Also on Friday I was so annoyed at missing the show that I tweeted some lines from Downside 4 (which I have a nice big list of possible titles for now, but of course my editor is out of town). Anyway. The ladies at Vampire Book Club have collected those and posted them here, so if you missed them and you want to go take a look you can. Keep in mind those are first-draft sentences; I wouldn’t have tweeted them if I thought they sucked, but I’m bothered by the repetition of “voice” in one of them, and they all might be tweaked at some point.

In addition to my 12k words, I decided to take out my contacts and give my eyes a little break. Glasses time! And of course, because I haven’t posted pics of me actually wearing them (I had them on in the wigs pictures, but that didn’t count), and because I knew you guys would want to see, here’s me in my glasses:

I never like the way I photograph

And of course, last night I had the pleasure of escorting Iron Girl and Daphne Blake from Scooby-Doo trick-or-treating, along with the hubs. They had a good time and made out pretty well, though nothing like I used to when I was a kid. The number of houses with no porch lights was astounding; the number of houses with their lights on but nobody home was depressing. When I was a kid the streets were swarming after dark on Halloween; parents didn’t even really need to accompany us because there were so many other kids out there. Not so now, sigh, although part of that may be because of where we are and the fact that some people don’t approve of Halloween because of the pagan thing, which of course I think is ridiculous.

Anyway. The best part was listening to Faerie explain that she was Daphne Blake from Scooby-Doo, in this voice dripping with DUH. Oh, and the way after leaving one house, while the woman whose house it was still stood there with her door open, Faerie looked up, smiled, and said, “That was a nice old lady!” Granted, she was probably in her early sixties but still. Sigh.

Anyway. Here we all are:

Iron Girl and Daphne Blake, with some crazy woman in glasses

(Yes, maybe the black bars are a little much, but really, do you want identifiable pictures of your children on the internet?)

Anyway. I now have a toothache, which makes me quite nervous since I don’t have a dentist or dental insurance, and it’s really quite painful. Luckily I have a few decent painkillers left, but only a few, and obviously I need something to fix the ache not just cover it up (I suspect it’s an inflamed nerve; I’ve had it once before). So I’ll probably be trying to find someplace to go this week, groan. I know it’s cliche to say you hate the dentist, but I hate the dentist. Going always makes me cry for some reason. Like when I sit there with my mouth open and junk stuffed into it, I start thinking about how I’m a total loser, and look I can’t even take care of my own teeth, and the dentist probably hates me and thinks I’m an idiot and why wouldn’t he, and I deserve to have my mouth hurt. I don’t know why the dentist does that to me when other doctors don’t; I never cry at the gynecologist. But the dentist makes me unhappy.

Did anyone watch THE WALKING DEAD last night? Was that fucking awesome or what? I don’t particularly like zombies, to be honest. I’ve never found them to be a really interesting kind of foe, which is weird because you’d think they’d be right up my alley; the animated cannibalistic dead. (And yeah, I used them in the Demons books and that was fun, I’ve just never been able to conceive a whole plot based around them.)

But I usually just get annoyed by them. And yes, there were annoying moments in the show, but for the most part it was creepy as fuck and totally cool, and the hubs and I really enjoyed it. Although I still feel awful about that poor horse!

So that’s it for today, and I hope everyone had a fantastic Samhain/Halloween!

First, don’t forget tomorrow’s #UFChat on Twitter, which I’ll be answering questions in. You can get a bit more information on it here, if you like. It starts at 6 pm EST (3 PST) and I really hope you all come and say hi! Well, really, I hope anyone comes to say hi. This is the sort of event that gives me nightmares imagining it will just be me sitting there and no one else showing up. Seriously.

Next, there’s a new interview with me at The Literary Project. It’s not really about the books, it’s more about writing and career and personal stuff, and a bit about the difference between urban fantasy and paranormal romance. So worth checking out if any of that interests you.

A review or two! Murder by the Book bookseller John does a joint review of UM and CoG here:

I can’t say enough about how wonderful this whole series [is]. The plotting over the three book arc is top-notch. Once I finished City of Ghosts I felt like the three books together told a bigger story. That doesn’t happen often with books in a series.

