by Stacia Kane
The worry deepened when she got to the small check-in area and saw the man standing there, holding a briefcase and smiling: Hunter Kyle. Definitely an attorney, but definitely not the one she’d called. They’d met a few months ago at a charity party and she’d seen him once or twice since, but…why was he here?
The officer behind the desk grabbed the manila envelope containing her possessions and handed it to her. “Check to make sure everything’s there, please, and sign here.”
She did. “What’s happening? I mean, did I have to post bond, or…?”
“The owners of the house declined to press charges.” He gave her a tight smile, an unfriendly one. “Lucky you.”
“Yeah…thanks.” Did it just bother cops when anyone got to go, or what? For a moment she contemplated reading him, but it didn’t matter. Who cared what he thought? She was free. She had to suppress the urge to skip through the bulletproof glass doors separating the booking area from the rest of the building. Innocent psychologists didn’t skip.
“Are you okay, Megan?” Hunter asked, taking her arm solicitously. “I got everything started as soon as I could, but it took some time for the homeowners to agree to drop the charges.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” They burst through the double doors into icy darkness, broken only by dim streetlights. The temperatures had hovered around freezing for weeks before finally sinking lower two days before. Her entire face felt chapped, stretched by the fierce wind. “Where’s my car?”
“I had one of the boys drive it to my place.” Greyson Dante emerged from the shadows outside the circles of light, like a villain in a James Bond movie. Megan hadn’t seen him in four days. It was a little embarrassing, how her heart leaped at the sight of him, his dark hair shining, his strong-boned face twisted in a little half smile as if he knew the effect his appearance had on her.
Which he probably did.
He extended his hand to Hunter. “Thanks, Hunt. I owe you one.”
Hunter smiled. Megan didn’t think he had any idea what exactly he was being promised; Hunter wasn’t a demon and so wasn’t familiar with the complex system of favors and promises they used. Greyson was powerful, even more now than he had been when she’d first met him. To be owed a favor by him…a lot of demons would have killed for that opportunity. Maybe some of them did.
Then again, maybe Greyson said it because he knew Hunter wouldn’t realize. Greyson never said or did anything without having more than one reason for it.
Her suspicion was confirmed when Hunter merely replied, “No trouble at all, I’m happy to help.”
Megan stood in the cold and bit her lip while the two men chatted for a minute, until Greyson slipped his arm around her waist and made their good-byes.
His black Jaguar wasn’t far away and she was grateful when they reached it. Her toes were numb.
Not so numb Greyson couldn’t still make them tingle. His lips, like the rest of his body, were blissfully warm, and the kiss he gave her sent shivers of flame up her spine—just like the real flames he could create from thin air any time he wished.
“You okay?” His thumb caressed her cheek while tiny sparks of red showed in his eyes.
She nodded. “A little freaked.”
“By being in jail, or by what happened to your demon in that house?”
“I…” Shit. She hadn’t told him what had happened, only that she’d been arrested by mistake. She hadn’t told him about the other demons either. “Both.”
He nodded and put her in the car, then got in on his side and started the engine. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I wasn’t. How did you—”
“Come on, Meg. Where do you think I’ve been?”
“What do you mean?”
The parking lot disappeared behind them as he sped down the street, past deserted office buildings with the white wires of Christmas lights draped across the windows. It was not yet eight o’clock, but nobody was in this section of downtown. Even the homeless had deserted the streets and found shelter from the cold.
“I went to convince those people not to press charges. It looked like a fucking abattoir in there.”
“I tried to clean up.”
“How thoughtful. Why haven’t you told me what’s going on? I hear this is the third one.”
“Why are you so mad at me? You said yourself, how I run my Meegra is my business.”
“Yes, how you run it. But when your demons start getting killed and demons in other Meegras start getting killed, it’s not just up to you anymore.”
“But I—what do you mean, other demons?”
“I mean, you’ve lost three. I lost one two days ago. House Concumbia have lost four, House Caedes Fuiltean two, everybody’s had at least one loss. I only found out about it today.”
“None of the others told you, then, so why—”
“I’m not sleeping with any of the others, either. I would have—Shit!”
Something thudded at the trunk end, like a large rock kicked up from the pavement. Greyson swerved so hard Megan fell against him despite her seat belt. Cold air flooded the car as he downshifted violently and sped up, jerking the wheel to the right and roaring down a narrow side road.
“What’s—”
“Get down, damn it, that was a gunshot!”
