“Hmm? Late Wednesday, maybe, or Thursday, depending. Shall I just pick you up Saturday afternoon? Cart you off to my lair?”
“Your lair?”
“Oh, it’s a lair. It qualifies. It’s secluded, it’s secret, and I do private things there.”
She blushed. “Will you have your car back?”
“We’re taking the truck anyway. In case it snows.”
They were spending the entire week of Christmas at his Meegra’s cabin in the woods outside the city. Greyson didn’t actually celebrate Christmas, of course, but most demons treated it as a winter holiday just the same.
The first time he’d taken her onto the land she hadn’t even known the cabin was there, but it was, and she loved it. Almost as much as she loved the fact that, for the first time in years, she actually had plans at Christmas, real plans that didn’t involve her tagging along at Althea’s family celebration or watching movies by herself at home.
Althea. She didn’t want to think about that now.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…I went to see my demons last night.”
“And?”
She shook her head. “I heard something. It felt like a name, but I don’t know if it was, or if it was just words.”
“What was it?”
“Ktana Leyak.”
If she hadn’t been watching so closely she wouldn’t have noticed the tiny pause as he lifted his wineglass to his lips. “Interesting. How did you hear it?”
“Are you ever going to just tell me what you’re thinking?”
“What do I get if I do?”
“Me not being mad at you. How’s that?”
He smiled. “If you put it that way. The words ring a few bells. ‘Ktana’ means ‘queen.’”
“And ‘leyak’?”
“It’s a type of demon. Not generally a very dangerous or warlike type. It poses much more of a threat to humans than other demons.”
“But I am human.”
“Hmm.” She thought she saw his gaze flicker to her half-eaten steak. “How did you hear that phrase, anyway? Did Roc tell you?”
“No.” She gave him a quick rundown of what had happened, eliminating the part where she used the full strength of her power but telling him how the words had popped into her head as she returned home. “I meant to Google it but I haven’t gotten around to it.”
It was surprising how much information could be found online, how many people in the world knew the truth or brushed up against it, and how many other people didn’t believe them. Megan wondered sometimes just how unique she was after all.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see what I can find. You done?”
It took her a minute to realize he meant her food, and she nodded. She hadn’t even eaten half of it, but she didn’t want the rest, nor did she want the potato or asparagus. The discussion about how it had been cooked and the reminder of yet another new idiosyncrasy, and what it probably meant, wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
Service at Mitchell’s was certainly fast enough. It seemed to take no time at all before the check was “taken care of”—she suspected the meal had been on the house—Greyson’s friends had been bid good-bye, and they were at her doorstep.
“Are you coming in?”
“I can’t.” He kissed her forehead. “It’s almost midnight already. I have to be up at five.”
One of the best things about dating a fire demon was how warm he always was, although she suspected that would turn into a definite downside in the summer. If they were still seeing each other then. His comment earlier about her public image…She pushed it from her mind.
One of the other best things…well, maybe they weren’t all such good kissers. She and Greyson stayed on her porch for a few more minutes, saying a leisurely and mostly silent good night, before she finally pulled away. “Have a good trip,” she said.
“I’ll call you when I get back. And if you need anything call me, or Maleficarum if I don’t answer.” He paused. “I’m leaving Malleus here. He’ll be over in the morning.”
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.