And Book Chick City gives CoG a 10/10 review(!!) and says:

Unholy Ghosts and Unholy Magic stayed with me long after I read them and it was no different with City of Ghosts. There’s so many layers from the complex characters to the awesome world building of Downside. It’s full of witchy magic, action and romance, I literally couldn’t put this book down until I had read the very last word. I could go on and on about these books, they are just so brilliant! If you haven’t started this series, you MUST!

And last but not least, don’t forget the big-ass Name a Character Contest! I’m really excited by the number of entries I’ve gotten so far, and I hope to get plenty more, too! And I’m really hoping word spreads and more people give the books a try, too.

But anyway! On to the excerpt!! This is from Chapter Thirty.

And again, it is a bit spoilery. I tried to find one that wasn’t, and this one isn’t terribly so, but do be warned. Click at your own risk!

(As always, this is from the pre-copyedited version of the ms, and may differ slightly from the final published version.)

Chess and Lex are investigating a body and some magic items found in the tunnels under the city, when they realize someone else is down there with them. The lights snap off.

Every muscle in her body screamed to run. They had to get out of there, away from [the] destroyed body, away from the lungs and the fetish, out of the tunnels.

But Lex’s hand squeezed her arm tight, like he knew what she was thinking. She heard the sound of his gun cocked slow in his other hand as his lips pressed to her ear. “Ain’t just go off now, tulip. On the minute, aye? Let’s us have a thought first.”

Water splashed; how far away was it? Was that a foot? Something else? She pictured things dropped into the little stream, curse bags and gris-gris and fetishes, things the water would carry to them and drag against their feet. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might literally leap into her mouth.

“Ain’t get that flash you got neither,” he continued. “No draggin them eyes our way. Gimme a hold-on, aye?”

She nodded, knew he could feel her move.

“Know my way right, I do. Door ain’t far, dig, back where we come. Stay on me, aye?”

She nodded again. Not enough air, there wasn’t enough air in the tunnel, not enough in the world. Fresh air, clean air, air that didn’t thrum with magic, lay thick and heavy in her lungs with it. Choking her. She clutched his arm, wiry and hard under her hand.

Gentle pressure forced her to step back, to turn slightly. Even her sense of direction started to fail her; had she turned all the way around, or just partway? Which way was she facing? The darkness around them was a solid thing, completely impenetrable.

They stepped forward. Chess tried to keep her feet on the curve at the bottom of the wall, out of the water. Lex tucked her hand around his waist so her chest pressed against his back. It made walking difficult but it wasn’t as though they were just taking a stroll anyway, and she had to admit it reassured her.

Which kind of pissed her off, but this wasn’t the time to start wondering when she’d suddenly gone soft. People, she was discovering, were like cockroaches; if you allowed one in, more were sure to follow.

Another giggle, low and smooth. Her head whipped around, eyes straining to see something, anything in the pitch black air. Was that closer? Where were they?

Lex didn’t stop. They took another step, another. Chess’s foot hit something heavy, something solid and unyielding and yet somehow…somehow dull, against her toes. [The] body. She swallowed hard, kept moving.
Something ran past them. She felt it stir the air against her skin and bit back a scream. Sweat trickled down her face, into her eyes; she wiped them against Lex’s shirt without moving her hand. Without stopping. They had to get out, get out, get—

A sharp tug on her hair. A scream; not hers, not her voice. Hot foul-smelling breath on her cheek; Lex yanked her to the side and the gun went off in a flash of white light. Hot blood spattered on her skin.

And they ran.

No more secrecy now. No more hiding. Still they didn’t use the light—all she saw were huge red spots before her eyes from the gun—but their feet splashed through the water, pounded the cement beneath them while voices screamed in rage and pain behind them. More than one voice, many voices, echoing around her, reaching into her and yanking out her soul.

Lex ran faster, pulling her along through the darkness. He was the only real thing in the world; this wasn’t real, none of it was real, it was a nightmare she had to wake up from.

They were being chased. The screams turned to howls, catcalls. And then, horribly, to barks.

Dogs. Vicious ones. Baying in the tunnels, their low deep barks scratching her, hurting her, and it wasn’t until her frantic mind realized they hurt that she realized why.

It wasn’t real dogs following them. Not living dogs. It was psychopomps.

A dozen maybe, or a hundred. She had no idea, no way to tell. Didn’t have the breath to tell Lex, and no point anyway; psychopomps couldn’t be shot, couldn’t be stabbed, couldn’t be killed. Couldn’t be stopped without magic, and even if she had time to get her supplies she somehow doubted these particular hounds would respond.

