by Stacia Kane
She padded across the shiny white tile floor to the fridge, not turning on the light. Hmmm…cheese, the remains of a very rare roast sitting in a pool of blood on its tray—her stomach lurched, but whether from disgust or hunger Megan didn’t know and didn’t want to contemplate—she grabbed the cheese and slammed the door shut.
There were crackers in the pantry. That was an acceptable snack. A handful of them, a chunk of cheese, and there wouldn’t be plates or anything else to dispose of in the bedroom.
She had her hand buried in the cracker box when she became aware of the singing. It had been there since she’d walked into the room, but only then did it register.
A few moments of heart-pounding panic later, she calmed down. They weren’t upstairs. The sound didn’t grow louder, so they weren’t on their way back up the tunnel. It must be an echo, or a thin spot in the walls. Was she directly over the catacombs?
Beside the pantry, almost invisible, a small door cut into the smooth wall. It would be wrong to open it. It would be a violation, even though she hadn’t actually promised she wouldn’t watch.
Curiosity killed the cat…
Her feet moved of their own volition, her fingers found the almost-invisible catch in the door. Probably just a storeroom anyway, or a low dumbwaiter.
But it wasn’t. It was a small railed ledge at the top of a staircase cut into the rough stone of the wall, and directly below it Greyson stood naked on a dais at the end of a long wooden table.
His body was covered from neck to feet in designs, black and red ink on his skin. Greek letters, a few of them looked like, words running down his arms, patterns of twisting vines and flames, triskeles and swirls. Naked he had always looked like a god to her. Now he looked like what he was, a demon, something not of this world, something that perhaps didn’t belong in it.
She’d started to turn away, trying in vain to return the privacy she’d stolen, when he burst into flames. His arms raised skyward, like a phoenix, and his voice echoed through the chamber, filling Megan’s ears with demon words, words she knew were promises and pledges. She crouched down, afraid to leave, afraid to stay, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It wasn’t the fire. It was the power, the sheer heart-pounding energy of it, filling the room, snaking over her skin and trying to gain entry.
The rubendas started chanting. A drum beat time in the background, loud and fast. Flames spread from Greyson, touching everyone at the table, crawling across the floor and partway up the walls. The rubendas started their own fires, smaller, reaching out to meet his, and the inferno mushroomed and rose toward the ceiling. A thin bead of sweat trickled down Megan’s face.
The priest strode forward through the fire, and placed his hand on Greyson’s head. The flames died, instantly. An expectant hush filled the room.
“Greyson Plantagenet Dante,” the priest said, his voice ringing off the stone. “Achen Solomon Plantagenet Dante, achen Greyson Plantagenet Dante, achen Luchior Plantagenet Dante, achen Aradios Plantagenet Dante…”
The list of names intoned in that sepulchral voice and the smoky haze in the air, the scent of incense—dragon’s blood, if she wasn’t mistaken, roundly fruity and spicy—made Megan’s head start to pound. She was on the ledge and not there. Only some tiny instinct, like that of a mouse in a wolf’s den, kept her from lowering her shields, from trying to fly down to the floor so she could take part. If she opened her fist she knew she could create flames from nothing, could take her part with the rest of them. She was them, she was all of them…she shoved her fist against her lips so hard it hurt.
From the right side of the room stepped one of the brothers—she thought it was Maleficarum—holding a covered tray, bright gold and shining in the reflected torchlight.
The rubendas started to cheer, to clap, to bang the table. A few called out, “Greyson Dante!” a few more, “Templeton Black!”
The yells grew louder, more cohesive, until only one word roared off the walls and filled Megan’s soul. “Gretneg! Gretneg! Gretneg!”
Maleficarum lifted the lid of the tray. Even at this distance Megan knew what rested there, knew what was going to happen. A ritual older than time…a gesture of respect and continuity, a form of communion overwritten by modern organized religions. She’d read about it, studied it, but never thought she would actually witness it. She wanted to close her eyes but the greatest force she possessed would not convince her lids to lower. This was a mistake, this was such a mistake, she shouldn’t be here…
Greyson scooped the heart of Templeton Black from its pool of blood. The sound of his teeth sinking into it echoed through the cavern, becoming lost only in the sound of Megan’s own heart pounding in her ears.
