Stacia Kane: Demon Possessed

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s working all day, and I don’t want to bother him. It’s not an emergency. I’m going to see him in a few hours anyway.”

“Oh, right. You’re taking tomorrow off. I forgot. Should I go pack your bag?”

“No. I have to pack for the whole week, so I’ll do that tonight.”

“Suit yourself. Is Erica coming today?”

“Yes, in . . . half an hour.”

“I’ll stick around. I wanted to check in with Altarus anyway.”

She nodded. Altarus was one of Erica’s demons, one Roc seemed to particularly like. Megan had a sneaking suspicion Altarus was female, but frankly, she didn’t want to think too much about how her demons reproduced. It was enough to know they did and that when they did, she had to congratulate them. The mechanics of the process were not her concern, and she was exceedingly glad of that.

Of course, that might not have been the reason Roc wanted to check in with Altarus. He often did hang out during her appointments, pulling her patients’ demons aside to chat with them and see how things were going, then reporting to her later. As much as she hated to admit it, it was a big help, a way to keep track of her demons and make sure they were obeying the rules while still having some freedom and enough to eat. If “eat” was the correct term, which it really wasn’t, but “feed” still gave her the willies. Especially as it related to her patients.

Her cell phone buzzed from the depths of her purse, distracting her from the narrow and pitted little alley of her thoughts. It took her a minute to dig the damned thing out, especially after she banged her forehead on the edge of the desk.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hey, Megan. I thought I’d be leaving a message.”

Her spirits rose. A little. “Hi, Brian. No, my patient—my appointment got canceled. What’s up?”

Silence. Hmm, that probably wasn’t good. Brian Stone was an investigative reporter for the city’s largest paper, as well as her friend. As well as someone with a habit of pausing and considering his words very carefully when he had bad news to impart.

“Brian?”

“Yeah, sorry. Actually, I don’t really want to talk over the phone. I was thinking maybe we could meet later?”

Okay, definitely not good, then. And she had a sneaking suspicion she knew what it was about too. Brian had plenty of informants and pals in law enforcement, not least of whom was his girlfriend of nine months. “My last appointment ends at four. If you want to be at my house around four-thirty?”

“Will Greyson be there?”

She sighed. “Does it matter?”

“Well . . . not normally. But this time, yeah.”

A lie. It always mattered, and she’d given up. “He won’t be there.”

“Okay. I’ll see you around four-thirty, then.”

After they’d hung up, she stared at the phone. Bad news from Brian. At least she assumed it was bad news; it was entirely possible it wasn’t, but she didn’t think he’d be so damned cagey on the phone if it was. People didn’t usually refuse to share things like “I just won the Pulitzer!” over the phone. And they especially didn’t check to make sure one would be alone when they imparted such news. Hell, if Brian ever won a Pulitzer, he’d want to make sure Greyson was there, so he could rub it in a little.

That wasn’t entirely fair. The two men didn’t hate each other. They just didn’t like each other much. Silliness.

If Brian was going to tell her about the FBI agent or that there was some sort of big investigation happening . . . that could be a problem.

Her previous FBI visits had been taken care of easily. She told Greyson; Greyson sent someone—she didn’t know who and she didn’t want to know—over to “discuss” the situation with the agent. Which probably involved hypnotism or some other sneaky psychological trick if it didn’t involve outright bribery, but did not, as far as she knew, involve any bloodshed.

But her previous FBI visits, and the ones she knew the other Gretnegs dealt with on a semiregular basis, involved one or two agents acting on a tip or a hunch or whatever. Easy to tie up the loose ends when only a few people were involved. If this was getting big enough for Brian to have heard about it, it probably wouldn’t be so easy to clean up.

Not to mention that Brian was psychic too, which meant Brian was not easily hypnotized. Brian wouldn’t forget the investigation. And Brian hated her involvement with the demon world.

Because Brian was sensible. Because Brian was able to be objective. So Brian could see how the merest hint of impropriety could destroy her career. She had a public image to protect; she had a weekly radio show. She didn’t particularly enjoy the radio show but it certainly provided her with much-needed income, or, rather, the income from it enabled her to charge her patients based on their incomes rather than a flat rate. Which she enjoyed. The radio show also enabled her to provide at least some form of counseling to people who really needed it and wouldn’t have gotten it any other way.

All that could crumble if the public discovered she was involved with a criminal.

The sensible thing to do would be to end that involvement. Well, no. The sensible thing to do would have been to end that involvement back when it started. Back when she really realized what she was getting into, back when she really realized she wasn’t just having fun, wasn’t just enjoying a casual and extremely satisfying physical relationship but was . . . emotionally involved. And that those stupid emotions could destroy everything she’d worked so hard for.

So much for sensible.

Brian shifted in his seat. “So . . . yeah, I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” Damn. Damn, damn, damn. And one more for good measure. Yes, Brian was there about the FBI investigation, and worse. Brian was there because in this instance, at least, it seemed the FBI was working casually, getting background information, from local law enforcement.

In the person of Brian’s girlfriend, Sergeant Julie Richards, among others.

“Megan, I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah. I know you are.” She managed a smile, one that almost made the furrow in his brow disappear. He looked tired, she noticed; shadows lurked beneath his blue eyes, and his light-brown hair stood out in little tufts at the back of his neck. He needed a haircut. “Brian . . . Julie wouldn’t exactly be pleased if she knew you told me this, would she?”

“No.”

“Right. So why, then? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He shrugged. Looked away. “You’re my friend. And it really isn’t about you, you know. I mean, nobody thinks you’re—”

“Yeah. I know.” Oops, that came out a little too sharp. Why did the idea that everyone thought she was some sort of innocent bystander bug her so much?

Especially when that’s what she was. She didn’t know what sorts of crimes were being investigated. She didn’t know what sorts of crimes were committed, at least not beyond minor ones like the casino.

But she wasn’t involved in them. She wasn’t some sort of moll. The very idea was laughable. She wasn’t busty enough to be a moll. Oh, and she doubted most molls had PhDs, although she supposed it was possible.

Perhaps that was it. Everyone assuming she had no idea whom she shared a bed with, who he really was, was basically the same thing as them all patting her on the head and telling her they knew she was just a silly little woman, easily taken in by a handsome face, a flashy car—although that wasn’t fair; Greyson’s Jaguar wasn’t really flashy—and some expensive gifts.

She did know who he was. She’d never been under any illusions about that, not ever.