by Stacia Kane
Then she realized he was glancing around the room, an expression of pure horror spreading across his face. His fingers pressed tighter against her cheek, dropped to her hand and squeezed. His energy breezed over her hand, up her arm, a weak imitation of what it would be had they been closer but still enough that she felt it slip over her, felt it recede. “No.”
What? No what? What had he—
She looked again. Saw Nick, his hair mussed. Saw the faint smear of lipstick on his throat, the rumpled cover on the bed, the two glasses cuddled together on one of the small bedside tables. Oh fuck, oh no, oh shit—
Greyson shook his head. “No. No, tell me—I’m, shit, I must be crazy, right? Drunker than I thought?” His forced laugh echoed in the dead air. “Please, please tell me—”
Megan opened her mouth, ready to say something—she wasn’t sure exactly what. Probably something along the lines of “What are you talking about?”
She never got the chance. She didn’t know what did it—the look on Nick’s face, maybe, shameful and distraught. Or possibly it was that when he touched her—when he slid his power over her—he felt Nick’s energy, felt the last vestiges of that screaming, desperate lust that had engulfed her before. It could have been either, or any combination of the two, or anything else. He wasn’t a stupid man; he hadn’t gotten where he was without being quick on the uptake, without noticing things.
And it didn’t matter what tipped him off. What mattered was that one second he was looking around the room as if the bodies of his nearest and dearest hung on the walls dripping blood, and the next he was gone. Halfway across the room before she realized what was happening.
His fist slammed into Nick’s face with a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Nick fell against the wall, his hands up. Not fighting back.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, but that was all before his head snapped back from another punch.
“Greyson, stop!” She ran over there, then hesitated, feeling like some goddamn weak girl in an action film but genuinely unsure what to do next. Nick was on the floor, blood running from his nose and smearing down his cheek. Still not fighting back as Greyson hit him again, yelling something in the demon tongue. Should she try to pull him off, should she—
Fuck this. She reached out, grabbed his arm, then yanked back when his fist burst into flame.
It spread up his arm and across his back, eating his shirt, leaving his bare skin covered with blue-white fire. Heat so intense sweat broke out on her forehead, and made her step back, but she didn’t stop speaking.
“Greyson, please stop, we didn’t really do anything, it was my fault, please stop hitting him, please—”
He jumped back. She caught one glimpse of his stricken face, his glowing-coal eyes, before he buried them in his hands and fell forward.
His flaming skin touched the carpet. Megan started to scream, ready to leap over him to fill tiny hotel glasses with water, but the flames died, both on the carpet and on his skin.
“Oh fuck, oh God, no, tell me you didn’t. Not with Meg, Nick, tell me not with her.”
“Wait a minute.” This was probably one of the dumbest things she’d ever said, but at that point she didn’t care. Not when Nick was still on the floor, his nose and eyes already starting to swell, staring at the ceiling.
And it was her fault.
“Don’t I have some responsibility here? This was my fault, Greyson, I made him—”
“What ? You—what?”
Oh, shit. She was supposed to be an intelligent woman. How the hell had she managed to fuck everything up with such brutal efficiency?
“I kissed him,” she said, as calmly as she could. “I started it. But that’s all it was, a couple of kisses, it didn’t go—and what the fuck are you so mad about anyway? We broke up, remember? You went off with Leora tonight. What were you doing with her ?”
“With—what the hell do you mean, what was I doing with her?”
“I mean exactly what I said. You certainly made a big enough show of leaving with her tonight. What was I supposed to think? You think I didn’t—”
He sprang to a stand. Those burning eyes focused on her; she had to look away. She couldn’t stand to see the pain in their depths, the anger and disbelief. The shattered pieces of his trust in her lay in those eyes like mirror shards. “Are you—is that why you did this? Some kind of revenge? You dragged Nick into—because I left with Leora?”
