Stacia Kane - Demon Inside

Her toes grew numb from the freezing marble as she crept down the stairs, and the few oriental carpets in the hall did nothing to warm them. The torches had been put out immediately after the guests left, and only the floodlights from outside provided any illumination. Roc had had to leave too. The complicated process by which demons were permitted into each other’s homes still eluded Megan, but there hadn’t seemed to be much reason for Roc to stay.

She padded across the shiny white tile floor to the fridge, not turning on the light. Hmmm…cheese, the remains of a very rare roast sitting in a pool of blood on its tray—her stomach lurched, but whether from disgust or hunger Megan didn’t know and didn’t want to contemplate—she grabbed the cheese and slammed the door shut.

There were crackers in the pantry. That was an acceptable snack. A handful of them, a chunk of cheese, and there wouldn’t be plates or anything else to dispose of in the bedroom.

She had her hand buried in the cracker box when she became aware of the singing. It had been there since she’d walked into the room, but only then did it register.

A few moments of heart-pounding panic later, she calmed down. They weren’t upstairs. The sound didn’t grow louder, so they weren’t on their way back up the tunnel. It must be an echo, or a thin spot in the walls. Was she directly over the catacombs?

Beside the pantry, almost invisible, a small door cut into the smooth wall. It would be wrong to open it. It would be a violation, even though she hadn’t actually promised she wouldn’t watch.

Curiosity killed the cat…

Her feet moved of their own volition, her fingers found the almost-invisible catch in the door. Probably just a storeroom anyway, or a low dumbwaiter.

But it wasn’t. It was a small railed ledge at the top of a staircase cut into the rough stone of the wall, and directly below it Greyson stood naked on a dais at the end of a long wooden table.

His body was covered from neck to feet in designs, black and red ink on his skin. Greek letters, a few of them looked like, words running down his arms, patterns of twisting vines and flames, triskeles and swirls. Naked he had always looked like a god to her. Now he looked like what he was, a demon, something not of this world, something that perhaps didn’t belong in it.

She’d started to turn away, trying in vain to return the privacy she’d stolen, when he burst into flames. His arms raised skyward, like a phoenix, and his voice echoed through the chamber, filling Megan’s ears with demon words, words she knew were promises and pledges. She crouched down, afraid to leave, afraid to stay, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It wasn’t the fire. It was the power, the sheer heart-pounding energy of it, filling the room, snaking over her skin and trying to gain entry.

The rubendas started chanting. A drum beat time in the background, loud and fast. Flames spread from Greyson, touching everyone at the table, crawling across the floor and partway up the walls. The rubendas started their own fires, smaller, reaching out to meet his, and the inferno mushroomed and rose toward the ceiling. A thin bead of sweat trickled down Megan’s face.

The priest strode forward through the fire, and placed his hand on Greyson’s head. The flames died, instantly. An expectant hush filled the room.

“Greyson Plantagenet Dante,” the priest said, his voice ringing off the stone. “ Achen Solomon Plantagenet Dante, achen Greyson Plantagenet Dante, achen Luchior Plantagenet Dante, achen Aradios Plantagenet Dante…”

The list of names intoned in that sepulchral voice and the smoky haze in the air, the scent of incense—dragon’s blood, if she wasn’t mistaken, roundly fruity and spicy—made Megan’s head start to pound. She was on the ledge and not there. Only some tiny instinct, like that of a mouse in a wolf’s den, kept her from lowering her shields, from trying to fly down to the floor so she could take part. If she opened her fist she knew she could create flames from nothing, could take her part with the rest of them. She was them, she was all of them…she shoved her fist against her lips so hard it hurt.

From the right side of the room stepped one of the brothers—she thought it was Maleficarum—holding a covered tray, bright gold and shining in the reflected torchlight.

The rubendas started to cheer, to clap, to bang the table. A few called out, “Greyson Dante!” a few more, “Templeton Black!”

The yells grew louder, more cohesive, until only one word roared off the walls and filled Megan’s soul. “Gretneg! Gretneg! Gretneg!”

Maleficarum lifted the lid of the tray. Even at this distance Megan knew what rested there, knew what was going to happen. A ritual older than time…a gesture of respect and continuity, a form of communion overwritten by modern organized religions. She’d read about it, studied it, but never thought she would actually witness it. She wanted to close her eyes but the greatest force she possessed would not convince her lids to lower. This was a mistake, this was such a mistake, she shouldn’t be here…

Greyson scooped the heart of Templeton Black from its pool of blood. The sound of his teeth sinking into it echoed through the cavern, becoming lost only in the sound of Megan’s own heart pounding in her ears.

She tried to crawl back toward the door as Greyson extended his arm, tried to scramble to her feet but stumbled as the priest sliced Greyson’s forearm with a sharp silver blade. Her hand found the catch again when his blood poured into a golden bowl held by Malleus.

But she did not manage to run away until the rubendas came forward with their cups.

She rinsed her mouth again, then once again, spitting into the sink, trying as hard as she could not to see her red face in the mirror. There wasn’t time, even if she wanted to. She had no idea how much longer the ceremony would last.

Pushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead, she left the bathroom and grabbed her purse and shoes, then flung the door open and started to run.

The marble stairs had never seemed so slippery, the hall never so threatening. No ghosts lurked in the shadows near the ever-moving ceiling. No demons hid in the corners; they were all down in the dungeon.

The danger came from her, from that place deep inside that had sneaked into a ceremony she had no business witnessing. The part that wanted to see it. The part that recognized it for what it was, the transfer of power, the continuance of a legacy going back millennia, older even than the funeral rite had been, and wanted to participate in it. The part that knew the ritual was not a human one, and he was not human, and she wasn’t entirely human either, not anymore.

The part that had watched Templeton Black’s blood spurt from his heart, one last forced beat before all power left it forever, and drip down Greyson’s chin.

And had wanted to strip off her clothes and run down the stone steps and go to him, wrap herself around him so the ink on his skin smeared off onto hers. Wanted to lick the blood off and taste it, raw and coppery in his mouth, to feel him force all that power into her body, force himself into her body, to scream in ecstasy while they all watched.

It was a siren’s call wending its way to her head, and she had to get out, get back to herself, before she obeyed it.

Her feet slid on the floor at the base of the stairs. She twisted her ankle trying to keep her balance and had to half run, half hop to the doors, across the dim rectangles of light coming through the windows, exposed and vulnerable, like hobbled prey running through sparse foliage.