They hurtled around a corner with the barks getting closer, the unearthly howls of the psychopomps, sounds she’d never heard a psychopomp make before.

Her head turned to the left as they entered another tunnel and she almost fell. Their eyes. She could see their eyes, the dogs, their glowing purple eyes. Hundreds of them. Hundreds of eyes, oh shit oh fuck they were going to die, have their souls torn from their living bodies and devoured or savaged, those were not normal psychopomps holy fuck what were they she was going to die—

No! She ran harder. Pushed herself with everything she had, until she was even with Lex. She couldn’t look back, didn’t want to look back, couldn’t stand to see them ready to bite.

Lex jerked her to the side, yanked her arm up. She stumbled on the steps; her right hand hit gritty cement. The dogs were right behind them, so loud she couldn’t even hear herself scream.

See you Tuesday!

Keep in mind that although the excerpt isn’t continuity-spoilery, it is a bit plot-spoilery, pretty much by definition. But I didn’t want to post something from the first three chapters, because then this wouldn’t be special, would it?

This is a Sneak Peek excerpt, so I will probably delete it first thing Tuesday morning. Enjoy!

Sorry, gone bye-bye!

But you can now download the first three chapters of UNHOLY MAGIC as a PDF! UNHOLY MAGIC excerpt

Enjoy!

The back cover copy:

THE DEPARTED HAVE ARRIVED.

The world is not the way it was. The dead have risen and constantly attack the living. The powerful Church of Real Truth, in charge since the government fell, has sworn to reimburse citizens being harassed by the deceased. Consequently, there are many false claims of hauntings from those hoping to profit. Enter Chess Putnam, a fully-tattooed witch and freewheeling Debunker and ghost hunter. She’s got a real talent for nailing the human liars or banishing the wicked dead. But she’s keeping a dark secret from the Church: a little drug problem that’s landed her in hot and dangerous water.

Chess owes a murderous drug lord named Bump a lot of money. And Bump wants immediate payback. All Chess has to do is dispatch a very nasty species of undead from an old airport. But the job involves black magic, human sacrifice, a nefarious demonic creature, and crossing swords with enough wicked energy to wipe out a city of souls. Toss in lust with a rival gang leader and a dangerous attraction to Bump’s ruthless enforcer, and Chess begins to wonder if the rush is really worth it. Hell, yeah.

This is from Chapter Six, and it’s Chess’s initial visit to a family whose haunting she’ll be Debunking.

The Mortons looked like any nice, normal semi-suburban family, struggling to make it all the way to that big cookie-cutter house with thirty feet of grass in every direction around it, but that meant nothing. In fact, it meant Chess needed to be more careful, more on her guard, because the Mortons clearly wanted that nice suburban home. It was all over their smooth, round little faces.

People who wanted things were dangerous. People who wanted things would lie and cheat and steal to get them.

She of all people should know that.

So she stretched her lips into a fake smile and dug out her notebook. “When did you say the manifestations started?”

Mrs. Morton paused for a minute, placing one dainty pink-tipped finger to one dainty pink-slicked lip. “I believe it was about five weeks ago, wasn’t it, Bill dear? While you were at the convention.” Her gaze returned to Chess. “Bill’s an optometrist.”

“That’s great.”

What was she supposed to say? Bill could examine every eye in the District and she wouldn’t give a shit.

But Mrs. Morton was obviously very proud of the fact that her husband had looked at enough eyeballs to become an expert on them, and the last thing Chess wanted to do at this point was alienate the family.

“I was in the laundry room,” Mrs. Morton continued, “putting a load in the dryer, when I heard Albert here start yelling. It was odd, because Albert is such a brave, quiet boy. Just like his Daddy.”

If Mrs. Morton would stop verbally jacking off her husband and son, this would all be done so much more quickly, but then Chess guessed it was just about the only sex the woman got. Mr. Morton, silent and pale in his sweater-vest, looked like the kind of man who ate ribs with a knife and fork. Not exactly a wild beast in the bedroom, she guessed, but then what did she know?

“Did you actually see the specter, Mrs. Morton? Or was it just Albert?”

“Well, I didn’t see it that time, no. But he described it so well I felt like I did. Then later I did see it. In the bedroom. Just as I was drifting off to sleep.”

“And what did it look like?”