“You hurt me,” she said, and it sounded so lame she wanted to smack herself. “You left with her, and you made sure I saw you do it, and you—you—”
“So you used Nick?”
“Didn’t you use Leora?”
“That’s different. I don’t give a fuck about Leora!”
“So you did use her.”
“Maybe I did,” he snapped, “but I didn’t run off and leap into bed with her. I didn’t even touch her.”
“We didn’t do anything,” she said again. She wanted to say it loudly, to sound strong and confident, but she just couldn’t manage it. “Nothing really happened. I kissed him—we kissed a few times. That’s all. Greyson, I’m sorry, and I’m drunk, and I feel sick, and I was so mad . . . Can’t we just forget it? Can’t we just move past it?”
His head jerked back, as if she’d waved ammonia under his nose. “I can’t believe—I can’t do this right now. I can’t be here. Not now.”
“I—”
“I never thought you would do something like this.”
“And I never thought you would lie to me like you did.”
“Right. This is my fault. Because I’m such a fucking beast, how dare I try to wait until the right time—”
“If that’s the way you feel about it, why come here to apologize? If you were right all along, why do that?”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have fucking bothered.”
He glanced down at Nick, who was struggling to sit up. “Sorry, Nick,” he muttered, and turned and sped out of the room.
The pounding of her head woke her up. For one dizzied, horrified moment, her nightmare followed her into waking, and she thought the pain came from the angel, perched on the head of her bed, squeezing her temples in vise-tight palms.
No such luck. With full consciousness, memory flooded back, and all the bright morning sunlight in the world couldn’t chase Greyson’s horrified black gaze from her mind. Her groan sounded more like a sob; she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.
“That’s not a happy morning face,” Tera said.
Tera? What the hell— Megan looked up to see Tera perched on the edge of the bed, holding in each hand a mug of what Megan could only hope was coffee. Or hemlock. She’d be happy with either at that moment.
“Hear you had some excitement last night,” Tera continued.
“Oh God.” Megan slumped back to the pillow. “Does everyone know?”
“Um, yeah. It’s all over the hotel. Are you surprised? It’s not like people wouldn’t hear about something like that. The demons are all in an uproar.”
“Because I kissed Nick? How—”
Tera almost spluttered her coffee. Almost but not quite. “You kissed Nick? What in the world?”
“Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”
“What the hell happened? You kissed Nick? You mean like a real kiss, with tongue? Was it good? He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Look at you, all racy gadabout. Didn’t take you long.”
“Racy gada—what century do you live in?” Megan reached for the coffee and took the biggest gulp she could manage. It burned her tongue. She didn’t care.
“Hey, I’m not the one running around kissing people. Does Greyson know?”
She cringed. “Yeah. He knows.”
“Ooh. That good, huh.”
The bathroom door opened; Nick emerged in a cloud of listless steam. His chest was bare above jeans. “Oh. Hi, Tera.”
“Wow. I guess it didn’t go well.”
Demons healed very qui
ckly as a rule; only the faintest shadows of bruises remained on Nick’s face. But it was enough, the tinge of darkness around the slight swelling of his nose.
He cleared his throat. “Morning, Megan.”
The words made her want to cry. How could he still be speaking to her? Still be willing to greet her in the morning after what she’d done to him? Every tiny discoloration on his face, every bit of swelling, every second of pain he’d suffered since the moment Greyson saw the smear of lipstick on his throat . . . her fault, all of it. Entirely her fault.
Something told her this wasn’t the time, though, not with Tera there. Instead she forced herself to say “Good morning,” in what she hoped was a tone cheerful enough to let him know she appreciated him acknowledging her but subdued enough to let him know she was sorry.
Tera turned back to her. “So how much sleep did you get, then? I thought you might want to go shopping with me, but if you’re too tired, that’s okay. I don’t suppose you slept much, what with the kissing and I guess Greyson beating Nick up or whatever he did and the murder—”
“Murder?”
“What?”
