Demon Inside

“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 u

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 wa

Yes, she did. “Yes, I do.”

“Naw, naw, now, cuz Lord Lawden’s go

“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?”

“It’s not right.” Her words were muffled by the thick padded arm of the couch.

“Not right for whom? For you? For me? Maybe not for Brian or Tera or that miserable bunch of hypocrites who raised you. Come on, bryaela. You’re stronger than this.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Now sit up and stop behaving like a child.”

“Oh my God.” She turned to stare at him. “You are the most insensitive man I’ve—oh, whatever.”

“Part of my charm.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes, though, and she noticed shadows beneath them that hadn’t been there in the study.

She took a deep breath. “I…I saw.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to, I was hungry so I went to the kitchen…”

“And you found the stairway,” he finished.

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure if she was apologizing to him, or to herself, or…to whom, but they were the only words that made sense.

He shrugged. “It’s done.”

“Wait, you…you knew?” Of course he knew, stupid. You practically hung a sign around your neck.

“Of course I knew. I felt you in the room. And then you don’t normally hang around by the front door with your shoes and purse in your hand, like an inexperienced cat burglar.”

“I panicked.”

“You’re not yourself.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“And that’s the point.”

The urge to slap him felt so good, after the abject misery of the last twenty minutes or so, it took her a minute to realize what it was. None of her problems seemed as bad when he was being this exasperating. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Maybe.”

Megan watched him for a minute. He watched her right back, his dark eyes serious. It felt a little odd to be having such a—well, such an intimate conversation, that didn’t involve any intimate activities to go with it. They talked a lot—even more than they engaged in those activities—but this was different. The subject was open, laying between them. It wouldn’t go away no matter how she might want it to, so she might as well have the discussion. Get it over with.