Stacia Kane - Personal Demons

"Maybe you could mention us on your show. We can always use more clients, you know."

"Sorry, I'm not allowed to advertise."

"Of course. I understand." His expression clearly showed he did not. "Maybe you could see what you can do, though?"

"I sure will," she said, knowing that he knew she wouldn't. They smiled falsely at each other while Megan scrunched her toes up in her shoes in an effort to calm her restlessness.

She took her leave from the group a few minutes later, practically running out the door in her haste to get away from Arthur's stare. She still didn't know what had happened. Had she fallen asleep in the spicy-smelling darkness? It wouldn't surprise her, considering she'd had a rough night and a rougher morning. The demands of the partners still hovered over her like the blade of a guillotine. Tomorrow she'd have to start looking for a new receptionist, start finding a company to do the soundproofing—all out of her own pockets, which were not that deep, despite the boost the radio show gave her finances—and figure out a way to explain to Richard Randall at the station that his publicity was putting her practice in jeopardy. Not that he would care, but maybe she could make him care.

All while trying to look like a competent, together professional for Brian Stone.

The locked front door rattled when she pushed it but did not open. She searched for the buzzer by the door but couldn't find it. The area behind the empty receptionist's desk was blocked off by a wall, a little over waist-high. It, too, was locked. Shit. Was she going to have to go back and ask Art to let her out?

Sighing, she turned towards the hall. Off to her right was a glowing "Exit" sign, but Megan suspected it was a fire exit. She certainly wasn't going to set off an alarm just because she didn't want to see Art Bellingham again.

Holding her car keys loosely in her hand, she walked back across the lobby, an act that seemed to take a lot longer than it should have. The murky silence of the building confused her, considering there was still a group of people in it. She would have expected to hear them talking as they got ready to leave, but she didn't.

Something clattered to the tile in the corner of the room. With a tiny, nervous cry, Megan turned towards the noise, but before she could find its cause the lights went out.

Not even a shaft of moonlight came in through the windows. It was as if something had covered them or they'd disappeared. The exit sign had gone off. The lobby was dark and silent as a tomb.

Megan's skin prickled. Someone else was in the room.

First there was only a tiny movement, a rustling noise, like the whisper of grass in the wind. Megan swallowed. She hoped it was one of the Fearbusters people, but she hadn't heard their door open, and there were still no voices. Only the unshakable certainty she was not alone in the stygian blackness of the cavernous room.

Another sound, like a drop of water hitting a pool. Plop. Her eyes hurt from her refusal to blink. The darkness pressed against them, dry and hot.

Faint rustling answered her next tentative step forward. Something skittered across the floor: tiny fast little footsteps rattling like marbles. The noise sounded like it came from her right, but she couldn't be sure.

"You're not scaring me." She couldn't seem to catch her breath. The darkness crawled over her skin, setting off tiny alarms in her head, making her muscles ache. She lowered her purse and wrapped the strap around her wrist, ready to swing but certain she didn't have a chance at hitting whoever ... whatever it was. For some reason she didn't think the presence in the dark was human. By the time she knew the thing's location it would be too late.

Someone giggled, a high-pitched gurgling twitter. The sound sent shivers up her spine. Her heart beat so fast she thought it might explode. She hadn't been this scared since ... well, since she was sixteen.

Realization hit her and she almost laughed. This was an after-effect of her odd dream. This wasn't the first time it had happened. She'd always assumed it was because of her abilities, that somehow her subconscious stayed alert for longer. Given that she'd just revisited that long-ago winter, it was no wonder this was happening now. The sweat on her brow started to dry and she once again felt the coolness of the temperature-controlled room. She must be more tired than she'd thought, to panic like that. What did she think, that some sort of evil creature stalked her in the hospital?

She strode back in what she thought was the direction of the hall, with her left arm outstretched. Soon she would touch a wall and follow it back to the Fearbusters room.

Something cold grabbed her hand, something hard and scaly and wet. "Megan," said a voice, the same slithery voice she'd heard giggle a moment before. The speaker was right next to her ear.

Megan screamed. She swung her purse but only hit her own left hip. She didn't even feel the impact. She tried to pull away but the thing that held her refused to let go, squeezing her hand so hard she thought she could feel the bones rubbing together. She heard a high wordless wail and realized, as her throat began to hurt, the cry was her own.

Then—as suddenly as it had grabbed her—the hand let her go.

The lights came back on.

She was alone.

"Megan?"

Still shaking, Megan turned. Art walked towards her. "I thought I heard you scream. Is everything okay?"

Megan nodded and forced herself to speak. "I thought I saw a rat."

"Oh, no, how terrible." Art glanced around the lobby. "Where?"

"It was probably nothing. I'm afraid I'm a little tired." The last thing she wanted was for him to insist on looking for it. "Could you just let me out, please?"

"Of course." He leaned over the receptionist's desk. The buzzer sounded and the door clicked. "I should have told you where the switch was."

"That's okay. Thanks, Art." Nothing had ever looked better than the smooth-mown lawn outside the building. Megan practically ran for it. Her body still buzzed with adrenaline, her mind twisted in confused circles.

"We'll see you again," he called after her. She didn't bother to answer.

Megan knew city pollution choked the air outside, but the breeze dried the cold sweat on her skin and the faint odor of exhaust smelled like freedom. The parking lot was still brightly lit; the cars still in their neat rows like children bunked up for the night. She headed straight for her car, seeking the safety of its steel body. Dante was nowhere to be seen and, at that moment, she didn't care. She hoped he wouldn't show up. All she wanted was to go home and curl up in her bed with a good romance novel and a bag of potato chips.

Headlights flashed to her left. The car's engine was so quiet she hadn't noticed it. She glanced toward the flash—a Jaguar ... Dante's Jag.

"Get in." Dante's voice. He was standing on the driver's side, leaning on the top of the low-slung car.

"I'm not getting in your car with you."

"You called me and asked me to meet you here."

"Yes, to meet me here and talk, not to go driving around the city with you."

He glanced at the Outpatient Center, then looked at Megan again. "Come on. If I was going to attack you I would have done so already, don't you think? Just get in."

She still didn't feel good about it, considering she hadn't been able to read him, but he did have a point. Twice now she'd been alone in dark places with him and he hadn't even touched her casually.

The wind lifted her hair from her shoulders as she crossed the parking lot. It felt good, as did the cold leather-scented interior of the car. Dante didn't bother to open the door for her, but he did wait—barely—until she'd settled herself down and fastened her seatbelt before he stomped on the gas and roared out of the parking lot and onto the road by the main hospital building.