“It was just horrible. Like a…a ghoul, or something. It made the room so cold, it felt so…evil.”

She gave a delicate shudder. “Gray, and sort of wrinkly. Moldy, if you know what I mean. It wore just rags, might have been a dress once but I couldn’t tell. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman, but it had been dead a long time. Did it escape from the City of Eternity? I thought they couldn’t escape from there, but then if they really couldn’t we wouldn’t be haunted, right?”

“Some spirits never made it to the city. We’re still cleaning up the old religions’ messes.”

Chess made another note on her pad. Intensely interested in placing blame on the Church. Cannot describe entity with any degree of detail. Then, below that, she added: Vodka. Laundry soap. Toothpaste.

Mrs. Morton must have seen something in Chess’ blank expression, because she added, “Not that we blame the Church! Of course we don’t. But this…this is pretty scary. Poor Albert is afraid to sleep in his own bedroom, and none of us are too comfortable being here by ourselves, and, well, this is our home. And we can’t even sell it, not with some unnie hanging around!” Her hand flew to her mouth.

Chess ignored both the epithet and the exaggerated look of shock on Mrs. Morton’s carefully painted face. When it came down to it, “unnie”—short for “undead”—was one of the less offensive terms she’d heard for them. Sure, it was worse than the Church-sanctioned “ghost”, “spirit”, “specter” or “entity”. But as slang went it was pretty harmless.

“We hope you can help us.” Mr. Morton spoke up for the first time, his voice surprisingly deep and pleasant for such a slight man.

“I’m sure I can. Perhaps you could show me all the places where the entity has appeared? I’d also like to see any locations where its presence was felt in some other way. Sounds, any symbols etched on the walls or maybe in the mist on the shower doors or mirror? They often try to communicate like that.”

The Mortons stared at her, their eyes so wide they looked artificial.

“Has anything appeared on any other walls or windows? Any feelings of being watched? Movement seen out of the corner of your eye? Odd smells? Touches? Anything of that nature, now’s the time to show me where it happened.”

She pulled her tape recorder and Spectrometer out of her bag and switched them on.

The Mortons didn’t move. Chess fought the urge to look down and see if something had spilled on her blouse when she wasn’t paying attention.

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Morton said. “I just…you scared me. We haven’t had anything as bad as some of that, is that going to happen?”

“It might.” Chess watched them carefully. Sometimes she could see the little wheels spinning in their heads as they planned how to stage a more potent manifestation. She’d caught someone out that way in her second year of work, when she’d finished her list and the client had blurted out “Messages in frost? I never even thought of doing that!”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Morton clutched at her sweater. Her blue eyes examined the room, sweeping back and forth as though something was going to materialize and jump out at her any second. Either she was a great actress, or she was genuinely frightened. Was it possible the son—Albert—was doing it without his parents’ knowledge? Or that Mr. Morton was behind it? That had happened once, too, a husband faking a spooking so his wife would be too afraid to ask for the house when he left her for another woman.

She scribbled on her pad: Girlfriend Mr. M?

“I’m sure we can take care of it before things start going really badly,” Chess said. “Now, if you could please show me around the house…?”

All three of the Mortons came along on the tour, much to Chess’ chagrin. Extra bodies crowding around her in small spaces like the Morton’s cramped hallway were not what she needed in the slightly nervous state the Nips had left her in. And if little Albert accidentally-on-purpose brushed against her breast again she was going to hit him. The quality and quantity of porn she imagined she’d find under his bed, when she got around to searching, would probably be staggering.

Mrs. Morton’s pale fingers trailed over the picture frames in the hall. “We trace our family back over three hundred years,” she said. “Roots are so important, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” She wondered what Mrs. Morton would say if Chess told her she had no idea who her parents had been, much less anyone further back.

Her tattoos didn’t so much as tingle, nor did the Spectrometer beep, when they entered a small bedroom on the right, which looked as though some bizarrely pretentious child lived in it. Batman wallpaper warred with posters of mallard ducks and prints from the Tate gallery. A teddy bear slumped on the dresser next to a rack of silver cufflinks. Books tilted on the scarred pine bookcase like crooked teeth, but when Chess stepped closer there were dust lines on the shelves. Someone had recently—probably very recently—removed quite a few titles.