Chapter 2
What?” Megan jerked up in her seat, instinctively trying to look behind them, but his hand forced her head back down. Her ear pressed hard against the padded console.
Another shot. This time Megan heard it, heard the rear windshield shatter. She screamed, the sound ripped from her throat as Greyson cursed again and spun the wheel. She fumbled with her seat belt, wanting absurdly to crawl onto the floor and hide like a small child under her bedcovers at night.
Orange light filled the car, pulsing, disappearing and coming back as Greyson sent balls of flame into the car behind them.
He cursed. She popped up, unable to resist looking, and saw the flames extinguish, saw the black car behind them still racing along as if nothing had happened. Another tiny explosion happened inside their car. Again it disappeared and they advanced.
What sort of creatures were these, impervious to fire? Were they vregonis demons, like Greyson himself?
As if in answer to her question, the Jag filled with smoke, black and foul smelling. It filled her nostrils, stuck to her skin.
“Stay the fuck down! Cover your face!”
She ducked just as fire filled the car, burning away the smoke. Sweat broke out on her skin from the brief, intense blast of heat. “What was—”
“Open the glove compartment, get the gun.”
The car bounced over something, a pothole or speed bump. Megan’s arms flailed in the air. She’d tried to reach for the dashboard but the impact had sent her back against her seat.
Greyson made a sharp left. The Jag’s tires complained loudly about such rough treatment. Megan clutched at the center console to keep from hitting the door.
“Open the glove compartment, Meg, come on.”
“I’m trying!” The engine roared. The interior was bleached white by the headlights of the car behind them, switched on high. Greyson flipped the console lid up and grabbed his sunglasses, snapping them open and sliding them on to block the glare.
The car bounced again. Another gunshot broke the air, then another. Loud thunks came from the car and it shook with the impact; they were shooting the trunk, the roof, as Greyson swerved back and forth, trying to avoid the shots.
“Fuck! My car!” For the first time she felt his anger, a breeze colder than the air outside brushing over her skin.
Megan grabbed the handle with clumsy fingers and yanked open the glove compartment. Inside, Greyson’s leather gun case rested on the owner’s manual.
Light flared behind them. Megan turned and saw flames erupting from under the hood of the pursuing car as Greyson tried to make the engine explode. Even as she started to breathe a sigh of relief, the flames disappeared and t
he car lunged at them. She could almost see the figures inside, two shapes, pale flashes in the dark exterior. Maybe if she lowered her shields—
“Megan!”
“I’m trying to read them.”
“You won’t get anything. They’re not human. Just open the case.”
It took her three tries to grasp the slider and pull it down and another second to force herself to look at what lay inside the case. She knew he carried it, she’d seen it several times. But she’d never really thought about it before, about why he needed it or what he might do with it.
“Take out the gun. Be careful, it’s loaded. Take off your seat belt.”
“I can’t.”
“Do you want to die?”
“No!”
Greyson swerved again, riding up on the curb. They’d turned onto a busier road; horns honked and tires squealed around them. “Then get the fucking gun out now!”
Her mouth was so dry she didn’t think all the water in the world could help, but tears poured freely from her eyes. The gun sat heavy and cold in her hand, dwarfing her palm. She didn’t like guns, had never liked them, and Greyson once told her he didn’t particularly care for them either.
She turned around so her chest rested against the seat back.
It’s them or us, it’s them or us…
“Okay. Steady your arms on the back of the seat and look straight down them. Use your dominant eye and close the other one.”
She obeyed. “Okay.”
“Good. See those notches at the end of the barrel? Line up what you want to shoot between them. Then squeeze the trigger—don’t yank it, just squeeze it. Be ready, it’s going to kick back on you, so don’t lock your arms too hard.”
This felt unreal. She could do this, she could, she’d destroyed two zombies once with nothing more than a showerhead and some hair spray, she could definitely shoot these fuckers trying to kill her…
She took a deep breath and fired.
The Jaguar was going too fast for her to recoil far. Inertia, like a large hand, forced her body against the seat, but her arm kicked back. The gun’s report echoed in her ears, thundering all the way through her body. She couldn’t see where the shot had gone.
More black smoke filled the car. This time she acted instinctively, ducking forward while heat flared behind her back.
The car behind them swerved and sped up, its front end only inches from the Jag’s rear. Greyson jerked the wheel to the left. Megan fell against the door, her hair blowing wild around her face, obscuring her vision. The Jag bounced and lurched, cutting into the next lane, flying across the center divider and down another side road. Metal crashed against metal behind them.
