Personal Demons (10 page)

Something scuttled across the floor at the back of the room, something dull mud-brown with clawed feet and a bald head. She just caught a glimpse of it, like a huge scaly rat. More than one of those things lurked in the studio today, then.

Megan jumped, her eyes wide. The first flash of the camera preserved her look of terror.

M
egan jumped back from the desk at the same time Malleus reached for her.

“Is something wrong?” Gene faked concern well, but Megan could feel his impatience. He had a date after this job. She ignored him.

“We know about them, m'lady,” Malleus muttered. “The boys is keeping an eye out, and I'm 'ere, so they won't get to you, okay? You just smile pretty, cuz nobody sees 'em but you an' us.”

“Poor girl,” Don Tremblay muttered to Brian. “She's always been like this, you know. High-strung. Nervous. I hear it's been worse lately. I think the pressure is getting to her. Such a shame.”

Brian, damn him, got out his recorder.

“Dr. Chase, we do need you at the desk.”

Richard came over and took her arm, shooting Malleus a look. “Megan, what's the problem? Are you going to do this or what?” A gnarled hand with long, filthy nails curling over the fingertips waved at her from behind his head.

Megan swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “I'm fine,” she croaked. “I just, ah, need a drink.”

Malleus pressed a bottle of water into her hand.

Richard glared at both of them. “Get your drink and get back there. We don't have the studio all day, you know.”

The water, cool and delicious, soothed her parched mouth. “I know, Richard,” she said when she was done swallowing. “I'm ready.”

Smiling while listening to the rumble of Tremblay's voice telling tales about her was not easy. Smiling while lies were being spread and an occasional nasty little face or hand or foot appeared in her line of vision was next to impossible.

“Megan, what's wrong?” Richard folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. If she lowered her shield his irritation would snake itself around her and squeeze.

“Fine, Richard.” Her stomach fluttered and twisted in knots. Little beads of sweat ran down her forehead.

“Megan…Megan…Megan…” It was a chant, whispered at first, but getting louder.

Maleficarum and Spud appeared, stationing themselves around the desk, far enough away to make their movements unobtrusive but close enough for Megan to take comfort in their presence. Malleus stayed in his position in the corner to her right.

Still the chant continued. Megan could hardly hear Gene's directions over the voices.

Her face felt like it was going to break. She leaned forward, she touched the microphone, she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse just as she was asked to do, all the while feeling like she was someone else, somewhere else, watching another woman in her body act happy and personable while inside she wanted to scream.

A giggle made her turn towards Brian and Don Tremblay. Some sort of…gremlin…sat on Don's shoulder.

Obscenely naked, it turned and grinned at her, the same face she'd seen in the mirror earlier. Dark green skin stretched over sharp bones as its lips opened, revealing
row after row of pointed teeth. It waved, its fingers long and thin with bulbous joints.

It had no ears to speak of, just indents in the sides of its head, and as she watched its tiny eyes started glowing red.

“Hello, Megan,” it cooed, and giggled again.

More giggles sounded. Megan tore her gaze from Don and the thing on his shoulder to see more of them. One stuck its tongue out at her from its perch on Dana's shoulder while she smiled and nodded at Megan, her face innocent and open. Richard had one, a dark blue one who leapt about in the air by his head. Brian's was red, Gene's orange.

She clenched her jaw so tight it hurt. She might be about to break a tooth but she could not let up the pressure. If she opened her mouth she would scream. If she started screaming she wouldn't stop.

Everyone in the room had one of those things on their shoulder. Seven or eight danced around on the floor by Don's feet. To whom did they belong? Every one watched her and grinned, or made jokes or faces.

Did she? What did hers look like? Was hers as horrible, as disgusting, as the rest?

Slowly she turned her head…and saw nothing but her own reflection staring back at her from the glass window of the studio.

