as someone with a habit of pausing and considering his words very carefully when he had bad news to impart.
“Brian?”
“Yeah, sorry. Actually, I don’t really want to talk over the phone. I was thinking maybe we could meet later?”
Okay, definitely not good, then. And she had a sneaking suspicion she knew what it was about too. Brian had plenty of informants and pals in law enforcement, not least of whom was his girlfriend of nine months. “My last appointment ends at four. If you want to be at my house around four-thirty?”
“Will Greyson be there?”
She sighed. “Does it matter?”
“Well . . . not normally. But this time, yeah.”
A lie. It always mattered, and she’d given up. “He won’t be there.”
“Okay. I’ll see you around four-thirty, then.”
After they’d hung up, she stared at the phone. Bad news from Brian. At least she assumed it was bad news; it was entirely possible it wasn’t, but she didn’t think he’d be so damned cagey on the phone if it was. People didn’t usually refuse to share things like “I just won the Pulitzer!” over the phone. And they especially didn’t check to make sure one would be alone when they imparted such news. Hell, if Brian ever won a Pulitzer, he’d want to make sure Greyson was there, so he could rub it in a little.
That wasn’t entirely fair. The two men didn’t hate each other. They just didn’t like each other much. Silliness.
If Brian was going to tell her about the FBI agent or that there was some sort of big investigation happening . . . that could be a problem.
Her previous FBI visits had been taken care of easily. She told Greyson; Greyson sent someone—she didn’t know who and she didn’t want to know—over to “discuss” the situation with the agent. Which probably involved hypnotism or some other sneaky psychological trick if it didn’t involve outright bribery, but did not, as far as she knew, involve any bloodshed.
But her previous FBI visits, and the ones she knew the other Gretnegs dealt with on a semiregular basis, involved one or two agents acting on a tip or a hunch or whatever. Easy to tie up the loose ends when only a few people were involved. If this was getting big enough for Brian to have heard about it, it probably wouldn’t be so easy to clean up.
Not to mention that Brian was psychic too, which meant Brian was not easily hypnotized. Brian wouldn’t forget the investigation. And Brian hated her involvement with the demon world.
Because Brian was sensible. Because Brian was able to be objective. So Brian could see how the merest hint of impropriety could destroy her career. She had a public image to protect; she had a weekly radio show. She didn’t particularly enjoy the radio show but it certainly provided her with much-needed income, or, rather, the income from it enabled her to charge her patients based on their incomes rather than a flat rate. Which she enjoyed. The radio show also enabled her to provide at least some form of counseling to people who really needed it and wouldn’t have gotten it any other way.
All that could crumble if the public discovered she was involved with a criminal.
The sensible thing to do would be to end that involvement. Well, no. The sensible thing to do would have been to end that involvement back when it started. Back when she really realized what she was getting into, back when she really realized she wasn’t just having fun, wasn’t just enjoying a casual and extremely satisfying physical relationship but was . . . emotionally involved. And that those stupid emotions could destroy everything she’d worked so hard for.
So much for sensible.
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.
H
e 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.