“Okay, get my phone and hit one,” Greyson said. She couldn’t believe how calm his voice was, how through all of this he’d barely yelled at her despite the rage she felt simmering below his surface. Even now his face in profile didn’t reflect any anxiety save the slight tightening of his lips and a faint furrow in his brow. Whereas had she looked in a mirror she doubted she would have been able to recognize herself.
She obeyed, the sleek little phone much friendlier in her hand than the gun now resting on her lap. The other end rang once, twice, before a familiar Cockney voice answered.
“Malleus! Malleus, we’re being chased, they’re shooting—”
“Tell him where we are and we’re heading for the reservoir,” Greyson interrupted. “Tell him to meet us at exit twenty-two.”
She’d barely finished repeating this when Malleus hung up.
“Are they gone?”
Her answer was another gunshot. The aluminum accents on the dash broke with a sharp, loud crack. Megan’s hands flew up to cover her face. Greyson said something, but she didn’t understand him.
“Shoot them again.” Roughness underscored his tone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just shoot!”
She braced her heels against the underside of the dash and raised the gun again, shaking with adrenaline and fear.
“Shoot the grill!”
She did, aiming as best she could, but just as she squeezed the trigger the car shot forward. Greyson jerked the wheel to the right and Megan fell onto him. His gasp was audible even over the screaming engine and the rushing of blood in her ears.
The world spun dizzyingly around the car; they were turning in a full circle, leaving ink-black tire marks on the street. Before Megan even had a chance to duck they’d sideslipped the black car and passed it, heading back the way they’d come. Flames leaped up behind them, completely obliterating the road.
They went right, taking the turn wide, almost ramming a truck coming through the intersection. The truck’s horn added to the cacophony of sounds around them.
“Did we lose—”
The black car flew around the corner, its tires still burning. Without being told she raised the gun, her fingers working of their own accord as they pulled the trigger. This long smooth stretch of road was the best chance she’d have.
This time she hit something. The black car lurched sideways, the dim shapes inside moving. A ball of blue-white fire came out of nowhere and slammed into the grill, through the grill, flames licking the top of the hood from beneath. Black smoke poured out, then as Megan watched, the smoke formed itself into a shape like an arrow and aimed at the Jag, only to vanish in another conflagration.
Her eyes burned from the horror and heat. She shot again, not knowing how many bullets were even left in the gun. More smoke, white now, came from the car behind them. Still it burned. Hope blossomed in her breast.
“Hang on,” Greyson said, spinning the wheel. The Jag slipped up an entry ramp onto the highway, the black car still following but slower now, lurching forward. Its tires exploded in a mass of flames. The car leaped in the air, forced up from the blast, and landed on its side against the retaining wall of the ramp. Megan watched until Greyson merged into traffic, but the car didn’t move again.
“Oh my God, oh my God, who were they? Why were—”
Pale gray light from the streetlamps flashed into the car and out, like a slow-motion strobe, highlighting the black splatter of blood on the charcoal dashboard, the gleaming river of it soaking Greyson’s sleeve.
“I’m fine,” he said again, just as he had so many times in the last hour as they drove all over the city to make sure they weren’t being followed. Megan stopped just inside the dimly lit white entry hall of Iureanlier Sorithell, the mansion on the outskirts of town belonging to the Gretneg of Greyson’s Meegra.
Right now that was Greyson, at least in theory. Since his takeover of the position had involved handing the former Gretneg, Templeton Black, over to the supernatural law enforcement agency known as Vergadering, some members of his Meegra doubted his integrity. The other Gretnegs were still debating whether or not to allow him to have that much power and authority.
It was a battle she knew he was still fighting, but one they didn’t discuss. She’d never asked, and she doubted he would give her a straight answer if she did. It was his business, just like the changes she’d been implementing in her Meegra were hers. Although she knew he didn’t approve of them, he’d never once told her so, or tried to change her mind when she made a decision.
“You’re getting blood all over the floor,” she said, following him through the small crowd of rubendas—members of his Meegra—who stood waiting. Clearly the wound wasn’t serious, but the sight of it still made her nervous. Uncomfortable.
Especially since something deep inside her, some small part she refused to acknowledge, liked seeing it. Liked the contrast of dark red blood on the white marble floor. Wanted to touch it, to raise fingertips smudged with it to her lips and taste it, spicy and tinged with smoke.
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.