She and Nick both spoke at once. They glanced at each other, a glance that gave her a bit more reassurance, then he nodded for her to continue.
“Murder? Tera, what are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?”
Nick sighed. “She’s a genius, Megan. I can see why you’re friends.”
Tera gave him a sour look. “I’m just surprised. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t know. I thought it was a huge deal when a Gretneg died.”
Megan’s heart stuttered in her chest. It couldn’t be Greyson. Couldn’t be. Even Tera wouldn’t be so blasé if it was Greyson dead, Greyson murdered. Would she?
“Tera, who was it? It wasn’t—was it? Who?”
“Oh. Um, what’s-her-name, the bitch. What’s her name?”
Megan swallowed. “Justine.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Tera nodded. “Yes, that’s her. Justine.”
Her first thought was, Thank God it wasn’t Greyson. Her second was to be a little ashamed that she couldn’t bring herself to be too upset. “What happened to her? Murdered how?”
“Oh, man. How did you miss all this?” Tera glanced at Nick, sitting very still in the chair at the desk. “Oh, right. You were sexing up the love god here or whatever. She was slaughtered, apparently. I don’t know much about it, really—it’s not like any of them are going to talk to me—but Roc told me what he could find out from Malleus.”
“Where is Roc?”
“Eating breakfast. Charged to my room. Hey, is Greyson still going to pay for all that?”
“I assume so. He said he would.” Megan closed her eyes. Apparently Tera’s moment of concern and sympathy from the night before was over. She supposed she couldn’t complain. She hadn’t even expected as much as she got. And really, the question about the room was a legitimate one. It was just bad timing. But since when had Tera been alert to social niceties?
She reached out to Roc with her mind, giving the invisible strand that connected herself to her demons a little tug, and waited for him to tug back. “I’ve called Roc. He should be here in a minute.”
She slumped back on the pillow. Now all she needed was a shower—and a new stomach and head—and for the last twenty-four hours or so not to have happened.
“Well, I guess he’ll tell you, then. But I think that FBI woman was involved.”
“What?” Megan sat up too fast. Spots swam in front of her eyes. She clasped her hand to her forehead in a vain effort to stop her brain from exploding and lay back down.
“Yeah. I got there in time to see them take her out of the building. She was all bloody. Apparently it was some mess in there. Hey, are you okay? You look a little green.”
“Yeah, I’m . . . I drank too much last night.”
“Ah. Here, sit up. I’ll help you.”
“Tera, this is—what do you mean?”
“Trust me. Come here.”
Megan obeyed, over the furious protests of her stomach. She was still in her evening gown, having barely managed to tumble into the bed and pass out after Greyson left the night before. It would need to be cleaned; no amount of hanging in a steamy bathroom would take care of those wrinkles.
Then again, maybe she’d just burn it. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at it again.
Tera raised her arms and muttered something; cool energy flowed through Megan, from her head down. The pain disappeared. Her stomach settled. She even felt more awake, although that might have been the coffee kicking in.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks, that’s great.”
“Better” was relative, wasn’t it? Physically she felt fine. Mentally, emotionally, without the dubious distraction of the hangover, she felt as if she’d just dipped herself in liquid doom.
Tera looked over at Nick. “How are you feeling?”
He hesitated.
“Oh, come on. I promise I won’t play any evil witch tricks on you. Looks like you’ve been through enough.”
Tera got up and stood behind him, with her hands over his head. The look he gave Megan might have been comical any other time or had she not known what she knew about his childhood.
But he sat there, and after a few seconds the last of the swelling and bruising disappeared; another few seconds, and he no longer slumped under what Megan knew was the dreadful weight of a throbbing head. At least if he felt anything like she did, which come to think of it, he probably didn’t. He probably felt much worse.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Now—”
Another knock at the door. Roc; Megan felt him. “Come in.”
He materialized in the room. Obeying their compromise even though it really wasn’t necessary anymore. After a hideously embarrassing incident one rainy afternoon early on, she’d forbidden him ever to appear unannounced in bedrooms, no matter what time of day or night. So now he knocked first.
