Stacia Kane - Demon Possessed

But when he kissed her cheek, she realized he was simply happy. Perhaps a little nervous but mostly happy. His blue eyes danced in his ruddy face. “Megan, have you met Sarita?”

“No, I haven’t.” She started to smile, started to hold out her hand to the lovely dark-haired woman he clasped tightly at his side. Halfway through, she realized what she was doing, realized who Sarita was.

Too late to pull her hand back. So instead she went ahead and shook hands, smiling with as much friendliness as she could muster while her stomach churned. The woman wasn’t a fellow Gretneg. She could have been one of Win’s rubendas, members of his Meegra, sure.

But what she undoubtedly was was Winston’s girlfriend. Mistress. Whatever. She was not Winston’s wife was the point, Winston’s wife, Alvia, whom Megan knew. Whom Megan had cooked for one night when she had a little dinner party and who had cooked for Megan in her home when she did the same thing. Alvia, who knitted and made her own pasta, who had raised Winston’s four children, and who had a sweet smile and looked at her husband as though he were a god.

“Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t the girl’s fault, she tried to tell herself, ignoring the little voice in her head that said it most certainly was. Win wore a wedding ring, for fuck’s sake. He was a Gretneg, he was a person—demon—of standing in the demon world. People knew who he was, they knew his sons and daughter, and they sure as fuck knew his wife.

Instead she forced herself to listen to the more effective voice that told her it was none of her business. It wasn’t. How Win chose to run his personal life, who he spent time with or shared his bed with, were emphatically None of Her Business. And if a little something inside her—something that had nothing at all to do with her inner demon—squirmed at the thought of keeping a secret like that, of giving his scummy philandering her tacit approval simply by keeping her mouth shut, there wasn’t much she could do about that.

What she could do something about, or at least say something about, was the warm greeting Greyson gave Sarita. The kiss on the hand. The brief conversation that made it clear he already knew the woman.

“How do you like the place, Megan?” Win smiled at her, just as if he hadn’t put her in a totally awkward position and presumed her discretion without asking. What in the world had she ever said or done that would make him think she’d be okay with that?

She gave him a tight smile, didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s lovely.”

He and Greyson said something else to each other. She didn’t know what it was, because while not meeting Win’s eyes, she’d caught sight of Gunnar Ryall, Gretneg of House Aquiast, the water demons. They were a smaller house—not as small as hers but small nonetheless—and they kept to themselves more than the other Meegras did.

But she’d met Gunnar. And she’d met his wife. Who was decidedly not the young woman at his side, his hand resting casually on the small of her back.

What the hell was going on?

Her attention was dragged back to the people before her when Greyson gave her hand a squeeze. Right. She had to smile and make nice.

Especially as a new person had joined the circle. A new woman, to be more exact, and Megan almost did a double-take. That was simply her distraction, making her think for a second that Tera was standing there; on second glance the woman bore very little resemblance to Tera, the witch who was Megan’s closest friend. Her only real female friend. What would Tera make of all this?

For a moment Megan wished violently that Tera were there. Then she remembered where she was. The animosity between witches and demons was ancient and seemingly insurmountable, and Tera’s presence wouldn’t be good for anyone.

But the woman standing at Win’s side was slim and blond, like Tera, and just as pretty. More important, she had the same impeccable coolness Tera had, the same confidence. There stood a woman whose lipstick never smeared, whose stockings never ran, whose hair never frizzed. Unlike Megan’s, although she had to admit that since the day she’d discovered that Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud were incredibly talented makeup artists and hairstylists—the result of centuries of guarding high-ranking ladies—those weren’t problems she had much either.

The difference was that Megan couldn’t get used to that and always rather expected the smear, the run, or the frizz. Even on a night like this one, clad in a black silk evening gown with iridescent dark green feathers— dark green was one of her House’s colors—edging the irregular hems of layers of taffeta overskirt. Even with the diamond necklace and earrings Greyson had given her for Christmas. She still couldn’t quite accept that she looked the way she looked.

Win smiled and put his arm around the woman. Jesus, how many girlfriends had he brought? “Megan, this is my daughter, Leora.”

Right. That’s why the girl looked vaguely familiar. The resemblance was there in the deep blue eyes and the fine, straight nose. Megan had met both of Win’s sons but hadn’t met—wait, his daughter? He’d brought his daughter along to a gathering to which he’d also brought his girlfriend?

Too unsettling. She didn’t want to stand there anymore, while Leora told Greyson something about her recent trip to Washington, D.C.—his hometown—and Sarita leaned against Win. No matter how tightly Greyson held her hand or how reassuring that firm grip was, she wanted a drink, and she wanted not to have to smile politely at a man who was cheating on his wife. Publicly.

Greyson must have noticed she wasn’t making much conversation. “Meg, shall we go get ourselves a couple of drinks?”

She nodded; he led her away, toward the bar but not actually to it. They stopped a little more than halfway there, by one of the large marble pillars supporting the high arched ceiling. It really was a hell of a room, a small and intimate reception area before the private dining room, but those high ceilings and the pale walls and floors gave it a sense of light and space. At the apex of the ceiling stretched grids of tiny white lights. The glow they cast reminded her of the walls in their bedroom earlier, and some of her anger drained away.

Some but not all. She didn’t think a bath in a vat full of gin would be able to wash it all away.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” In trying not to speak too loudly, she accidentally hissed the word; luckily it seemed lost in the leafy vine wrapped around the pillar. She tried again, with more success. “What do you think is wrong? I just had to stand there and pretend it doesn’t bother me that Win’s here with some woman who isn’t Alvia, and I know Alvia. How can I look her in the face after this?”

Confusion spread over his features. “Alvia? Why would you—”

“Yes, Alvia. Win’s wife. You do know her. And look, they all have girlfriends with them. Am I supposed to—”

“Okay. Okay, calm down, please, before they really start to get curious.” His arm slid around her shoulders, bringing their faces and bodies closer together and affording them a bit of privacy. A bit more when he shifted them around so their backs were to the small crowd.

It was a small crowd; aside from the Gretnegs and the girlfriends, there were assistants. That was it. Something struck her about that, but she filed it away for later.

“You can look Alvia in the face after this because she is fully aware of what Win is doing and who’s with him. You don’t think he’d bring his daughter into a situation that would divide her loyalties like that?”

“What? She knows?”

He nodded. “All the wives know. It’s a—a status symbol. Their husbands are wealthy and can afford to keep a mistress. The prettier she is, the nicer her home and car . . . Come on, bryaela . You know the story.”