Personal Demons (22 page)

There was no point in wondering how they came to be there and she already knew why. The moonlight glanced off their bald heads, emphasizing the hollows of their eyes, the elven caverns of their mouths as they stood motionless on the rooftop opposite. Staring at Greyson's windows, staring at her.

She didn't know how long she stood, ridiculous in the too-big, open shirt, her bare skin turning to ice in front of the window and her hands still tangled in the sheers on either side. Watching them as they watched her, not even daring to blink.

You won't beat me, she thought, raising her chin in a defiant gesture she didn't think they could see. You won't beat me.

She stared them down until the sky started to lighten and they disappeared one by one, until the roof was bare and Greyson's sleepy voice came from the bedroom asking where she was.

T
he car pulled up to the curb and Megan took a step towards it. Greyson grabbed her hand and pulled her back for a kiss.

“Megan, I need you to know something.”

She nodded. The smile on her face faded as she looked into his dark, serious eyes.

“Whatever happens today, whatever happens at this little lunch meeting…I made the decision. And I knew what would happen when I made it.”

“What? I don't—”

“Shh.” He opened the back door, ready to help her in. “Just remember. Don't talk.” He glanced at the driver.

Megan nodded, but her blood ran icy. What did he think was going to happen? Or rather, what
was
going to happen, because he wouldn't warn her about something if he thought it was unnecessary.

At least he was telling her. She suppressed a twinge of guilt. She hadn't mentioned the demons watching his apartment last night. There hadn't been a good time. It wasn't that important.

The truth was, she'd been afraid to mention it. She didn't want to ruin an amazing morning, starting with mimosas and French toast and ending with a steamy shower
à deux
in which Megan learned that some fires were waterproof.

Now her feet were cold in the black, spike-heeled boots Maleficarum brought over for her. How he'd found them shoved in the back of her closet she didn't even want to think—she'd never worn them, they were a bit
too
black and spike-heeled—but find them he had. Along with a houndstooth skirt she thought she'd thrown away, a black turtleneck, and a red jacket; though, she had to admit she looked good. The outfit would never have occurred to her on her own.

The boys weren't riding with them. Megan twisted around in her seat to watch them following in her little Ford. At least they would be there, whatever happened, but Greyson's words sent a chill of foreboding down her spine that wouldn't go away, no matter how calmly he sipped a glass of wine from the basket on the seat of the car.

The driver had barely dropped them off before she turned to him.

“What are you talking about? What's going to happen?”

He took her hand. “There's no point in discussing it, Meg. It might not happen. Just remember what I said.”

“But—”

“Greyson! Miss Chase! Nice to see you both.”

“Hi, Temp. Megan, you remember Templeton Black.”

Megan nodded and smiled, her hands numb as she shook with Templeton Black and let the men lead her into the white mansion where Black lived.

If she hadn't been so nervous, the interior would have impressed her. Pure white walls rose high to the mosaic ceiling, the design of which Megan couldn't quite place. Something swirling, moving…just when she thought she had it, it disappeared, like one of those infuriating “Magic Eye” images. Megan could never really see whatever she was supposed to see in those pictures.

“It's a dragon,” Greyson said, leaning over. “The symbol of our Meegra.”

“Fire.”

He nodded.

“It's beautiful.”

“The whole house is beautiful,” he replied. “It's called
Iureanlier Sorithell,
the House of Flying Fire, and it belongs to the
Gretneg
of the Meegra. Right now that's Templeton. When he's gone…who knows?”

Something in the way he said it made Megan's skin prickle. What exactly was going on here? Greyson thought something horrible might happen, yet he still planned, or hoped, to become head of his family?

Then again, why would he not want to become head, if he could live in this place. Their footsteps clattered across the marble floors as they followed Templeton into a dining room the size of Megan's entire house. Here the walls were covered with ivory damask paper and oil paintings of what Megan guessed were former Gretnegs, frowning imperiously at her from their ornate frames.

Megan expected they would stop, but they did not, continuing instead to another room, green and gold, with soft leather chairs and a wide mahogany desk. Templeton motioned them to sit.

“Drink?”

