by Stacia Kane
She opened her mouth to protest, but decided against it. Assassination attempt, remember? “Thanks.”
One last kiss, like a faint breeze over her lips, and he stepped back to watch her slip inside the house. She wished he hadn’t decided to go. Some nights she liked having her bed all to herself, but this wasn’t one of them.
She’d just shrugged off her coat when she heard a key scraping in the lock and turned to see Greyson opening the door.
“Fuck it,” he said, striding across the room to take her in his arms. “I can sleep on the plane.”
“This is Gerald’s file.” She handed the photocopies in their new manila folder to Maureen Boehm, Gerald’s pale and pink-eyed sister. The woman’s pain colored the air and beat against Megan’s skin, even with her shields up as far as they would go.
Usually she only felt anger like that, and then only demon anger. Unhappiness like this she could shut off completely—had to be able to if she wanted to do her job.
Megan turned her attention to Detective Walters, cool and silent next to the shaky Mrs. Boehm. Walters had the sort of stocky confidence Megan associated with cops, especially those who’d been on the job for a few years. She wondered for the first time if cops developed shields like hers, if somehow without realizing it they covered themselves up and tried to dissociate themselves from the emotions of the people they dealt with.
It wouldn’t have surprised her. Most good cops had some psychic ability themselves, though they never realized it. That was one reason she didn’t read them.
Not that she often had the chance. She hadn’t been around this many policemen in this short a period of time in fifteen years.
“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do, Detective,” she said. “And Mrs. Boehm, I’m so sorry.” Her voice shook. Mrs. Boehm would never know how sorry Megan really was. “Gerald was a very sweet, kind man. I liked him.”
“Thank you.” The woman turned to go, her tightly curled brownish hair in its stiff helmet, making her head look oddly like a mushroom from behind, then stopped. Before Megan knew what was happening, Mrs. Boehm threw herself at Megan, the file pressed between them and her free hand clutching Megan’s arm so hard Megan thought she would bruise.
“Why did he do it? Why did he do it? I knew he was unhappy, but…” The words became unintelligible, then turned into sobs.
Megan’s heart twisted. This was her fault, all her fault; because of her, Gerald had been targeted. Whatever it was that wanted to get to Megan had used him and his poor body couldn’t stand the pressure.
“I don’t think he did, ma’am,” Megan said. “For what it’s worth, I—”
“Megan.” Hunter, sitting calmly in the corner, straightened up a bit. His warning was clear: Don’t say things like that.
But she couldn’t help it. Not when this woman was so brokenhearted and Megan could offer her some sort of assurance. She knew the investigation would finally rule natural causes. That would comfort Gerald’s sister—when the result came back, which could be several weeks away. Megan wanted her to feel better now. Itched to make her feel better now, with an urgency she realized stemmed from some unnameable discomfort.
“You don’t?” Mrs. Boehm straightened up and turned her big, watery brown eyes to Megan’s, and before Megan knew what was happening her shield dropped, just a little, like a reflex she couldn’t control. The other woman’s pain washed over her, cold and wet, and slid through Megan’s skin, down her throat, into her pores.
It filled her up, filled her the same way the personal demons’ power had filled her two days before. Lights sparked behind her eyes; she had to force herself not to smile. Mrs. Boehm tasted so good, that unhappiness, so rich and thick, like nectar—
Suppressing a scream, Megan pulled herself back. Her chest ached like she’d just run a marathon, her palms felt sweaty, her skin cold.
If anyone else noticed what had happened, they didn’t indicate it. She forced herself to smile reassuringly, as if her life as she knew it wasn’t ending. “I don’t,” she said. “And he loved you. He talked about you often.”
Mrs. Boehm started crying again; Megan could barely understand her thanks as she and the detective left the office. Megan stood for a minute, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth, until her heart slowed its frantic beating.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Megan.” Hunter stood up and came closer to her but not too close, as if he wasn’t sure what he should be doing. His hand fell heavy on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She paused. “Could you wait here for me, please? And get me some boxes from the storeroom next door?”
“Of course.”
Megan took a deep breath, blinked back her tears, and walked down the hall to tell her partners she was quitting.
Chapter 7
From the outside, Vergadering headquarters looked like any other office building, with its 1970s brick facade and large reflective windows. The plastic-letter directory board in the foyer listed several different businesses, but Megan suspected they were only dummies.
She reached for the handset of the pay phone mounted on the wall, waited for the dial tone, and hit 8843, just as Tera had told her to when she’d called earlier, depressed and lonely.
“Tera Green.”
“Hi, it’s me, I’m downstairs.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Megan waited, glancing out the glass door to see Malleus still sulking on the sidewalk outside. He’d refused to even enter the building, despite the cold. And if she were honest, she hadn’t really wanted him to. He’d been very kind, more than kind, all morning as he and Hunter helped clear out her office. He’d even given her the world’s most awkward hug—the first time aside from actually saving her life that he’d touched her to do more than magically set her lipstick.