Little Albert was into sci-fi and technology. All the big fantasy names were there—Tolkein, Card, Anthony, Wiess—along with Sagan, Heinlein, Sturgeon, Straub…but no how-to tech books, not even a single Idiot’s Guide, which was unusual because the more she looked around the room the more she noticed the bundle of cables peeking out from under the bed, the empty shelf under the flat-screen tv in the corner. Albert looked like an A/V Club boy, and A/V Club boys read books about hacking and splicing and F/X. They read about digital imagery and home theaters and how to rewire speakers so they went up to eleven.

When she came back later, or the next night, she’d have a more thorough look around.

She let the Mortons lead her through the spare bedroom and the bathroom, into the master bedroom. The signs of desperate upward mobility were strewn all over the house like an LL Bean catalogue had exploded; a beautiful dresser in a bedroom with mismatched bedside tables, expensive lotions on a cracked bathroom countertop. The copy of The Book of Truth next to the bed had been arranged so the light shone off the gold lettering and reflected back at her when she stepped through the doorway.

“This is where it was.” Mrs. Morton waved a nervous hand at a spot on the floor to her left, about a foot from where she was standing. There was something vaguely familiar about the movement, about Mrs. Morton herself. Maybe the family really did attend Church sometimes and Chess had seen her there. “I was in bed, there, like I said, and it just…hovered here, and stared at me. It looked so angry, I just didn’t know what to do…”

This was ridiculous, a waste of her time. She switched off the Spectrometer and tape recorder, shoved them both back into her bag.

“Well, I’ve seen enough for now. If we could go back to the living room and you could sign the complaint, we’ll get started processing it.”

“But…you didn’t see the ghost, does that matter?”

Chess pulled the zipper on her purse shut, realizing as she did that her hand was shaking slightly. She glanced at the clock by the bed. Five to nine. This was taking forever, she needed to go.

“We’re not done yet,” she replied, trying to sound cheerful. “It’ll take at least a week or two to really investigate. This was just to get the papers filled out, and so I could get a feel for what we’re dealing with. You’ll be seeing quite a bit of me, Mrs. Morton, don’t you worry.”

Mrs. Morton smiled weakly. The cheaters always hated it when she said she’d be around a lot. And the Mortons were faking it, she knew it. Not even a beep, not even a blip on the Spectro. Very unusual in an enclosed space with ghosts.

And the Mortons would certainly be learning about enclosed spaces if she was right, and they were faking. The Church didn’t take kindly to attempts to steal from it; Mr. Morton would have a hard time examining eyeballs from a little blue cell.

“So let’s just go sign those papers and I can leave you to your eveni—”

Something darted through the air behind Mr. Morton, so fast it took Chess a second to realize it wasn’t just a hallucination. A black shape, man-sized but crouched over. She had the impression of a hood hiding its face, of the light by the bed catching the sharp edge of a blade, before it disappeared into the closet.

It looked almost like a cartoon, like an image projected on the wall instead of moving in front of it, but it had been so long since she’d seen an actual cartoon she could have been wrong about that.

She wasn’t wrong about the sense of unease, though, more than simply the unease of her body starting to get serious with her about its needs—at least she thought it was. Fuck, she shouldn’t have waited to take her pills, it was throwing her off. For the first time a ribbon of doubt slipped through her mind. Withdrawal, or ghost? No way to be sure.

The Mortons stood watching her, faintly perplexed, waiting for her to finish her sentence. They hadn’t noticed anything—or perhaps they had, and they were watching her to see if she said anything.

Of course. The image had looked like a cartoon, like something being broadcast, because it was. When she came back later she’d look for the projector. It was probably behind the mirror over the dresser. The thought was comforting, but not enough to ease the cool sweat on her forehead and body. She felt sticky with it.

“With your evening,” she finished. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you so late, my last interview ran long. And I’ll be in touch.”

Sooner than they knew.

Today’s excerpt comes from Chapter Two, and it seemed to me like a nice little view into Megan’s life as the story begins.

I hope you enjoy it!

Note: This is from the pre-copyedited manuscript. The final printed version may vary slightly.)

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 raised. A little. “Hi, Brian. No, my patient—my appointment got cancelled. 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 semi-regular 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.

This is from Chapter 6, and the book takes place seven months after the events of DEMON INSIDE (which makes it almost a year after the events of PERSONAL DEMONS). I didn’t want to post Chapter One, as that will go up on the site proper in January. (Also, if for some reason you haven’t read DEMON INSIDE yet, keep in mind this excerpt contains a little bit of discussion/spoilers relating to that book.)