She nodded as she sank into her chair, feeling like a little girl in a palace. Without asking what she preferred, Templeton brought her a gin and tonic. She glanced at Greyson.

“I noticed last night at the ball,” Templeton said. “You weren't far from me when you and that reporter ordered your drinks. I assume it's satisfactory? I have wine, if you prefer.”

“It's fine,” Megan said, taking a careful sip. Something told her it was best to stretch this one out.

Templeton handed Greyson Scotch and sat down with what looked like the same for himself. He cleared his throat.

“It's such a pleasure to have you in my home,” he said. Megan wished she could read him. “As I said last night, Greyson's told me so much about you. I suppose when it comes to you, he can't stop talking.” He chuckled.

Greyson didn't move, didn't react in any way, but Megan knew something was wrong. This was not a friendly brunch and Templeton Black had plans she didn't want anything to do with.

And she was trapped here. Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud, standing in the corner, were Templeton's employees. They couldn't help her, even if she begged them to.

“He hasn't told me much about you at all,” Megan said, widening her eyes. “Perhaps he talks about me, but I can't get anything out of him.”

Templeton's eyes narrowed. Just as it had the night before, a shadow of something passed over his broad, handsome features. Something Megan didn't like at all.

“I seriously doubt that, my dear,” he said, smiling as if nothing had happened. “But I hear you're quite close-mouthed yourself. Certainly I'm informed that reporter isn't having a lot of luck with you.”

“I think he's getting a good enough story,” Megan said, smiling as though she thought this was simply a little chat. How did he know what Brian was or was not getting? Her heart pounded loud enough for her to hear it, though, and she was worried they could to. How good was demon hearing? She'd never asked.

All she wanted at that moment was to be back home, alone under the covers with a book. She shivered.

“Cold?” Templeton waved his hand at the fireplace. Immediately a fire started burning merrily. “Better? Good. As for the reporter, I'm told he has some rather interesting abilities himself. Oh, Miss Chase—may I call you Megan? And you must call me Templeton—don't look like that. Surely you must have guessed I know all about your gift.”

“I—”

“Megan doesn't like to discuss the subject, Temp,” Greyson said.

“But there are some subjects she will have to discuss, aren't there? Some truths, hidden in the depths of time, that must come to light if we are to truly know how to proceed against the Accuser. Perhaps we could work out some sort of trade, do you think, Megan?” He said her name, but he was looking at Greyson. “You know that's how we do things, with our equals. Trade. Favors.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Templeton,” Megan said. “But I'm not a demon. So I don't know that I can participate in a trade.”

Templeton started to laugh. “Oh, I'm glad you've come to dine. Which reminds me, our meal should be served. As much as I'm enjoying myself, we do have more pressing matters, do we not?” He set his glass down with a thud.

Greyson's fingers were cool in hers as they walked back into the dining room. She'd never felt his skin anything but warm, almost to the point of hot. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but he stopped her with a warning glance.

“Remember what I said earlier,” he whispered as he ushered her into her chair.

Megan's forehead and underarms were damp despite the comfortable temperature in the room. Greyson hadn't wanted to do this to begin with. Now vague threats hung in the air and he knew what they were about but wouldn't tell her. Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud wouldn't meet her eyes. She felt like Alice in Wonderland at the Red Queen's court. This was definitely curiouser and curiouser, but she didn't think she'd be able to drink a potion and go back home. Or whatever it was Alice had done to get out of the rabbit-hole. She couldn't remember.

Servants in black and white with red caps brought heavy silver trays into the room, setting them on the wide marble-topped table, opening the lids with a flourish. Had Megan been hungry, the sight of all the food—roast pork and beef, roast potatoes, lobster salad, heaps of wonderful-smelling bread so fresh the steam still rose from its pale, spongy surface—would have thrilled her. Two pasta dishes, one Alfredo, one tomato, sat next to a bowl of black olives. There was broccoli, green beans, asparagus, and at the far end rested what looked like caviar. She'd never seen such a spread before.

As it was, she could only focus on their uniforms. Black, white, and red. The same colors she wore, the outfit picked by the brothers. She didn't think it was a coincidence.

The staff busied themselves serving everyone, but even when two heaping plates sat in front of Megan the table still groaned under the weight of the feast in the middle.

