Demon Inside

by Stacia Kane

  Horrified, she looked away, swallowing hard. Her eyes caught those of one of the rubendas and saw the same yearning reflected there.

  Her heels clicked on the floor as she hurried to catch up with Greyson, staring resolutely at his sharp profile. Malleus strode along beside him, carrying the overnight case he’d gone to her house and packed for her. Through the open door of the kitchen she saw Maleficarum and Spud opening a large bag and setting out silvery instruments on white cloths.

  Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud were guard demons—brothers—terrifically strong and tough, with self-healing powers accelerated even beyond those of normal demons; she’d seen them lose enough blood to kill a man and do a jig three hours later. But they’d spent some time learning emergency medical procedures as well, especially over the last three months. They were among the few demons Greyson really trusted, so their duties under his rule had increased from simple bodyguards to something more like personal assistants.

  “Mr. Dante?”

  Megan and Greyson both stopped. Megan turned around to see the rubenda who’d caught her eye earlier step cautiously forward and gesture to the droplets on the floor.

  “Mr. Dante, can I have your blood?”

  Angry mutterings broke out in the small crowd of demons near him. Megan’s mouth fell open, but when she looked back at Greyson he stood perfectly calm, as if the other demon had asked him about the weather.

  “No,” he said, and strode into the kitchen without looking back.

  Her feet sank into the soft pale carpet as she paced back and forth, trying to somehow walk the adrenaline out of her system. Whiskey had taken the edge off, but her mind still raced.

  From the way Greyson’s eyes tracked her movements she knew he was well on his way to being drunk. He slouched in his heavy chair by the wall, shirtless, his bandaged arm resting on pillows beside him. His other hand clutched yet another drink.

  “I really don’t think painkillers and booze are a great combination, Greyson, why don’t you—”

  “Why don’t you let it go?” he snapped. That, more than anything else, told her how unnerved he’d been by their experience. Greyson almost never lost his temper.

  She stared at him for a minute, then kept walking. Tension hung in the air between them, weighing Megan down even more fully than she was already. She’d found another of her demons exploded all over some suburban home, she’d been arrested, she’d gone to jail, she’d almost been killed…and she’d had the bizarre and unfortunately not unfamiliar desire to lick her boyfriend’s blood. A desire shared by at least one demon in the house, if not more.

  “Sit down, bryaela,” Greyson said softly. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “I can’t sit. I’m too nervous.”

  “We could lie down.”

  Her laugh sounded slightly hysterical in her ears. “Is this really the time?”

  “It’s as good a time as any, isn’t it?” He stood up and crossed the room to her, capturing her between his hard warm body and the heavy dresser behind her. “You’re here, I’m here…I believe you’re familiar with the bed—”

  “We almost got killed tonight. After I went to jail!”

  “Mmm, that’s so sexy.” His lips tickled her ear, then traced a path down the side of her neck, stopping so he could scrape her skin with his teeth. “You bad, bad girl.”

  She didn’t intend to respond, but did, meeting his lips with a ferocity that stunned her. Her arms slid up under his so her fingertips could run over the tiny sgaegas—dull little spikes—covering his spine. Goose bumps broke out on his skin under her hands.

  He gripped her waist with his right hand and pulled her closer, pressing his erection against her belly while his left hand tangled in her hair. She raised herself on tiptoe, forcing him to kiss her harder, wanting to forget everything and lose herself in him.

  Heat exploded in her chest, in her stomach, working its way to points lower. Her fingers yanked at his belt. The entire night—the shame, the terror, her failure to protect her demons—disappeared in a haze of need so strong she thought she might die from it.

  She shoved his pants down and grabbed his cock, hot and heavy in her palm. His breath rasped into her mouth, onto her throat, as he pulled away enough to lift her shirt.