She tried to crawl back toward the door as Greyson extended his arm, tried to scramble to her feet but stumbled as the priest sliced Greyson’s forearm with a sharp silver blade. Her hand found the catch again when his blood poured into a golden bowl held by Malleus.
But she did not manage to run away until the rubendas came forward with their cups.
Chapter 20
She rinsed her mouth again, then once again, spitting into the sink, trying as hard as she could not to see her red face in the mirror. There wasn’t time, even if she wanted to. She had no idea how much longer the ceremony would last.
Pushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead, she left the bathroom and grabbed her purse and shoes, then flung the door open and started to run.
The marble stairs had never seemed so slippery, the hall never so threatening. No ghosts lurked in the shadows near the ever-moving ceiling. No demons hid in the corners; they were all down in the dungeon.
The danger came from her, from that place deep inside that had sneaked into a ceremony she had no business witnessing. The part that wanted to see it. The part that recognized it for what it was, the transfer of power, the continuance of a legacy going back millennia, older even than the funeral rite had been, and wanted to participate in it. The part that knew the ritual was not a human one, and he was not human, and she wasn’t entirely human either, not anymore.
The part that had watched Templeton Black’s blood spurt from his heart, one last forced beat before all power left it forever, and drip down Greyson’s chin.
And had wanted to strip off her clothes and run down the stone steps and go to him, wrap herself around him so the ink on his skin smeared off onto hers. Wanted to lick the blood off and taste it, raw and coppery in his mouth, to feel him force all that power into her body, force himself into her body, to scream in ecstasy while they all watched.
It was a siren’s call wending its way to her head, and she had to get out, get back to herself, before she obeyed it.
Her feet slid on the floor at the base of the stairs. She twisted her ankle trying to keep her balance and had to half run, half hop to the doors, across the dim rectangles of light coming through the windows, exposed and vulnerable, like hobbled prey running through sparse foliage.
She twisted the doorknob. It would not budge. She fumbled with the locks, pushing until her fingers hurt, but they would not move.
Nobody entered or left the Iureanlier without permission from the Gretneg. She was trapped.
In her panicked state, when she first heard the pounding she thought she was the one doing it, beating senselessly at the door. It took a moment for her to realize her arms were folded, her fists clenched. Someone was outside, hammering at the wooden gate that separated the house from the street.
She ducked down. The police. It had to be the police, they’d heard about the ceremony, they knew about everything, they were—
Calm down, for fuck’s sake! The police probably didn’t even know Templeton Black was dead, much less anything about demon customs or rituals or anything else. The idea that they would be outside, ready to bust everyone for—what? unlawful disposal of demon remains?—was ludicrous.
She curled her fingers around the edge of one of the heavy red velvet curtains and tugged it aside, but the flood
lights on the lawn were too bright to see past. She had one brief, heartfelt moment of thanks that she hadn’t been able to get out after all before voices flooded into the hall and the lights flashed on.
“M’lady? What’s wrong?” Maleficarum stood before her, his stout, powerful hands hovering ineffectually a few inches from her shoulder. “What’s ’appened?”
“It’s Maldon,” Malleus snarled, whipping back the curtain. “What’s that Aylesbury think ’e’s doing here? Scaring our lady, makin’ a scene!”
“You watch yer language, Mal!”
“Yeh,” said Spud.
“I presume he’s begging for his life.”
They turned as one at the sound of Greyson’s voice. Megan was afraid to look at him, somehow convinced she’d find him still naked, covered in markings, blood dripping down his chest and pouring—
Don’t think about it!
But he looked just as he had before he’d left for the ceremony, save his damp hair and clean, ordinary clothes. Black pants, a black V-neck. Greyson casual. A sweating bottle of champagne dangled from his left hand.
