by Stacia Kane
He didn’t wait for her reply, just turned and started down the hall. She started to move too, then paused. Waited.
He hit the button, and the elevator doors opened; Megan slipped inside just before they closed.
A wave of cold blasted over her skin; he was pissed. That was fine, because so was she. When he reached for the button to open the doors again, she stepped in front of them, blocking them. “It wasn’t Nick’s fault.”
“Yes, so you said. Thank you. It’s so much more pleasant for me to picture you seducing him, rather than the other way around.”
“Nobody seduced anybody. It wasn’t—”
“Oh, of course. It was an accident. You fell, right?”
She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep, calming breath. This wasn’t working, and it wasn’t why she was there. “It wasn’t Nick’s fault. Think whatever you want about me. You’re obviously going to anyway, you don’t want to listen to anything I have to say. But don’t blame Nick. He—he tried to stop it, he didn’t want to—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. This just keeps getting better. What’s next, Megan? Will you describe it for me in detail? Maybe you can show me how you swarmed all over him like some hormonal octopus, wouldn’t that be fun? Because what I really, really want, more than anything, is to get as complete a mental picture of this as I possibly can.”
“Picture whatever you want, but nothing happened. He didn’t even—we didn’t—it was a couple of kisses, and it didn’t mean anything. We were drunk. I was hurt and upset and angry. And, which I personally think is kind of important, you and I aren’t together anymore. It’s not like I cheated on you.”
His face darkened. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so angry. The elevator around them shrank; the temperature dropped so low she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She was suddenly aware that they were alone together in a tiny room, suspended by wires. The night before he’d lost control, the first time she’d ever seen that happen. The first time she’d ever seen him come close to that happening. She didn’t want to see it again.
“Yes. You’re right. You left me before you seduced my best friend. I asked you to be my wife, and you said no, and then you seduced my best friend. Thank you so much for reminding me of that part. As if I could fucking forget.”
“I didn’t leave you so I could seduce anyone. I don’t want anyone else. I . . .” Shit. She had no idea what to say, and her eyes stung. She rolled them up, hoping to keep the tears from falling. It worked but probably made her look ridiculous. “I was just so damn mad at you. How could you keep that from me? How could you—how could you hurt me like that, not trust me like that?”
For a long moment they stood there, while she tried to get herself under control and waited for him to yell again.
He didn’t. Instead he sighed; she felt some of the tension lessen, felt his anger recede. “Does it matter? What difference does it really make, Megan? This is pointless. It’s over. You said no. There’s nowhere left for us to go.”
The words fell with the finality of a medieval deathbell.
Not for the first time, the idea of simply giving in occurred to her. The way he’d said that, the fact that he’d come to her room the night before, made her think it was entirely possible she could end this stand-off, could end all of this absolute misery, just by giving in.
And really, she’d lost her job once before. Well, she hadn’t lost it, she’d left it; her share in Serenity Partners, the therapy practice she’d been part of. She’d given that up. It had been sad, but it hadn’t killed her, hadn’t done this to her.
But she’d known she could start her own practice. She’d had her radio show.
And it had been her decision. Hers. Yes, it had been sort of forced on her, the day she fed off someone—the sister of a patient who’d died, and his death was her fault as well—but nobody made giving up the practice a condition of anything. Nobody had made it a condition of something that shouldn’t have had any conditions. Nobody had deliberately hidden that information from her.
So she didn’t make the offer. She couldn’t. “Will you please tell me what I need to know? For tonight?”
He considered it, his eyes closed. Nodded.
“And please, forgive Nick. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it was so innocent, Greyson, it really was. Seeing you leave with Leora—it hurt, okay? I just wanted to try to, I don’t know, to forget about it. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry. He feels awful about it. We both do. Please.”
He glanced at her but didn’t speak.
“He’s your friend. You know that.”
“I’ll try,” he said finally.
“Thank you.”
Pause.
His smile wasn’t even a shadow of what it normally was, but it still made her heart skip. “Are we going to stand in the elevator all day?”
“What? Oh, no.” She turned and hit the button for fourteen. And up they went.
It probably wasn’t the best idea after all. Yes, there were things she needed to know. Yes, he was the best one to get the information from, especially if the others were spending the afternoon writing up wills—wasn’t that cheery and optimistic?
But being there in the room again, talking to him, it was hard. Incredibly hard. Difficult to sit on the chair instead of beside him. Difficult not to smile, to joke. The chair felt wrong beneath her; she was cold without him at her side. Her hands felt too big at the ends of her arms, wanting to curve themselves over his thigh or around his chest. It was as if he wasn’t Greyson. As if she was sitting speaking to a stranger who looked like him and sounded like him but was still a stranger.
They were both being so careful, so businesslike. As if their momentary ceasefire could crash at any moment like icicles over their heads and stab them.
Of course, if it didn’t, the angel probably would. As time went on Megan stopped wondering about Gunnar and Baylor’s reactions and started wondering about Greyson and Winston’s. To willingly put themselves in that kind of danger . . .