Too bad he’d made himself uncomfortable for nothing. The ache in her chest couldn’t be healed with a hug. Somehow, without Megan realizing it, she’d become such a danger to her clients that she could no longer involve herself with them.
Because her involvement could get them killed. Because that piece of demon inside her chest, the piece she’d been trying to deny, wanted to feed off their pain. Just like it wanted to feed on rare steak or Greyson’s blood or the hot red energy from couples making out in dark corners—
She shook her head, shook her shoulder, pushing it away. She was still in control, wasn’t she? That’s why she’d quit her job. If the demon was in charge she would have stayed, right? Would have treated her clients like a fucking smorgasbord and licked her fingers afterward.
No. She was in control. She, Megan Alison Chase. Human being.
“Hey.” The door behind her opened. Tera’s blue eyes scanned Megan up and down. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously. You really do.”
Megan nodded. “Yes, thank you, Tera. Am I coming in, or—”
Tera hesitated. “I—”
“Oh, oh, right, of course. I can’t, can I? Because of the demon thing.”
Tera smiled as if the sarcasm had passed right over her head. Which it probably had. “Thanks for understanding.”
They were halfway to the parking lot and Megan’s little Focus when Tera stopped. “Shit! I forgot to—I forgot to sign something, and it needs to be done by three. It’ll only take me a second, do you mind?”
Megan shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Malleus scowled as they watched Tera retreat. “Just like a witch,” he said. “Ain’t got ’er mind on ’er work.”
“Now, Malleus, Tera is—”
“I know what she is, m’lady, and you oughta too. Mr. Dante says it’s none of our mind ’oo you’re friends with, but me an’ Lif an’ Spud, we don’t fink—m’lady?”
Megan barely heard him. The Vergadering building loomed over an alley on its right, and at the end of the alley rested a black sedan, gleaming in the lone ray of hard winter sunlig
ht sneaking between Vergadering and the lower roof of the strip mall next door.
Surely she was seeing things. It couldn’t be the same car. Logically it couldn’t be, whether it had been witches chasing them or not. But it drew her just the same, and she started toward it before she had time to think.
“M’lady, where you going?”
She didn’t look back. Tera would be out in a couple of minutes and she wanted to get a look at that car.
The tires weren’t even dusty yet. The windshield still had a sticker on it. New black paint shone. It was the same sedan, had to be.
Greyson would be royally pissed when he found out they’d gotten their car back before he had his Jag.
She reached out to touch it, to see if she could get some kind of reading from it. She’d never been able to do it before…But she knew someone who could.
He’d probably get nothing, just as she did now. The smooth, slick surface of the hood yielded no secrets. Witches, like demons, were generally unreadable, although not quite as much so. But there was something else Brian Stone could help her with. She dug in her purse for a pen.
“What’re you doing? You come away from ’ere before somebody sees you.” Malleus reached for her arm, then pulled back.
“I’m taking this car’s license plate number.”
Malleus looked puzzled.
“I think—” No. Who knew what his reaction would be if she shared her suspicions? She didn’t know if Greyson had mentioned witches in connection with the car chase or not. Better to let it go. “Just never mind. It’ll only take a second.”
Quickly she scribbled the number on the back of an old receipt and tucked it into the zippered interior pocket of her bag, then strode back up the alley with Malleus trailing behind like a bulky, disapproving shadow.
They met Tera just as she hit the parking lot, and headed off for lunch with a new secret worry buzzing in Megan’s head. If witches were involved—Vergadering witches—what did that mean?
“Did you get the address?”
“Yes. Can I take my coat off before I give it to you?”
“No. Come on, I want to go there.”
Brian followed her back out the door—trailed by Malleus and, though Brian couldn’t see him, Rocturnus. Roc tended to creep Brian out. He didn’t like the reminder of what hovered by his head.
They all piled into Megan’s car, Malleus squeezing himself into the backseat with a grumble. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this.”
Part of Megan agreed. This probably wasn’t a good idea. But she’d just left her job, the practice she’d worked so hard to build up, and if she wanted to do something dangerous she was going to fucking do it. Why not? Who cared? What difference did it make what she did?
“So what’s so important?” Brian asked as Megan pulled out onto the street.
“Never mind.” She glanced at the slip of paper he’d given her. “Just come on. I need you to try and read a car.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, Brian, I’m playing a practical joke on you. Of course I’m serious. Would we be out in the freezing cold if I wasn’t serious?”
“What do you expect me to get off a car?”
“I don’t know. Anything might help. You can read inanimate objects, right? Connect with them?”
She knew he could. He’d once used a wristwatch to communicate with Greyson.
“I can connect with my own stuff. It has to be around me for a while before I can use it.” Seeing her glare, he continued quickly, “But yes, I can read inanimate objects. Sometimes.”
“Good. So we go to this address, you read the car, and we decide where to go from there.”
“Is this illegal, Megan?”
“Is touching a car against the law?”
“No, but—”
“It’s not illegal. Why would we be doing something illegal?”
“Why did you break into a house last week?”
“I didn’t break in; the door was unlocked, and—oh, never mind. The homeowners didn’t press charges, anyway.” She glanced at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t call me. I imagine you found out about it, what, within five minutes of its happening?”