Some of the choking fear abated. He hadn’t turned savage in the last hour. This could have been any night, one of many when he’d greeted her with a cold drink and a warm kiss. If her heart hadn’t been pounding in her throat she could almost have imagined it was.
She found her voice. “His life?”
“He knows we’re meeting with Winston tomorrow, so yes.”
“But his life isn’t in danger.”
“Isn’t it?” The bottle clanked solidly onto the table by the door.
“No. I mean…oh.”
“He tried to kill you. He tried to kill us both.”
“I can’t…I can’t just order someone killed, Greyson. I can’t do that.”
I can.
“What if I ask you not to?”
He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. “If you ask me not to…we’ll discuss it.”
“Now?”
“No. Now he’s standing outside on the street, getting ready to make a scene. I don’t want him out there any longer than necessary.” His glance took in her shoes and purse still clutched in her hands. “Mal, get Miss Chase’s coat, please. Better put those shoes on, Meg.”
“We’re going outside?”
“We should get a look at him before we let him in, don’t you think?”
Oh. Ktana Leyak. “He’s not a Yezer, though, isn’t he safe?”
“I would think so, but I can’t guarantee it. Especially not in his—shall we say highly emotional?—state. He’s vulnerable, and that’s not a safe way to be.”
She nodded as Malleus slipped her coat over her shoulders. Her cold, stiff shoes refused to admit her feet. She stooped to shove them on and almost fell over.
Greyson didn’t tease her about her clumsiness. Normally he would have. She glanced at him once she’d righted herself and found him watching her. He’d seen her at the door, obviously preparing to flee; was he going to say anything? Did she want him to?
The trouble with keeping secrets was that it became harder and harder to stop as time went on. Tiny discussions, simple questions, grew out of control the more she tried to put them off, until they were no longer simple, but complex and full of mines.
“Open the door,” he said.
Cold air blasted into the room, scented with wood smoke and snow. The pale sky hung low and heavy above them. Megan had forgotten it was only a few days until Christmas.
They stepped outside, their shoes scuffing the white stone steps and the sidewalk beyond, until they stood almost at the gate with the boys behind them.
“Greyson, Megan,” Orion said. It seemed clichéd somehow for a blood demon to have bloodshot eyes, but the pinkish tinge, like Pepto-Bismol in his eye sockets, was definitely not anger or passion, and the tremulous rasp of his voice made her skin crawl. Greyson was right. Orion had come begging.
“What do you want, Orion?”
“To talk to you. I have information. You came to me for it. I’ll give it to you now. Free. A favor you don’t have to return.”
“No.”
She glanced at Greyson, opening her mouth, but his warning look shut it again.
“Megan? Don’t you want to know how it happened? What your father did, what he said? Why he left that hospital to you?”
“I’m tired, Orion. And bored with you,” she lied, but his words echoed in her head. She did want to know why her father had left it to her, more than almost anything. Was it one last reprimand from beyond the grave?
Or was it an apology he felt he couldn’t make in life?
“I can tell you,” he continued. “I was there, I know it all. All you have to do is let me live. I’ll leave you alone. It wasn’t my idea, anyway, at my place. You know that.” His horrible pink gaze turned to Greyson. “You know I wasn’t behind that, you know it!”
“Just like I know you jumped at the chance to help,” Greyson said.
“You fucked my wife! What was—” Orion subsided. His thin fingers curled over the top of the gate. “We’ve never been friends. But that wasn’t personal.”
Greyson shrugged. “And neither is this. Come on, Meg, it’s cold out here.”
He took her hand and started to turn away, but Orion’s next shout stopped them both. “I’ll tell you how to stop the leyak! I know what she wants!”
For a second Megan thought he’d somehow managed to break the gate and it had exploded with a sound like thunder. Then she heard him scream. She was already throwing herself to the ground when Greyson’s hand caught her neck and shoved.
