And she’d gotten used to the fact that taking that energy felt amazing. But taking it the way she had—she’d attacked him, stolen from him. It was a hideous thing she’d done.

She’d had to kill him. She hadn’t had to like it.

She shuddered and circled her arms around his waist. For a long moment she just held on, feeling his body warm and solid beside hers and his grip on her tighten. Later. Later they would talk about it.

The ringing of his cell phone cut into her thoughts, sliced them apart like a pair of rough hands. He took a step away, held the phone to his ear. “Carter. What’s—what? Are you—okay. Right. Shit. Yes, get back in there. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“What’s wrong?” Malleus and Spud had descended on her with brushes and lipstick, but when Spud lowered one beefy arm, she saw Greyson staring at the phone as if he’d forgotten what it was.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“There’s no body.”

“What? Ow!” She’d started forward without thinking, and Malleus had practically ripped a chunk of hair out of her head.

“Sorry, m’lady. But you know you oughter not move when we’re—”

“There’s no body,” Greyson said again. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and crossed the remaining feet of roof between them. “Carter checked everywhere.”

“So what does that mean?” Nothing good, she imagined. Although . . . “Did I not kill him?”

“You’re sure he went over the edge?”

Ugh. “I watched him.”

“All the way? Did you watch him hit the ground?”

“No. No, I . . . I couldn’t. I didn’t. I just saw him fall.” Watched him tumble off the roof, his body disappearing over the wall . . . she shuddered.

Malleus’s finger tapped her lips, magically setting her lipstick. She ignored it. If the man—the witch—was still alive, if she hadn’t killed him . . . it was a relief. At least it was until she realized that if he wasn’t dead, he’d be coming back for her.

Greyson must have thought the same thing. “No more going anywhere alone. Nowhere. We’ll need someone . . . hmm.” He checked his watch. “We need to get back down there. We’ll discuss this later, okay? Meanwhile, nothing happened. We’ll figure out a story in the elevator.”

Dessert was some incredibly rich chocolate raspberry thing that Megan couldn’t even come close to finishing. Even if her stomach hadn’t been alive with nerves she wouldn’t have been able to finish it.

She could finish her cocktails, though. Several of them. One good thing about the energy she’d taken from the witch, it allowed her to drink a hell of a lot more without feeling anything more than a pleasant buzz. She’d probably pay for it the next day, but at that point she didn’t care. Everyone rose from the table and started milling around. Dinner was over. Thank God, dinner was over, and soon she’d be able to go back to their room and figure out what was going on. Or at least try to figure out what was going on.

The luxurious setting made everything even more unreal. What was she doing there? Yes, fine, she’d admit it. She’d gotten rather used to luxury over the last eleven months or so. How could she not, when she spent a few nights a week—okay, every weekend and several midweek nights—in a mansion? A real one, with servants. When her costume jewelry had slowly but surely gathered dust because she wore real diamonds now, real sapphires and rubies, all gifts from her very wealthy boyfriend?

But the dining room wasn’t what she was used to. It wasn’t simply a very fine restaurant or the Ieuranlier. It buzzed with energy, with demon voices and laughter. As if she was on a stage in a very bizarre play. She watched Greyson light Justine’s cigarette with his fingertip. Watched Winston and his daughter add a little blood to their wine from the flask in Winston’s pocket. She stood in a room full of demons, nonhuman beings, and earlier that night another nonhuman being had tried to kill her, and she thought she’d killed him but his body had somehow disappeared.

Brian had once commented on how unfazed she’d seemed to be by the news that demons actually existed. And that had not disturbed her but concerned her, until she’d realized that a large part of the reason was that deep down she’d remembered. Remembered being possessed by the Accuser, remembered everything.

That didn’t explain how she was still standing, still accepting the attempts to kill her or the fact that, upset as she was about taking a life, she was more worried about the disappearance of the body and the idea that she hadn’t actually been successful in her murder.

That was where the unreality came from. It was the feeling that she was being watched, that eyes lurked behind those lovely ivy-covered walls or peeked at her from inside the air vents. Her skin tingled as if she were naked. Totally exposed.

Not comfortable, not at all. So she stood up and headed for Greyson, smiling when she saw Roc perched on his shoulder. The two were deep in conversation with Carter; she imagined they were discussing what had happened to her earlier, but that didn’t dissuade her. Just being near them would give her strength.

Leora Lawden stepped into her path, a shy smile on her pretty face. Funny, Megan had never thought Winston’s features would look right on a girl, but they did.

“Megan,” Leora said, “I was hoping maybe we could talk.”

Megan plastered on a smile and forced herself not to shoot a longing look at Greyson and Roc. Leora would see it, and the girl looked so . . . not out of place, but eager somehow. How old was she? She couldn’t have been out of her early twenties at the very oldest. “Sure, of course. Is something wrong?”

“No, I just . . .” Leora sat down at the table. Megan did the same. “My father always speaks so highly of you, and he thought it would be a good idea. I guess he figures it will be easier on me, all of this, if I have someone to talk to. And if it’s you, that’s even better.”

“I’m flattered,” Megan said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “I like your father.”

Leora’s face glowed. “He’s wonderful. Everything he’s done for me—”

“Attention, everyone!” Speak of the devil—er, demon. Winston Lawden had raised his full glass. “We’ve had a delicious meal, and I’m sure we all look forward to a productive week. But I think we must all pause now to remember one among us who is no longer here. I would like to propose a toast to Templeton Black. Long live his memory.”

“Alri neshden Templeton Black,” everyone said, and drank, their arms lifting in unison.

Everyone except Greyson.

Chapter 9

“Why didn’t you drink to Templeton?” she asked him later, once they were back in their room.

“Hmm? Oh. It’s not appropriate, since I took his place. It would be disrespectful.”

“Really? Huh.” Gently buzzed but more tired, she turned around so he could unzip her gown and waited for the little bra-strap tug. It always made her smile, but tonight she had something more serious on her mind too. “So . . . I still want to call Tera.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

She almost fell over. “What?”

“What?” He hung his tuxedo shirt up and reached for his belt. “If a witch came after you tonight, getting Tera involved is the smart thing to do. She may have information we don’t. She may be able to track him somehow in a way we can’t.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I’m not playing around here, darling. Someone is trying to kill you. I don’t care with whom we have to deal or what we have to do, we’re going to find out who it is.”

He’d turned away from her while he spoke, slipping off his pants and putting on a pair of plain black ones, but the emotion behind his words came through loud and clear just the same.