“About that. Turn here, I think.”
She did. “How’s Julie?”
Brian’s girlfriend Julie was a police officer. Megan was fairly certain she was the one who’d traced the plates, but she didn’t want to say anything outright.
Since the week Brian had been assigned to write a profile of her for a gossipy local magazine, his reputation as a journalist had grown. Not from the profile, of course. That was a cheap puff piece, forgotten by the public as soon as it became birdcage liner. But because of his help in defeating the Accuser, who’d been posing as a mild-mannered local therapist named Arthur Bellingham. Megan and Brian had decided to cover the truth by concocting what Megan thought was a rather ridiculous tale about Bellingham’s secret Satanism and his using his therapy group to conduct mysterious rituals.
The fake story had, ironically, given Brian what he’d long desired: real journalistic integrity and a reputation for finding a good story. Now he was a full-time staff reporter for the city’s biggest daily newspaper.
Too bad, in a way. If Brian hadn’t been so—well, so nosy—Megan could have told him what was going on. If he hadn’t been so straight-laced she still might have considered it, but he made no secret of his disapproval of her involvement with demons. Like Tera, he understood she had no choice when it came to the Yezer Ha-Ra. The others, though…
“She’s fine, thanks,” Brian said. “Looks like she might be in line for a promotion. Working a big investigation at the moment, so if it pans out, she’ll be in.”
“How great, tell her I hope she gets it.”
“Tell her yourself. We’re spending Christmas Eve together, you could come over too.”
“Can’t. Thanks, though.”
They chatted about Julie and her work and Brian’s next story for a few minutes while Megan navigated the cold, silent streets. Christmas lights and decorations sparkled on most houses they drove past, giving their casual conversation a festive air. Christmas always felt like secrets and excitement to Megan, even though it had been years since she’d had a holiday filled with either.
Four-twenty-seven Old Barle loomed in front of them, a large apartment building in a rundown part of town. The area was just starting to be gentrified; here and there rainbow flags flew, but for the most part it was still shabby and dark, a street full of graffiti and car parts.
Their breath puffed clouds of white into the air as they slid silently out of the car, closing the doors with careful hands.
For a minute, Megan thought the sedan wasn’t there and silently cursed herself. She hadn’t wanted to try Vergadering first, assuming they’d have guards and eyes on the street at all hours. Maybe that was a mistake.
Then she saw it, parked about half a block down in front of a boarded-up house. She grabbed Brian’s arm and pointed. He nodded. Malleus glowered.
Keeping to the shadows, they sneaked along the sidewalk, avoiding bottles and debris as they went. Brian stripped off his glove and put his hand on the car.
A minute went by. Two. Brian shook his head. “I’m getting a lot of stuff about the people who fixed it recently,” he whispered. “Tires, bodywork, radiator and engine, paint job. But nothing about anyone who drove it. Sorry.”
“I didn’t think you would.” So Greyson had been right, not that she’d doubted him. They were witches.
But as far as she knew, all witches strictly obeyed Vergadering rules. So why would two witches have been trying to kill them?
Unless another demon/witch war was about to break out, which she simply didn’t believe. Tera would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t she?
“Can we go now? You promised me hot buttered rum if I got the address for you.”
“Megan.” A little tug at her sleeve.
She sighed. “Yeah, I guess. At least I—”
/> “Megan.” Another tug, harder this time. She glanced down.
Rocturnus stood next to her on the street, his eyes wide with terror, his finger outstretched to point to another Yezer stumbling toward them in the middle of the road.
Even at a distance she knew something was wrong. It—the little demon—wasn’t walking right. Its limbs jerked oddly, as if it was trying to take bigger steps than its body would allow. The movements of its hands reminded her of Gerald and the terrible scuttling movements he’d made in the storeroom. Its skin rippled, the movements in the moonlight horribly like roaches crawling.
“Megan?” Brian sounded very far away. “What’s going on, Megan?”
She had to force her mouth to work. “A demon.”
“A—oh, damn it! I should have known. What are you mixing me up in this time? I should be—”
“Shut up, Brian.” Malleus kept trying to move in front of her, to usher her back to her car, but she resisted. The little demon kept moving, getting closer, its eyes glowing red, like the traffic light blinking on and off at the end of the deserted street.
She took a step forward. She thought she knew what was happening, was certain she knew, and resisted the urge to cringe. Any minute the explosion would come. Any minute the street would be covered in blood and body parts, steaming in the icy air.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Brian said, in a different voice. “Megan, this feels really off.”
He was right. She felt it too, even with her shields up. The temperature around them seemed to have dropped a good ten degrees. She pulled her coat closer, but took another step.
The little demon’s grin stretched across its face. Too wide, like someone had carved a bastard smile into the flesh of its cheeks. “The human.” Its voice echoed in her ears. Not a Yezer voice, but deeper, louder, with a lilt her mind identified as feminine even though she didn’t know how or why. Deep in her chest something fluttered, moved, the frantic beating of a second heart trying to burst out.