Not an explosion. A ball of something black and shiny, like obsidian or jet, with trails of red sparks in its wake. And not aimed at her, but at Orion, who was now shrieking, “Let me in! D’sham tergan, chresh! Chresh!”
The brittle, frozen grass sliced at her palms like razor blades as she clambered out of the way. Greyson caught her around the waist, trying to roll her to the right across the icy lawn, but she didn’t want to go. The front of the house was naked, innocent of trees or shrubs, and they would have to climb back up the stairs to find sanctuary. Belatedly she realized he knew that too, and was pulling her toward the break of pines on the side of the house. Together they scuttled toward it.
Another bang. Orion screamed again, and now other voices joined his, harsh muffled voices in English. “He’s down! Get him!”
“Greyson, we have to help him,” Megan gasped. “We can’t just leave him!”
“The fuck we can’t. He’s going to die tomorrow anyway—”
Maleficarum slammed into them, knocking them into the trees. The scent of pine filled her nose, and for one absurd moment it actually felt like Christmas.
Until a dried pine needle, sharp as a dental instrument, jammed itself into her cheek when she hit the ground. “Ouch, shit!”
“Are you okay?”
Muffled footsteps sounded on the street, some distance away but gaining fast.
“Help me! Chresh!” The hysterical quality of Orion’s pleas made her jaw clench. She glanced around and saw another ball hit the fence and erupt into a shower of black sparks like the sequins on Justine’s dress.
“We have to help him!”
“This doesn’t concern us, those are—”
“Greyson! Ak vend retchia! Ak vend retchia!”
Maleficarum said something Megan was fairly certain he wouldn’t have said in her presence at any other moment, but the exact phrase was covered by Greyson’s much more concise one.
“Ak vend retchia—aaaaa!”
“Damn it!” Greyson paused for a moment, then shouted, “Retchia a capt.” Megan heard the footsteps outside getting closer, heard the front gate squeak then slam shut.
Greyson snatched her hand and yanked her toward a small side door she hadn’t seen until then. “Fuck.”
“What about—”
His face was hidden by shadows. “Mal and Spud have him. I gave the bastard sanc
tuary.”
“Call Tera.”
She actually stumbled. Words she never thought she’d hear Greyson say. “What?”
“Call her, now. Tell her we have Orion and he’s been injured, but convince her we’re not going to help him escape or anything stupid like that.” He paused and glanced at her shoes and purse again, his arms crossed over his chest. “Please, Meg.”
The blaze in the fireplace warmed her skin, but the phone was still winter-night cold in her hand. Tera picked up on the first ring.
“Megan, is Orion Maldon in that house? You need to send him out now, out front, unarmed—”
“Wait, wait, Tera, hold on. Yes, he’s in here. He’s injured. We’re not going to help him escape or anything, but we can’t—”
“Look, this has nothing to do with you or Greyson. This isn’t even me, I didn’t order this. This is Vergadering business, and they’ll storm that fucking gate if they—”
“Tera, please. Just listen for a minute, okay?”
She didn’t know if the silence was her invitation to speak or if Tera was simply too pissed off to continue. Hoping for the former, she plunged ahead. “Maldon has some information I need. About my father, remember I told you about that? About the hospital? He came here to give it to me, and I need it. Please. Don’t storm the gates.”
Greyson snorted. A chill breeze wafted over her skin, distracting her from the phone call. They were supposed to be celebrating right now. Snuggled up in his big bed with a bottle of champagne or something.
Instead they were here in the study, while someone who’d tried to kill them sobbed and bled just outside the door, a gang of witches waited on the street—presumably with battering rams—and Greyson knew she’d been about to run out on him when he’d come upstairs after the ceremony.
Finally Tera sighed. “Put Greyson on.”
Megan did.
“Hi, Tera. No. I had to, I didn’t want to. He invoked—No. No, I—no. I’m not going to, I give you my word. Yes. I swear it. Hey, I hate the guy, I don’t want to help him do—okay. Yes. Here she is.”
