For a split second she thought it hadn’t worked. For another second she actually caught a glimpse of something, a fuzzy image of an imposing white house set back among flowering trees. Then a flurry of thoughts and pictures, of ugly feelings and happy ones, all smoothed over as Greyson hypnotized the entire bar.
He’d managed to open the door somehow before he pulled away from her. Megan turned, her vision still blurry from passion and the jolting unpleasantness of feeling the crowd’s emotions in her head, and saw them all standing calmly, staring at Greyson.
He blinked, and his mouth fell open slightly. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so surprised. “We’ve been here since seven. Go back to your seats.”
The little crowd nodded and started to turn away. Greyson moved his hand, a gesture almost like pulling a rope back into himself. Megan hadn’t realized the air around them was heavy and silent with power until it ceased, as quickly and definitely as a snuffed-out candle.
He took her hand and strode over to the bar. Tension crackled from his body. “Whiskey.”
The bartender’s heavy features twisted into a scowl. “Haven’t you had enough?”
“No.” Greyson pulled out his money clip, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and tossed it on the bar. “Give me the bottle and two shot glasses.”
Silence pressed in on them as the bartender obeyed, silence broken by increasing mumblings from the patrons. Greyson poured out two shots, handed her one, dumped the other down the front of his shirt, and proceeded to drink half the bottle in one long gulp.
“Crazy fucker,” someone muttered.
“What d’you expect? He comes in here with her, after we tole her—”
Greyson grinned, a singularly unpleasant smile that sent shivers down Megan’s spine. He gripped the whiskey bottle by the neck, crossed the room to the mutterer, and smashed it over his head.
Brian picked him up from the police station first thing in the morning. None of them thought it was a good idea for her to go, having barely escaped being arrested herself. She still wasn’t sure why he’d allowed himself to be—he’d never even had so much as a speeding ticket and, given the way he drove, it was impossible to believe he’d never been pulled over.
And if she were honest…he’d scared her a little bit. Or rather, she’d scared her a little bit. Watching the insane glee with which he took on the entire bar, feeling the energy in the air as he fought, smelling the blood and the sweat and the pure ozone-driven violence—it went to her head more than the whiskey. It turned her on, much as she hated to admit it, whether it was because of some demon desire or because there was a heretofore undiscovered violent streak beneath her skin. It had almost been a relief when the police arrived, and now she didn’t know what to say to him as he stepped out of the shower.
She should tell him. She should tell him everything. He had to know something was going on. There’d been too many glances, too many suspicious looks. Too many coincidences, and after Maldon’s house and the kiss outside the bar…There was no way he couldn’t have picked up on the fact that something was going wrong with her power, something was changing inside her.
“Anything in the paper?” He wrapped his towel around his waist and kissed her forehead as he walked past.
“Just that there was a fire. Maldon survived with minor injuries.”
“More’s the pity. It would have been a lot easier for him if he’d died.”
“How’s that?”
“You know what he did, don’t you?”
She nodded. “He tried to kill me. And he set us—you—up. The gunmen…he hired them, right?”
“I don’t think so. But you’re right, he did try to kill you and he did set us up.” He finished buttoning his shirt and started fastening his cuffs. “Which means before we leave for the cabin we need to meet with his Gretneg.”
“Right.” Maldon would be punished, severely. She didn’t even want to think about that, especially since she couldn’t help feeling he deserved it. He had tried to kill them both.
It was the way things were done in the Meegras, a way she’d been fighting when it came to her own demons. Now she wondered if she was wrong. It was a lot easier to have principles when your life wasn’t in danger if you held to them.
“So why did you let them arrest you?”
“Because I wanted to make sure everyone knew where I was, just in case.”
“In case what?”
He opened his mouth, but the pounding on the door interrupted whatever he was about to say. “It’s Tera, open up!”
“Oh good, she has her voice back,” he said, undoing the bolt on the door.
Tera fixed him with a sour look, but her hands twisted together in front of her waist as if she were playing with invisible beads. Her bruises had disappeared almost as cleanly as Greyson’s. Only a few faint shadows remained around her throat. “I have some bad news, Grey. Or, well, maybe it’s good news for you. I guess it is.”
“Tera?” Megan stood up, reaching for her friend. “What’s wrong?”
“Templeton Black is dead.”
Greyson didn’t move. “Dead?”
Tera nodded.
“How?”
“Um…they’re not sure. He left a note like a suicide, but there weren’t any marks on him to say how he did it. They won’t know anything for sure until they do the hynelin. It’s like an autopsy,” she added, glancing at Megan.
“No autopsy.” Greyson slid his tie around his neck. Megan glanced at him, but he was watching his own reflection in the mirror as he fashioned a knot.
“What? That’s not—”
“You can’t autopsy him, Tera. Can’t remove anything from him, can’t disturb the body. It’s against our rules.”
“He’s—he was—in our custody, and we think a crime has been committed.”
“Doesn’t matter what you think. Vergadering has the authority to jail him and to investigate, but not to do anything against our Trianad. Defacing the body in any form is against Trianad.”
“But that means if he drank poison or was murdered, we have no way to find out.”
“If he drank poison or was murdered,” Greyson said, putting on his jacket, “then you witches better get to work figuring out how you let it happen.”
Megan hadn’t expected this many people to be at the reading. Her mother and brother, of course—and Dave was with an attractive dark-haired woman Megan assumed was his wife—but the small crowd that greeted her and Greyson when they entered the outer room of the office made her shoulders hunch.
It wasn’t just the number of faces—not that many, really, once she got over her shock enough to notice it—but the sheer disapproval on each and every one of them. She half-expected them to pick up torches and come running after her.
“Megan.”
Megan jumped. Her mother stood right next to her, as if she’d materialized there. Greyson’s fingers tightened around hers.
“Hi, Mother. Am I late?”
“No.” Diane’s gaze took in every detail of Megan’s plain black dress and low pumps, then shifted to Greyson, her expression changing from extreme disapproval to slightly less disapproval as she examined the hand-tailored Savile Row suit, the Italian shoes, the subtle tie.
Greyson just stood impassively under the scrutiny, watching Diane with those dark eyes of his as if she were a piece of dust on the floor. Something for a servant to deal with.
“I’m Diane Chase,” she said finally. Her expression wasn’t a smile, but it was almost the ghost of one.
Greyson nodded. “So I understand.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
“No.”
Megan pressed her lips together as tightly as she could while Diane’s face reddened.
“Greyson! I wondered if you’d be here. Great to see you again.”
The crowd turned as one; the inner office door had opened and a tall, heavyset blond man with a ruddy face emerged, his curious expression turning into a smile as he walked toward Megan and Greyson with his hand out.