  One quick move slid it over her head, and another adroit twist unfastened her bra. It slid down her shoulders and he pulled it all the way off, then pressed his chest to hers, forcing her hips harder against the dresser. She caressed his back, down the hard muscles of his behind, forward again to stroke him where she knew he’d appreciate it the most, and all the while her heart beat with fire and fear and the need for oblivion.

  He lifted her up, his powerful hands curving under her thighs, and propped her on the edge of the dresser.

  “Your arm,” she gasped. “Be careful.”

  “Hush.” His mouth caught hers again while he undid the button of her trousers and lowered the zipper. Underneath she wore a tiny scrap of black silk he’d bought her on his last trip to Paris. Greyson liked to give gifts, especially gifts he could remove later.

  She started to lower herself from the dresser but he stopped her, bracing her back with one hand while he used the other to peel the panties off and drop them on the floor.

  “I thought you wanted the bed,” she whispered.

  “Changed my mind.”

  Her head fell back as he thrust into her, gripping her hips with both hands. She clutched the short, soft hair at his nape, twisting it between her fingers and bringing him closer. His mouth hovered not half an inch from hers, his eyes glowing red and staring into her, through her.

  “Meg…”

  He dove closer, capturing her lips, invading her with his tongue, and the flames in her body leaped higher. Their mouths fused together as he thrust, keeping his pace steady, but she felt his arms shaking and the loose urgency of his lips and knew this wouldn’t last, couldn’t last, that the fear and pain which made her want to escape acted like an aphrodisiac for him.

  Her hips left the dresser. She braced herself with her hands on the smooth, cool surface and wrapped her legs around his waist while he held her up, moving her pelvis in slow circles so he hit all the right spots deep inside her. She tensed, her thighs urging him on, begging for more.

  His grip shifted, freeing his right hand so he could slide it down between them, and that was all she needed. Her back arched, shoving her hips farther forward, and she cried out as her body shuddered and clenched with release.

  He joined her moments later, his fingers digging into her skin so hard it hurt, his entire body shaking, her name on his lips.

  They stayed like that for a long, lost minute, their foreheads pressed together and their breath slowing in unison, until her arms started to cramp and she lowered her feet to the ground.

  He brushed her cheek with his fingers, then bent to retrieve her panties, handing them to her as he pulled his trousers back up.

  “How’s your arm?”

  He shrugged, but the quick smile he gave her warmed her heart just as surely as he’d warmed her entire body moments before. “Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll be fine in the morning. Good thing too. I have to go to New York on Monday, and there’s a bunch of stuff to organize before that.”

  “But—I mean, aren’t you worried?”

  He picked up the half-full glass he’d left on the little table by his chair and drank it off. “Why? Harrel’s a good pilot, and—”

  “Somebody tried to kill us, Greyson. Aren’t you worried about that?” She grabbed one of his T-shirts from his drawer and yanked it over her head. Exhaustion started sinking into her bones, and the bed had never looked more inviting—almost never, anyway. But although the memory of the car chase and its attendant panic had faded, thinking about it didn’t do her nerves any good.

  “They weren’t trying to kill us, darling. Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “They did a pretty good imitation.”

  “No.” He poured himsel
f another drink, and a shadow crossed his face. “That was just a warning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they were witches. If they’d wanted us dead, we’d probably be dead.”

  Chapter Three

  I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no way I could have defeated those witches so easily if they’d really wanted to kill us,” he said. “Not unless they were just a couple of kids hunting demons for a lark, which we know isn’t the case.”

  “How do we—oh. The jail. They knew I was there.”

  He nodded. “And they knew I’d come for you. They were too powerful to be kids, too.”

  “The police said someone called them and told them there was a dead body in that house. Do you think the witches might have called? That they’re the ones killing the demons?”

  “I don’t think so, no. I think our little friends just took advantage of the situation.” He emptied his glass again. Worry started creeping up Megan’s spine. He looked as if he was bracing himself for something, as if he was trying to forget. Even with a demon’s metabolism, which she knew was pretty good, four Percocet and half a bottle of Bushmill’s couldn’t be helping him think faster.