“Of course,” he said finally, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes, “this all assumes the damned thing hasn’t been tipped off and isn’t waiting for us. Which it probably will be.”
“Tipped off . . . How?”
He stretched one long leg out and rested his foot on the coffee table. His eyes were still closed; Megan let her own do what they’d been dying to do all day and wander freely over every inch of him. Over the sharp bones in his face, the almost—but not quite—beaky nose; it wasn’t a classically handsome face, necessarily, but at the same time it was. She loved to look at it, was all she knew. And with his eyes closed, when he couldn’t see her, she let herself look, knowing it would probably be one of the last chances she would get.
He opened one eye and glanced at her; she quickly looked away. “Because one of them hired the horrible thing, and they’ve probably contacted it by now.”
“What? But I thought it was here with the exorcist.”
“Oh, it probably is. But if someone got wind of its presence here and knew this meeting was coming up—which, of course, we all did—it’s quite probable he hired it.”
“But why?”
“Think about it, bry—Megan.” Oh, that hurt. “With the rest of us eliminated, the city belongs to whoever made the deal.”
“But we all sort of control our own subspecies or whatever. I mean, would your demons accept me as a—”
He flinched. Oh, shit. Right. “I mean, would Winston’s blood demons accept you, or Baylor, or me, or anyone else as their Gretneg? I thought it was, I don’t know, a breeding thing. Wouldn’t Carter, for example, simply take over your House if something happened to you?”
“It is a breeding thing, as you put it, to some degree. But it’s also a money thing, and that trumps everything else. Carter couldn’t take over right now. They’d never stand for it. But a Gretneg from another House, one who’d proved himself powerful enough? Who’d proved himself smart
enough to eliminate the others? That’s the sort of masterstroke they’d appreciate. It would prove his ability to control things, his dedication to controlling things.”
It slipped into place then—well, not really. She knew. Maybe she’d always known and simply hadn’t wanted to ask. “Like when you had Templeton killed.”
He didn’t move, and she knew she was right. “Yes.”
Knowing and getting confirmation were two different things. Her head swam. It wasn’t a surprise, and yet it was. It bothered her, and yet it didn’t. She just sat, staring dumbly, unsure what to say or do or think.
After a moment he cleared his throat. “In my defense, he was trying to have me—us—killed first. The gun-toting witches, remember? The scene at Maldon’s house?”
As if she could forget. “I remember. I just . . . that wasn’t the only reason, was it?”
“I wanted to avoid it. It didn’t work out that way.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? Before?”
He looked at her then, the old look, a half-smile and a faint gleam in his eye that made her knees weak even sitting down. “You didn’t ask.”
“Would you have told me if I had?”
The smile faded. “I’ve never lied to you. Not when you asked me a question outright.”
Part of her wanted to argue that. It didn’t really make much difference; lies by omission were still lies. But she didn’t have the energy. Didn’t want to.
She wanted it all never to have happened. Wanted to pretend, just for a minute, that it hadn’t. And if that wasn’t the healthiest thing to do, too bad.
“Justine did it for you, didn’t she? That was the favor. That was what she talked about at Templeton’s funeral.”
“Yes.”
“Do the others know?”
“I imagine so, yes.”
“And they approve?”
He shrugged. “I don’t really care.”
Something else occurred to her then. Something she couldn’t believe she’d forgotten, but she had; with everything else going on, it had faded away. “So do you think that litobora the other night, at my house, do you think one of my demons could have sent it? Roc, even?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I suspect we were right about that one. It’s one of us here. Probably the same one. It makes sense, if you think about it.”
“How?”
“You were able to escape the angel the other night. As a psyche demon—part psyche demon—you make the thing vulnerable. Psyche demons are pretty rare. Psyche demons that look human are even more so. When the wars were going on—we fought the witches on one front, and the angels decided to step in and see what they could do on the other—we didn’t have too many, and most of them were only part psyche demon, most only about a quarter. They weren’t as powerful as you are.”
“But psyche demons are better against angels.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just get the nonhuman-looking ones to help you? The ones people can’t see?”
“Because they’re very rare, as I said. Their populations are negligible, fractions of ours. They tend to be like Yezer. Small. Fragile. Or they’re uncontrollable. They’d kill the angels, yes, but they’d also kill anything else they came across. And because of the way . . . well, let’s just say most of them aren’t really fans of those of us who pass for human.”
“And someone knew this. They knew they’d have an angel here and that I could be useful against it.”
“I assume so, yes. Especially since they assumed you’d—well, never mind. The point is you’re useful, and that would be reason enough.”
“Then it had nothing to do with—” She snapped her mouth closed. This was much bigger than Winston wanting to get her out of the way of the marriage he wanted or Justine doing it simply because she didn’t want a human involved with demon business. If he thought that wasn’t it, she believed him.
“What?”
“Nothing. You really think this is why?”
He nodded.
“Who’s behind it, then?”
He shrugged. “I have my suspicions. Nothing concrete, but I’m fairly sure I’m right. I usually am.”
