Demon Inside

Chapter 19

They walked down the ramp forever, it seemed, until the muscles in Megan’s legs started to ache and she had to give up her pride and grip Nick’s arm with both hands to keep from stumbling. At least now she understood why Greyson had chosen him as her escort. She might be embarrassed by their last meeting, but at least she wasn’t clinging to a stranger.

The uneven stone floor gritted under her feet as they walked, still in time to the drumbeat, the parade winding down the tu

Turn, then turn, then turn again. Down they went, until the torches along the walls no longer put out enough warmth to keep Megan from shivering, until the walls were damp and the air smelled like the inside of a well. She couldn’t even estimate how far down they were, and yet they kept walking, the drumbeat moving them forward as inexorably as if they were an army marching to their death.

“We’re almost there,” Nick murmured. “At least I think we are.”

Megan didn’t reply. They’d hit a particularly sticky patch; she stumbled, grateful for him beside her but feeling like an idiot just the same.

Finally they reached the end of the path. A room opened before them, cavernous and dark, with greenish bracken decorating the walls and a chill Megan couldn’t shake off. From the ceiling dangled the largest chandelier she’d ever seen, its arms stretching like a pale, bony spider twenty feet in each—oh God. It was a bony spider. Human bones, their white long faded to mellow ivory, like old pearls in the flickering light. The center was formed entirely of skulls, stacked on top of each other. More skulls decorated the ends of the arms, each with a fat, glowing candle stuck in the crown.

The catafalque had been placed near what Megan guessed was the back of the room; an enormous golden urn dominated it, so big she could have lain down and gone to sleep inside it had she wanted to. Even if she’d been tired she wouldn’t have.

The rest of the procession stood and watched them enter. Greyson seemed deep in conversation with Templeton’s widow. It struck Megan that the woman was losing everything in this moment, her husband and her position, and her heart ached a little bit. To be a Gretneg was to reach the pi

They assembled in rows, still standing, as Greyson stood expectantly before the giant, gleaming urn. He waited until they were silent to begin speaking.

“Templeton Black ga chrino,” he said. “Alri neshden Templeton Black.”

“Alri neshden Templeton Black,” said the crowd around her.

“Templeton Black is dead, long live Templeton Black,” Roc whispered, but Megan shushed him. She didn’t need the translation. She wanted to let Greyson’s voice wash over her, feeling tears prick behind her eyes when it roughened, letting her lips curve up a little when it lightened. A few times a soft laugh worked its way through the crowd. Even in words she couldn’t understand she could see what an effective speaker he was. What a shame the nature of his business kept him out of the courtroom.

Or not such a shame. She had a feeling he would delight in representing the guilty.

He talked for a while, then relinquished the floor to several other Gretnegs. The chill air seeped through Megan’s skin and into her bones. She grew bored, as horrible as it was to admit. Her feet hurt. She felt particularly conspicuous in her inability to understand what was being said. She was the outsider, the lesbian at the Southern Baptist church service.

Finally things drew to a close. Greyson escorted Templeton’s widow down the center aisle, back to where the body lay. Megan’s eyes grew wet when Mrs. Black climbed on a little stool to give her husband a last kiss.

The woman’s sniffles were the only sound in the room for a moment. The torches dimmed.

Bluish flames exploded around the body, filling the shadowy dungeon with sun-bright light. Megan squinted as the image seared itself into her corneas.

The demons started singing, a low hum at first, then louder as the fire consumed both Templeton and the platform glowing with heat. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, trickling at first, then turning into a thick black column. It arced over the body and drifted down, spreading through the room, coating Megan’s throat and nostrils with a peculiar acrid, sweet taste. Her second heart sped up. The singing grew louder.

Megan started to feel as if she were floating. Her feet remained firmly on the ground, but her head was full of air, full of that meaty, savory smell. She knew what it was, was a little horrified by the knowledge, but that didn’t stop her from having to swallow as her mouth filled with saliva. It wasn’t just the smell, it was the sensation behind it, of power floating in the air. It was the chorus of words older than any language Megan had ever known, calling to that part of her that was just as old.

Flames filled her vision. Templeton’s soul, or whatever it was he had, was rising now, escaping from the shell it had occupied, and she could rise too if she wanted to—

“Sorry, Megan.” Nick’s words didn’t register in the split second before his shields enclosed her, becoming understandable only when heat flooded through her body. His energy was powered with sex, hardening her nipples, making her back arch slightly. Beneath the sex she felt blood, and anger, something she could co

Another reason he was her escort. How much did Greyson know about what was happening to her? She wouldn’t be able to put off that conversation much longer, and something inside her—something purely emotional, not physical—squirmed at the thought.

They stood there while the body burned, waited and sang until it was reduced to ash on the white-hot metal platform. It took no time at all, and it took forever. Megan’s body was so overheated, her mind so fuzzy with sex and power and the thrilling sense of savagery in the cavernous stone room, that she barely noticed when the flames finally died and the torches flared again.

The priest stepped forward and waved his hand. Metal clanged against metal behind Megan. She turned on unsteady feet to see the lid of the enormous gold urn lifted by Malleus and Spud.

Maleficarum and the other pallbearers picked up the catafalque one last time and carried it up the aisle, followed by Greyson and Templeton’s widow. The wooden legs were charred black but still solid, the platform already cooling. Iron, she thought it must be, treated somehow to keep it from melting, or magically protected.

A sigh rippled through the crowd as the ashes were poured into the urn. Flames shot from it into the air, so high they almost touched the ceiling. The flickering orange light played across Greyson’s face, turning his eyes into sunken sparks, highlighting his sharp bones.

Roc shifted in his position on her shoulder. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you.”

It didn’t seem like the time to dissemble, to tell him it was none of his business or shrug it off. So she just sighed. “I suppose so, Roc. I suppose I am.”

They all stood and watched the ashes fall into the urn until there were no more, until the fire went out, until Malleus and Spud replaced the lid and the service was over.

“So you’re Megan Chase,” the man in front of her said. Another familiar face, but then why wouldn’t he be? All of the Gretnegs had been there that day three months before, to watch as she struggled to remember the worst moments of her life.