Her heart pounded. The demon inside her writhed and screamed as blood filled the glass, almost to the rim, before Greyson drew his handkerchief and Spud handed the glass to Orion. He raised it to his mouth, lowered it to show lips stained with red, and Megan couldn’t take any more. She wasn’t even herself, she was nothing but a desire, a need, something so fierce she could only do one thing to fight it.
She ran.
Her footsteps echoed on the bare white marble, so it sounded to her as though an army of desperate women raced toward the door, joined almost immediately by one determined man. One man who ran faster than she could ever hope to. She knew he was there but still screamed when his fingers closed over her arm.
She tried to yank it away but succeeded only in losing her balance and almost falling. The floor veered crazily in front of her until his arms closed around her from behind, pulling her to the warm strength of his chest.
“Jesus, Meg,” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
The words didn’t sink in. Nothing seemed able to penetrate the crimson fog in her brain, the choking need in her chest. She fought, struggling against his arms, finally bringing the sharp heel of her shoe down on his toe.
“Ow! Fuck!” His grip loosened, then tightened again before she could take advantage of it.
Dampness seeped through her dress at the waist. Greyson hadn’t stopped bleeding. Her stomach lurched. She could smell it, see it, on the sheets earlier, on his back, on Orion’s lips…she could almost taste it.
She screamed, one short yelp that echoed in the sterile hall, before her body finally gave out and she completed her humiliation by throwing up on the floor.
Her throat hurt, her stomach hurt. She felt like she’d been awake for years, like this day would never end, as she stayed bent over with his arms around her waist.
“God damn, that’s sexy,” he said finally. “I think you actually cut my toe off.”
Her stomach twisted again. The only thing worse than vomiting in front of a man was doing it a second time because he’d made a joke. “Don’t—”
“Malleus.”
Megan turned to see the boys all standing in the doorway, watching them with identical expressions of concern. Spud had his hands clasped in front of his chest like a Victorian lady suffering an attack of the vapors.
Not that she looked any better. Demons in glass houses…
“Miss Chase isn’t feeling well,” Greyson continued unnecessarily. “Will you take her into the den, please, and fix her a drink? Maleficarum, you get her something to put on and a clean washcloth, and tell one of the maids to come take care of this. Spud, go to her house and bring her some fresh clothes of her own. Winston’s going to be here any minute and I don’t think she wants to greet him wearing one of my shirts. I’ll sit with Orion and try to get more information out of him before Win arrives.”
It always surprised her how quickly the boys moved. Their stocky figures looked designed for intimidation and brute strength rather than speed, like hippos. But before she could blink Malleus’s respectful hands rested on her upper arms, half carrying, half leading her, and the other two disappeared.
The gold-flocked walls of the den welcomed her. This—aside from the bedroom—was where she spent most of her time at the Iureanlier. Not a big room, at least not by the standards of this house, but a comfortable one, with an especially deep and cozy brown suede couch just the right size for two. The TV and stereo sat cold and silent, the only difference between this night and any other.
“Here y’go, m’lady.” The tenderness in his rough voice brought fresh tears to her eyes. “Let’s just get this undone, you’ll feel all better.”
She stood like a doll while he unzipped her dress and slipped it off her shoulders, wincing a little as the sticky sleeves slipped over her hands. Blood and vomit…her nose wrinkled.
“You hold my shoulders, let’s get these shoes off too.”
She’d once thought of Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud as bizarre, criminal grandpas. That thought comforted her now, while her mascara ran down her splotchy cheeks and Malleus removed her shoes and stockings for her, tender as a father with a small child.
Her father was dead, really dead, and long before he’d died he’d sold her to a demon. Given her up, tried to get rid of her, traded her life for whatever success he’d had in some podunk town that nobody else gave a fuck about. His only daughter. The little girl he’d once read bedtime stories to.
She could barely see now. For some reason this helped. It was easier to pretend Malleus couldn’t see her, easier to pretend she wasn’t really there when Maleficarum entered and started cleaning the blood off her stomach with a warm, damp cloth.
By the time Malleus whispered, “Close your eyes, now,” and wiped her face clean, her breath hitched in her chest. She could feel the two demons exchanging worried glances over her head, their uncertainty about what they should be doing. Crying women made most men uncomfortable. Centuries-old guard demons who, as far as she knew, had never even dated were no different.
Together they helped her step into a pair of Greyson’s silk pajama bottoms and pulled the drawstring tight around her waist, then slipped a clean white T-shirt over her head and helped her sit down in the corner of the couch. Maleficarum shoved a drink into her hand, cold and smelling of bourbon and Coke, which made sense because that’s what it was.
“You need something sweet,” he said. “The sugar’ll ’elp.”
Like she needed convincing. She drank half the glass in one long gulp, took a breath, and got ready to finish it. Drunk had never sounded so good. She wanted to pass out and wake up in the morning unable to remember anything.
Which was impossible. Those images would never, ever leave her head.
“Careful now, m’lady. You don’t wanna drink too much on an empty stomach.”
Yes, she did. “Yes, I do.”
“Naw, naw, now, cuz Lord Lawden’s gonna be ’ere, and you don’t wanna be all drunk then, right? Ain’t ladylike, it ain’t.”
“Who cares.” Nobody did. Nobody cared about her. Okay, it wasn’t fair to say that anymore. People cared. But it was more fun at that moment to say nobody did, so she could attribute feeling sorry for herself to loneliness and isolation instead of the reality. She felt sorry for herself because she’d somehow won some kind of misery lottery, and her prize was a parasitic piece of demon wrapped around her heart. Her forehead ached from crying.
How much more of this was she supposed to take? How long would it be before she stopped being able to resist, before she let the demon inside have its way, taking blood, taking energy, feeding on the sorrow of every human she came across?
“Okay, guys.” Greyson’s voice, smooth and calm. “Orion’s having a little trouble remembering he said he’d tell us how to beat the leyak. Maybe you could help him with that?”
Maleficarum patted her on the head before he left. The gesture only made her start crying again.
Greyson took away her empty glass. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead on the cool smooth suede, while ice clinked and cracked and soda fizzed.
Light flared against her eyelids. He’d started a fire. A nice gesture, but she doubted she would ever feel warm again.
Finally the cushion shifted with his weight as he sat next to her and closed her fingers back around the glass. His hand found her back, rested there unmoving, warming her chilled skin.
“I know what’s going on, Meg,” he said quietly. “Are you…do you want to talk to—about it?”