Enjoy!

(Note: this excerpt has not been copyedited. The final published version may differ slightly.)

Candles floated above the table, courtesy of the air demons—House Caelaeris—led by Baylor Regis. At her feet were flower petals, strewn from ivy-covered wall to ivy-covered wall.

Ivory damask tablecloths peeked out from beneath an enormous silver centerpiece loaded with ivy and white roses; silver plates waited at every chair, surrounded by crystal glasses and solid silver cutlery. Demons liked to eat. She had no doubt this would be a meal to remember.

And it was, but not for the reasons she expected. No sooner had they sat down than Justine Riverside, Gretneg of House Concumbia, turned to her, her succubus smile spread all over her perfect features.

“So, Megan,” she cooed. “We’re all dying to hear about your plans for your Haikken-Kra. When will you be doing it?”

Had someone dropped a pin, Megan felt certain she would have heard it. She wished someone would. It would provide some distraction.

But no one did. No one made a sound. Shit.

“I don’t plan to do it, actually. There’s really no reason for me to, at this point.”

Justine’s perfectly arched eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline. “No reason? I certainly think—”

“Justine, Megan will make the decision she feels is right,” Winston cut in. Megan shot him a grateful smile, which he returned. “It’s not our place to say what she should do.”

“It is! Just the presence of a human here creates a problem for us. Her mind is weak.”

“She’s a psychic,” Greyson said. He squeezed her thigh beneath the table. “Nobody’s going to hypnotize or entrance her.”

Justine frowned. “I think we should take a vote on it.”

“Excuse me,” Megan said. “I don’t think it’s up to any of you. I don’t actually believe it’s any of your business.”

“Human vulnerability is our business, when it affects us.” Justine flicked her long hair, shining black in the candlelight, off her bare shoulder. “Look at that silliness going on in the hotel down the road, that fleapit whatever-it’s-called. That ridiculous man claiming to heal possessed people. And they believe him. They flock to him. They give him money—hmm. Maybe that’s something we should look into.”

A ripple of appreciative laughter flowed around the table at this. Megan didn’t join in. “Wait, what? What man?”

“Some reverend man.” Justine’s shudder turned into a graceful undulation when the servants—not the hotel’s, but demons handpicked by each house—brought the first platter, loaded with appetizers, and started parceling them out. Apparently being seen to react horribly to something was not on Justine’s list of acceptable things. “He’s holding some sort of weekend prayer meeting at that hotel over there.”

“The Windbreaker?”

“That’s the one.” Justine picked up her fork, twirled it in her red-tipped fingers. “Why, are you planning on joining them?”

“No, I—no. No, I’m not.” Damn it! She should have told Justine to go fuck herself, something she’d been dying to do for some time. She’d never forgotten her first glimpse of the woman, though they hadn’t been officially introduced; the day Megan was forced to remember the Accuser, the demon who’d infected her with a piece of him almost seventeen years before. The day she’d been forced to watch Greyson tortured, chained and whipped with an iron-tipped whip.

Justine had been there. Had enjoyed the show. Megan would never forget it. Would never forget that Justine had enjoyed the show despite the fact that she’d also enjoyed having Greyson in her bed at one time.

Or several times. He’d never really given Megan details, and she’d never asked. It was enough to know that it had happened, and that it wasn’t happening anymore. Wouldn’t happen again. When he was Templeton Black’s second-in-command Greyson had been called on to perform such acts; payback for favors, little treats to sweeten deals. As Gretneg he no longer had to.

She supposed that was Carter’s job now. Although she preferred to think it wasn’t anybody’s.

Except…Greyson had asked his friend Nick to do something for him, back at Christmastime. Something he didn’t want to do, something involving a woman. Could that have been…

But what favor would Greyson have been paying back then, when he’d been Gretneg for barely twenty-four hours?

Fuck Justine, and fuck all this stupid demon crap. The implication that Megan’s silly human brain was so easily manipulated, that she would be just as likely to run off and join up with a fundamentalist exorcist as to do anything else, rankled. The implication that because she was human she didn’t belong there…that simply hurt. Much as she didn’t want it to, it did. She did want to belong there. She did want to fit in. She just didn’t want to give up her humanity entirely, to lose things she considered valuable and important.