 

“W
HAT THE HELL
was all that about?” Richard grabbed her arm. The crew had cleared out, taking their horrible little creatures with them. Megan assumed they were the personal demons Greyson had mentioned. She shuddered. If those were the things that were after her—

They had stayed away, though. At least the presence of Malleus, Maleficarum and Spud had done that much for
her, even if the looks Richard gave the three demons told her no one else was impressed with them.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Megan. You show up with these three…men, who look like they stepped off the set of some British gangster film. You proceed to act strangely, to ignore people when they speak to you, and to behave as though having your picture taken is a fate worse than death.” His fingers hurt her arm. She glanced down at them. He let go. “Look, I know you didn't want to do this. But you agreed. It's in your—”

“Contract. I know, Richard.” What was she supposed to say? ‘Richard, you have a horrible thing living on your shoulder?'

She knew it was still there, even though it had thankfully hidden itself again. She could still feel its presence, dark and disturbing, insinuating itself into her consciousness.

“I gave you this job because I thought you were a professional. If you're not going to act like one, I'll fire you and find somebody else who will.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go ahead and fire her. She'd agreed to do the damn show to try and help people. Now she was stuck in some nightmare world of demons and zombies and fear, and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and pull the covers over her head.

She didn't, though. Aside from the public humiliation and the very real chance that the attendant bad publicity could spell the end of her practice—if the partners didn't put an end to it first, which reminded her she had some calls to make—the chances that the demons would just give up were slim to none. Greyson said it was a challenge to them. She'd picked a fight, however inadvertently. She wouldn't be allowed to just walk away.

Not to mention the callers. People like Regina, who needed help and didn't know where else to get it.

Richard stared at her, waiting for her answer.

“I guess I'm still a little shell-shocked from last night,” she said. “I should have rescheduled, but I…well, I was excited about the photo shoot and thought it would cheer me up.”

Richard softened a little. “I guess you have had a lot to deal with,” he said. “Okay, I'm sorry. Gene thinks he still got some pretty good pictures, so we'll just forget it ever happened.” He glanced at Brian, who waited by the door, ostentatiously not listening. “And you have more talking to do, I see. You go ahead. I'll speak to you tomorrow.”

Megan left, with Brian and the three brothers trailing behind her. She'd forgotten she'd agreed to have dinner with Brian. For a minute she thought about canceling, but she couldn't. Not after the very clear reminder that failure to cooperate meant the loss of her job.

She was stuck with him.

 

O
NCE AGAIN
the parking garage gave Megan chills. It was worse this time than it had been Sunday night with Richard. The ceilings seemed lower, the shadows deeper. Maybe it was time to start finding another place to park—or at least parking on the roof.

One of the shadows moved, twisted, and somehow became Art Bellingham.

Megan blinked. Was that a trick of the light? Had he just been hiding back against the wall?

Brian stopped walking and looked back at her. “Megan?”

Two hands grabbed Megan's arms. She jumped and opened her mouth to scream before realizing it was only the brothers, flanking her, guarding her.

Art insinuated himself across the garage, grinning. His movements made the air around her vibrate. How had she not felt this before, his power? It mingled with the wind whirling through the open walls of the building, lifting her hair from her shoulders, pressing her clothes to her body.

Brian's skin was an odd shade of yellowy-pale, washed out by the bug lights in the garage. “Are you okay?” His voice echoed off the cold cement.

She tried to reply but couldn't. Not when the black, oily-feeling energy of Art Bellingham was coming closer and closer to her. Maleficarum took a step forward, ready to shove Art away, but Megan stopped him. Not with Brian watching, not unless it became absolutely necessary.

“Megan.” He stood so close to her she stepped back. Her foot landed on something softer than floor, and Spud's faint gasp behind her told her she'd stepped on his toes.

“Hi, Art.” The words felt like marbles she was trying to spit out.

“Lovely to see you again.” He reached for her hand. She snatched it away and almost stumbled.

“You too. But we're just leaving.”

“Oh, no. I wanted to talk to you about when you're coming back to Fearbusters.”

“I'm not.”