  What was bothering him so much?

  “Why did they come after us? Why would witches want to ki—warn us?”

  “Me, not us, if I’m right—and of course I am. I’m taking care of it, so don’t worry.”

  If she pressed him he would tell her, but now it felt like an invasion of his privacy. Which was probably his intent.

  “So who is doing it? Killing the demons, I mean?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

  The chill air swirling around her legs was starting to make her uncomfortable. Greyson kept the room ice cold, and usually she preferred it that way too because he was so warm all the time. But there was no point in standing here shivering. She climbed into bed instead, not realizing until she slid between the heavy silk sheets how hard it was to keep her eyes open. “Rocturnus said they used to be punished this way, with the explosions.”

  “Did he?” He poured another glass.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “So for the Yezer this is normal?” She could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘normal,’ but I guess it’s not unheard of. Isn’t it the same for the rest of you?”

  “Did he say who used to do it? Was it the Accuser or—”

  “Are you going to answer my questions, or what?”

  “If you answer mine. Who used to punish them that way?”

  “Roc didn’t say. Do you all blow up? I mean, should I expect you to explode one of these days?”

  “Only if you don’t do everything I say, all the time.”

  Her fist gripped his pillow. His reflexes were a little slower, maybe, from the injury and the chemicals. She might be able to hit him with it if she moved fast enough…

  His eyes gleamed. Damn it. “Where is Roc, anyway?”

  “Checking on the others. I kind of wanted some privacy while I was—”

  “Rotting in jail.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “You put it so nicely.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t take the bait. “Do you remember anything else he said?”

  “No. Why?”

  He glanced at the clock by the bed. “It’s past one. You should get some sleep.”

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  “Eventually. I have a few things to do first.”

  She expected him to get up and head back down to his office, but he didn’t. He was still sitting in his chair, drinking and watching her, when she drifted off to sleep.

  Wings of fatigue beat behind her eyelids three hours later as they walked into the casino. Her entire body ached. All she wanted to do was go back to bed.

  Unfortunately, for reasons she still couldn’t seem to get straight in her sleep-muddled head, that wasn’t possible. Instead she was here, making her way across the floor under scarily intense white lights and the watchful gazes of at least a dozen demons.

  She’d been to the casino only once before, when Greyson was doing some work and called her to meet him for lunch. It had been daytime then, the casino a dark silent room waiting for the crowds.

  Now the crowds were there. The floor roared with bells and shouts and the harsh bright rattle of poker chips hitting each other. So much noise in such a small space made her head hurt. She didn’t even know how all of these people knew about the place. The demons, yes. But at least half of the shoulders crammed up against the craps and card tables had Yezer Ha-Ra perched on them. It bothered her. She didn’t know much about Greyson’s various legal enterprises, and even less about the illegal ones, but she’d assumed this one—illegal—was demon-only.

  He stopped when she did, and followed her gaze. “You’re not the only human who knows demons,” he said quietly. “Just the only one who knows what we are.”

  She tried to smile. “I knew I was special. Where’s Gerald?”

  He nodded toward the back. “They managed to get him into one of the storerooms. Come on.”

  His hand in hers reassured her as he led Megan through the room, past a roulette wheel and a long, well-lit bar where several pretty young ladies served drinks. They smiled as Greyson walked past, their big eyes following him. To Megan they gave the barest of nods, not daring to ignore her completely.

  Two guards stood outside a nondescript doorway. “Mr. Dante,” said the first. “He’s inside.”

  “This is Dr. Chase,” Greyson replied. “He asked for her?”

  “Yeah, he seemed, I don’t know, really off,” said the second. Both of them kept their eyes averted, she noticed, and shuffled their feet. “He sounded like he was speaking our language, but…not.”

  “Like a weird dialect,” the first added. “Then English again.”