“And so modest too.”
“Modesty is overrated.”
This time they were both smiling; their eyes caught and held for a second too long.
He stood up. “You should probably get back to your room and let Nick know what’s happening. We’ll need his help. Oh, and of course, don’t let any of them in, okay? Don’t open the door to anyone but me or the brothers or Tera.”
If his voice changed slightly when saying Nick’s name, she didn’t comment on it. But she did have one more question.
“Greyson.”
He was almost at the door. “Yes?”
“So—the ritual. The other night, when you said you thought it would protect me, you weren’t—I mean, that wasn’t just because of . . . us.”
His hand rested on the doorknob; his eyes studied the floor. “No. Not entirely.”
“Oh.” Not that it made a difference, except to increase the pain levels in her chest. But she was glad she knew.
He still waited by the door. Her steps faltered as she crossed the room. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later, then. I’ll call you after I’ve talked to Nick. Unless you want him to call.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
The door opened; she stood for a minute, not even bothering to keep her eyes from greedily taking him in, studying him, trying to burn his face deeper into her memory than it already was. He wasn’t looking at her anyway. “Okay. Bye, then.”
He nodded. “Bye.”
She’d just stepped fully into the hallway when his hand closed over her arm and yanked her back into the room, against the solid heat of his body. The door slammed shut behind her.
“You didn’t really think I’d just let you walk away, did you?” His voice was low and urgent; his breath was hot on her skin; and before she could formulate an answer, his lips were on hers.
Chapter 26
Her entire body went up in flames. Not literal ones, not like the ones already blazing near the ceiling and around the room. Not the ones flaring in her mind as the first rush of energy invaded her. But deeper ones, hotter ones, flames tinged with ice-blue edges of pain and sorrow.
She gave them back to him when his tongue slipped into her mouth, sending more sparks dancing through her veins, sharp hot bolts of pleasure and need racing down her stomach to pool between her legs and make her muscles tight.
For a second she thought she should stop this, push him away. It wasn’t healthy. It wouldn’t change anything. It would only make it harder.
But she couldn’t. Not just because one hand had grasped her bottom and the other tangled in her hair, pulling her tighter to him. Not because kissing him made her feel alive again, safe again, for the first time since the horrible scene the day before. But because she didn’t want to. She wanted him. She loved him. How could she say no to this, when she’d already said no to everything else, and that would haunt her until the day she died?
Instead she wrapped her leg around him, yanked his shirt up from his waistband, and shoved her hands beneath. This time the feel of his bare skin, of the spikes of his spine, didn’t make her cry. She was too far gone to cry. She was already crying, somewhere deep inside herself, and she suspected—was terrified—that she would never be able to stop.
He kissed her harder, almost hard enough to hurt. His fingers left her hair to touch her face, tracing for a second the curve of her cheekbone before sliding down her throat and farther down again to cup her breast through the thin jersey of her dress.
She gasped. Her head fell back; he dipped down to kiss her throat, nibbling it, muttering things she couldn’t quite hear. Things she was almost afraid to hear.
His skin beneath her palms was hot and covered with goosebumps. She couldn’t decide which sounded more appealing, to run her hands over it
and feel every inch of him or to dig her nails in, rip off his shirt, tug him to the floor because she didn’t want to wait. His power simmered in her blood, and she was about to boil over.
Instead she shifted position as best she could, sought his mouth again, and pushed it back to him.
He gasped. “Meg. Shit, Meg.”
Her feet left the floor. Her legs wrapped around his waist. They fell against the wall, cool against her back. It did nothing to soothe the fever in her veins or to calm the frenzied desperation of her thoughts.
His erection pressed against her; she didn’t know what the sound that escaped her lips was called, and she didn’t care. What she did care about was that in this position she couldn’t reach the buttons of his shirt, and in her dizzied state she couldn’t figure out how to get the damned thing off him. It was a crisp white barrier between her and what she wanted; she tugged at it, tried to pull it up over his head. Finally she gave up and dug her fingers into his hair, forcing him to kiss her harder still, until she tasted blood.
A rush of power came with it, even stronger. Somewhere she realized it was his. No time to think about it. No time to worry about it, because his hand was on her thigh, and it was not hesitant. It barely paused on the top of her stocking before continuing on, sliding beneath her bottom and forward to focus unerringly on the spot where she wanted it the most.
That one touch, coupled with her wild emotions and the power overloading her, was enough. Too much. She clutched at him as her back arched and her body shuddered, barely hearing her own voice or the low, thick sound of satisfaction he made in the back of his throat.
He swung her away from the wall, crossed the room in a few long strides, and opened the bedroom door. His mouth left hers; she felt him look up.
Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud sat there, overflowing the small chairs that had been in the dressing area and at the corner desk. Their eyes were wide.
She probably should have cared that they were there, that her skirt was over her waist so her black silk panties were visible, that they’d probably heard her, and that they knew exactly what was going on. She didn’t. That would have required too much energy, and she needed it all for him.