Politeness forced her to eat, though she could barely taste the food.

Maybe she was being foolish. Greyson ate with relish, and the brothers did too. Templeton polished off three plates full, all the while chatting to Megan about the ball the night before, about the food, about her practice. He asked excellent questions. If she hadn't been terrified she would have enjoyed the conversation. But Greyson wasn't speaking much and she'd never known him to be so silent.

Finally Templeton leaned back and dropped his napkin next to his last plate. “Well,” he said, nodding to the servants, who flew into action clearing plates, “I suppose it's time for us to discuss some business.”

The servants left. The table was still covered with food.

“We have a few more guests coming,” Templeton said. “They may want to eat. Greyson, perhaps you would like to go greet them?”

Megan's nerve endings crackled in the stiff silence. Finally Greyson nodded, catching Megan's eye. The brightest fire in the world couldn't have kept her from shivering as she read the warning.

“If you have other guests,” she said, using her calm radio voice, “perhaps we shouldn't stay. Greyson can take me home, and you can call me later.”

“But they're eager to meet you. And we still have much to discuss.”

Greyson hadn't even waited for this reply. The door closed behind him. Megan watched it, her eyes stinging.
I want to go home, I want to go home…

“So, my dear.” Templeton leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh. “I have much to tell you. To teach you. I can be of great help to you, if you'll let me.”

He sounded so much like the devil offering to buy her soul Megan had to bite her lip to keep from breaking into nervous laughter. “I appreciate the offer. But I think I'm okay on my own.”

“Oh? Do you think you can handle the Yezer Ha-Ra by yourself? Or the Accuser?” He leaned forward now, peering at her. She looked away. “Do you even know who the Accuser is, my dear? Or anything about him? I know Grey told you quite a bit about us and how we operate, but even he doesn't know anything about what you're up against.”

“Perhaps you could put it in a letter for me,” Megan said, stilling the restlessness in her legs by standing. “I really must go now.”

“Sit down.” The command in his formerly lazy voice was so strong her legs gave out beneath her before she realized it. “You may be able to play this clever little game with Greyson—he's always had a weakness for a pretty face—but it won't work with me. I know you're hiding some answers in that lovely blond head and I intend to get them. Do you understand?”

“I don't know anything—”

“Then we'll have to jog your memory.” He stood up and strode to a sideboard at the far end of the room, returning a moment later with a cigar and lighting it from the palm of his hand. “I'm sorry, do you mind if I smoke?”

The genuine concern in his eyes was such a contrast to the anger of a moment ago that Megan blinked. She shook her head.

“Thank you. I apologize for not asking before. It's been a while since I've had a visitor who doesn't indulge.” He gave her a little bow before continuing to speak. “As I said, Megan, I believe the memories we need, the information we need, is still there, in your head. But perhaps we need to resort to some more extreme measures in order to extract it.”

What sort of weapon did one use to fight a fire demon? Flour? She had no idea what would hurt them, even if she had access to anything more dangerous than a dessert spoon. She doubted seriously that would do any damage at all.

“Greyson could hypnotize me,” she said. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. “He said he probably could.”

“Hypnosis isn't a good idea.” Smoke puffed around Templeton's face. “We don't want you to relive the experience and we don't want to damage your subconscious. No, it's far better if we simply work with you to get at the memories, isn't it?”

Her head pounded. “You want to know about Harlan Trooper, don't you? That's the information you need, the memories you need. Because it was the Accuser in Trooper that night and somehow I called him.”

She didn't need his slow nod to tell her she was right. “Very good, Megan. See? I told you, you know more than you think. All it takes is a sense of urgency, a sense of need, to find out what we want to know. We won't be interrupted by a fiend this time, or some unhinged loser with a gun.”

How did he know about that day in the park? Had Greyson told him? But Greyson didn't know what she'd been discussing with Brian, did he?

Templeton picked up the silver bell on the table and rang it. “Now.” He smiled. “Once our guests are seated and served, we can begin.”

“Who are the guests?” Her drink beckoned to her, but she refused. Gin was not what she needed. She wanted coffee, or a Coke, something with caffeine and sugar.