  Greyson and Megan exchanged glances. One of her clients speaking the demon tongue? She couldn’t even speak it, not more than a couple of words anyway. “Bryaela,” of course, although why anyone but Greyson or John Wayne would call someone “pilgrim” she had no idea. He said it was because she was like a little explorer in a new world, but that wasn’t exactly a satisfactory explanation. “Sheshissma,” she knew, but he only used that one when he was feeling particularly amorous, so she’d never had the guts to repeat it.

  In fact, now that she thought of it, the only words she knew seemed to be essentially useless outside the bedroom. Maybe he’d agree to give her lessons, or if he wouldn’t, Rocturnus would.

  Speaking of whom, where was he?

  “Did he say anything else?” Greyson asked.

  The second guard shook his head. “No, sir, he just started crying and asking for Dr. Chase. He didn’t want to come in here at first, but…” he glanced uneasily at Megan. “We, uh, convinced him. He was strong too.”

  “Let me in,” she said, hating the way he waited for Greyson’s nod before opening the door. Bad enough she’d managed to get herself involved in this demon underworld of violence and crime. Now innocent people were mixed up in it, people who came to her for help and instead got roughed up in a storeroom.

  A storeroom in a casino, which didn’t make any sense. Gerald wasn’t a gambler. She’d never even read the slightest interest in gaming from him, unless you counted the occasional football pool at his office, and even that was simply his trying to fit in. Which was good, because he lost every time.

  Still he was a nice man, a good man, and he deserved better than this. A kind, gentle—wait a minute.

  “Did you say he was strong? That you had to fight to get him in here?”

  The guard nodded. Muscles bulged from every inch of his body. He was like a demon Conan, with a smaller chin. Gerald—the Gerald Megan knew—would have been a snack for him.

  She pushed the door open and entered the small, dingy storeroom, half hoping, half expecting to see a stranger in there, someone pre
tending to be Gerald.

  But no, it was Gerald. Cowering in the corner, his bare feet scraped and dirty and a bruise marring his narrow little face.

  “Megan! Megan!” He scrambled across the floor toward her like a broken-legged crab, his limbs jerking under his clothes. She jumped back. The unnatural movement sent shivers up her spine.

  Gerald stopped, glancing up at her. His expression was innocent, fearful, but something in his eyes…Megan lowered her shields to read him. Maybe he was on some kind of drug, maybe he’d gotten hold of something…

  Nothing. No images came, no stray thoughts, no flashes of emotion. Fear chased the last of her sleepiness away. This wasn’t right, not at all. She’d always been able to read Gerald, he was a heavy transmitter, and the only times she’d gotten nothing at all from a person were when they weren’t actually people at all, but demons…

  Gerald’s eyes glowed. Just for a second, but long enough for Megan to see it. Without thinking she turned the energy she was using to read him into a shield, a weapon, and aimed it at him.

  The pressure of the hit reverberated through her entire body, but Gerald only wavered in place. Trying not to let fear overwhelm her, Megan braced herself, certain she was about to be hit back, and hit hard. The place deep inside herself that she saw as a door, the one she’d only opened once before in her life, seemed to throb and glow, wanting her to open it, to reach into it and through it to the personal demons. This was where they connected to her, this was where she knew without thinking that she could harness their power. It would be so easy, so simple to open it and let the demon inside her take over…

  But so wrong. So scary. Just the idea of it made her shake. Instead she forced everything she had into shielding herself and ducked down, her knees slamming against the dusty cement floor, the doorjamb against her shoulder.

  Screams filled the room, high-pitched squeals of delight that sent shivers up her spine. They reached a piercing crescendo, hurting Megan’s ears, making her scrunch herself into a tighter ball, her heart pounding with terror and her entire body braced for the pain she knew was coming any second—but something inside her wanted to scream too, wanted to leap in the air and dance. The desire beat in her chest, so strong and fierce she screamed herself and wrapped her arms around her ribs. She couldn’t hold on, couldn’t keep herself from bursting into flame—