“Of course you are. You know it, and I know it. Why fight it?”

All of the anger and fear and pain she'd experienced over the last few days suddenly crystallized in her breast. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway?

He thinks he's some supernatural being a hell of a lot more powerful than you are, Megan, and he's right about that, please just let it go and don't do anything stupid, you know your temper—

Too late. “I'll tell you why,” she said. “Because I don't know who or what you are, but I want nothing to do with you or any of your evil little buddies. Just leave me the hell alone and tell your friends to do the same, okay?”

She spun around, catching a glimpse of Brian's shocked face before she managed to turn her triumphant exit into a farce by walking directly into Spud.

“Oh, Megan,” Art said behind her. There was laughter in his voice. “I think if you're worried about evil, you ought to be more careful about the company you're keeping. Or have you not figured out yet who your Greyson Dante is?”

Malleus growled and stepped forward. Megan grabbed him. “Never mind.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

It's not smart to make me angry, Megan.
Art's voice in her head. Somehow he'd managed to get past her shields, so easily she didn't even feel him.
Little girls who make big speeches often find out they aren't half as strong as they think they are.

Something flared over her entire body, a choking, squeezing sensation that made bursts of light dance behind her eyes. Art laughed in her head.

She fled to her car, more certain than ever she'd just made a huge mistake.

 

“Y
OU KNOW,
you can trust me, Megan. How many times do I have to say it?” Brian shattered the silence as he stood up from the bench to throw his food wrapper in the garbage can a few feet away. They were on the riverwalk, a wide sidewalk dotted with benches and trees planted in circles of earth set in the cement. Another part of the millennium project, but one Megan liked a lot more than the fashionable strip.

After leaving the parking garage she didn't want to be inside, didn't want to be anywhere with a lot of people.
She needed air. They'd stopped off at a burger stand and sat down to eat.

“It's not personal.” It was all well and good for Brian to say she could trust him. It was even tempting to do so, until the thought of R
ADIO
C
OUNSELOR
B
ELIEVES
DE
MONS
W
ALK
A
MONG
U
S
made her close her mouth. “I'm just not comfortable with any of this.”

“Then I'm not doing my job.”

“Or I'm just being difficult.”

He smiled. “Maybe a little bit of both?”

“Sure.” At least he wasn't asking what the scene at the station was all about, though she knew he was dying to.

“Tell me about the Misters Brown,” he said, glancing at the bench next to them where the three brothers sat surrounded by piled-high hamburger wrappers. Between them they'd polished off at least three dozen. She had no idea how she was going to keep them fed for the next—week? Month? How long would she be living like this?

“Not much to tell. Friends of a friend.”

“Of Greyson Dante's?”

“What if they are?” Megan focused her attention on the river. The last rays of sunlight shone across its surface, making it look like molten gold moving slowly by. Picturesque, certainly, but Megan thought of riptides and underwater predators lurking in the depths. Once or twice a year somebody would try to swim across it. Few survived.

“They look like bodyguards to me. Are they?”

Megan shrugged. “Maybe after last night I felt like I needed some help to feel safe.”

“So you asked Greyson to help you.”

“What makes you think they have anything to do with Greyson?”

“Don't they?”

The breeze blew light strands of her pale hair across her face to tickle her nose and lips. Irritated, she tucked them behind her ear. “Why do you care? Maybe Greyson did help me find them. Friends help each other. They do favors for each other. Isn't that the way the world works?”

“It's how the mob works, if that's what you mean.”

“Stop trying to make this look sinister.”

“It isn't hard to make them look sinister.” Brian glanced at the brothers, who were scanning the sidewalk and surrounding area with their arms folded. “Look, Megan, I wasn't going to say anything, but I think you ought to know.”

“Know what?”

“About Dante. About his…connections.”

“Connections? As in, who he knows?”

“Connections, as in he's connected.” He leaned towards her and whispered. “Megan, your buddy is in the Mafia. Those guys are probably hit men or something.”