His little eyes immediately went dark. “What happened? You feel awful.”
“Greyson caught her making out with Nick,” Tera said.
Megan glared at her. “Thank you, Tera.”
Sarcasm was a waste of time with Tera. “You’re welcome.”
“Wow, really?” Roc looked impressed. “What’d he do?”
Nick glanced at her. She couldn’t tell if the look was accusatory or beseeching and didn’t wait to decipher it. “Never mind. What happened to Justine?”
“Oh, gosh. It was a mess. I mean, I only saw it after, but Malleus was one of the first there, and he told me about it. He said—”
“Wait, what was Malleus doing there?”
Roc’s beady eyes shifted a little, in a way Megan didn’t like.
“Roc, what was he—”
“He was walking past, he said. He heard a scream. When he busted the door, he found, and I quote, ‘Lady Riverside were all covered in blood, dead as I ever seen a dead woman, an’ that FBI agent were screaming wif blood all down ’er front an’ ’ands an’ all. Looked like she’d taken herself a baf in it, she did.’ ”
His impression actually wasn’t bad. Megan might have laughed if what he described wasn’t so horrible.
“But how did Justine die? Shot? Stabbed?”
“He’ll tell you himself, I guess.” Roc glanced at the door. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“Here? Why?”
Roc looked uncomfortable. As uncomfortable as a small green demon could look anyway.
“Roc, what’s going on?”
Another knock at the door. Why did Roc look so unhappy? What was—well, only one way to find out, right?
She managed to get off the bed, almost falling when her long skirt tangled in her legs. It did feel ridiculous to be greeting visitors at nine in the morning wearing an evening gown. Her jeans and shirt from the day before were on the floor by the bed. Malleus was at the do
or, but what the hell. She scooped them up. “Let him in, okay? I’ll be right out.”
Tera had been being tactful, surprise surprise. The mirror showed Megan a woman who looked as if she’d been in a bar brawl with a vat of mascara and lost badly. Her hair stood straight up on one side; her skin had the shiny, pasty look of a dead pig under plastic wrap.
“Hideous,” she muttered, and set to work.
It only took a few minutes—she was aiming for presentable, not attractive, as she doubted that was possible—and she emerged with clean teeth and skin, her hair twisted up at the back and held with the long silver barrette she used when washing her face at night. She hadn’t wanted to use it. It was a gift from Greyson. But it was either that or let it hang limp and dead, and at least this looked tidy.
She thought it did anyway. But having three large demons look at her as though she had just lain down in her coffin made her wonder.
“What?” She looked down. Her feet were bare, but it wasn’t as if—
Oh. Maleficarum shifted his weight; she saw the box behind him, and her heart fell right down into those bare feet of hers. Peeking over the top edge of the cardboard was one of her books, one she’d left on the bedside table at Ieuranlier Sorithell.
“M’lady.” Malleus rubbed his right eye with his fist. “We brung—Lord Dante, he tole us to bring—”
“Why’d you do it?” Maleficarum interrupted. “Why’d you leave us? Lord Dante, ’e’s a wreck, ’e is. We thought, when ’e bought the—”
“What’re we s’posed to do now?” Malleus raised his red-rimmed eyes. “We dunno what to do!”
“Yeh,” Spud said, but without conviction. True to form, he looked more upset than the others, if that was possible; while she looked at him a single fat tear ran down his cheek.
She’d thought she was too dehydrated for tears herself, but apparently she wasn’t. They filled her eyes. She tried to wipe them away before they overflowed, but she didn’t manage it.
It was really happening. All of her things. Everything she’d kept at his place. It wasn’t a small box, but then it wouldn’t be, not with the contents of her drawers, the dresses in the closet, the hair products and toothbrush and . . . oh God, everything. He’d made them drive over there and remove every last vestige of her from his home.