Allowing the demon to grow inside her, to become more of a part of her so she would be genetically demon, might not change that. But she couldn’t be sure. And nobody could give her a truly compelling argument for doing it, so why should she? She’d thought it wasn’t a problem.

And now with one little conversation all that had changed.

Food was put on her plate and she picked up her fork without thinking, only to be stopped by Greyson’s hand on hers. “Don’t eat that one.”

“Why?” Shit, she didn’t want to sound bitter and pissed off, but she couldn’t help it. She hated feeling like an outsider. “Is it made of human flesh or something?”

He looked at her strangely. “No. Bell peppers.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.” Oops. She was allergic to those.

“Is everything all right, bryaela?”

She tried to smile. It didn’t turn out too well. “I’m just—I’m fine.”

His palm stroked her thigh now, gliding up and down over the silk of her skirt as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Watching you stand up to Justine was awfully sexy.”

“I don’t think I stood up very well.”

“Oh, I do. Very few people ever even attempt it, so you get points just for that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so surprised.”

This time her smile did work. True or not, it was nice to hear. “Really? I would have thought you’d managed to surprise her a few times over the years yourself.”

“No. She never got my best stuff.”

“Well, didn’t she miss out.”

“I like to think so. But such is life. Unfair.”

She looked up at him, into his eyes. The rest of the room turned into nothing but a discordant hum in the background, a blur of ivory and green; a set painting. “Sometimes it isn’t too bad, though.”

“No, sometimes it certainly isn’t.”

She didn’t know how long they sat like that. Not long, she didn’t think. Not in such a public place, in such a small group where everyone at the table could and probably were watching. But it was long enough; long enough to remind her exactly why she was still there, why she still wanted to be there. Long enough to know he wanted her there, too.

“I was thinking,” he said finally, giving her thigh another squeeze and taking a sip of wine with his other hand. The sound of the room rushed back, the others talking, the faint tinkle of silverware on plates. More servants moved in with larger trays, delivering what looked like pheasant. “We haven’t been back to Italy. Want to go, week after next?”

“For your birthday? Oh…shit, I can’t. I can’t take more time off so soon, and the rest of my vacation time at the station is booked for Christmas. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

“I took your birthday off, though. And the day after.”

“Oh? Planning something?”

“Maybe.” Actually, she was; she’d found a nice hotel on an island off the coast, just a few hours’ flight away, and had booked the night before and the night of, with a late check-out the day after. Malleus had helped her plan it; she’d needed him to check Greyson’s appointments.

He started to reply, but stopped when someone said his name. Winston’s daughter Leora sat at his left side; Megan hadn’t noticed before. The seating around the table was arranged boy-girl, with Win on Leora’s other side and his girlfriend—Sarita, right?—on his other side. The assistants, exclusively male, sat at the end closest to the kitchen doors in a ring.

Gunnar Ryall from House Aquiast sat at her right. While Greyson turned to Leora she spoke to him, making desultory conversation. No other kind could be made with Gunnar, at least not in her experience. He liked to talk about fish. A lot.

Her pheasant was placed in front of her. With gratitude she turned to it, and accepted another cocktail as well instead of wine. Her stomach practically screamed at the sight of the food; she’d hardly eaten all day, and while full-blood demons could subsist for long periods of time simply on energy like she’d exchanged with Greyson earlier, she couldn’t.

Not that demons wanted to subsist purely on energy—they wouldn’t be such big eaters if they did—but they could. And they could eat enormous amounts without gaining weight, due to faster metabolisms. It was almost enough to convince her to make the switch, but then, anorexics lost plenty of weight too and that wasn’t exactly healthy. Giving up her humanity in exchange for extra helpings of pie didn’t seem like the greatest deal.

Although she could be tempted when the food was this good. The pheasant practically melted in her mouth, dark and rich and—what was that?

A shiver, almost like the one she’d felt the night before, when the litobora was nearby. Tasting her.

This wasn’t a demon, though. It was a human, nearby. A human where a human shouldn’t be; Megan’s responsibility. Her Yezer were guarding all the entrances leading to this part of the building, making sure it felt so gloomy, creepy, and just plain scary that any person walking near it felt the sudden urge to be elsewhere.

If there’d been a problem, it would have been communicated to Roc. Should have been communicated to Roc.

So why the hell hadn’t it been? And oh, shit, how long would it be before the others sensed an intruder, as well, and decided she’d had something to do with it?