Funny. Everyone seemed to want her to make some kind of commitment to them these days. Everyone except, of course, Greyson Dante.

Two minor domestic disputes, one rebellious teenager, one disgruntled employee, and a woman who didn’t know if she should accept a marriage proposal from a “reformed” felon later, Megan was just taking her last call of the night on her radio show when it happened. Again.

As my-name-is-Pat started telling her about an issue with her mother, Megan opened her shields to read. This had actually become much easier to do over the phone than in person lately, she’d noticed, in large part because so many of the Yezer felt the need to show themselves during appointments, especially when clients described feelings of misery or doubt. They’d nod and wink and wave, expecting Megan to cheer them, she guessed.

She had guessed. Now she wondered if they were taunting her instead. Although given what had happened in their home the night before, she doubted they’d be taunting her again anytime soon.

So, relieved that there weren’t any little demon faces looking at her, Megan lowered her shields, just as she had for her first ten callers, and reached out.

And got nothing.

It didn’t make sense. My-name-is-Pat, whose real name was of course probably not anything like Pat, had the trembly, shaky kind of voice Megan associated with people who were easy to read. Nerves opened them up, as a rule. So did adrenaline, fear…the closer to victim-hood people were, the easier it was to break through the weak shields most carried instinctively.

“But she just doesn’t seem to appreciate anything I do for her,” my-name-is-Pat said. “All she does is criticize. And she tells my children she doesn’t care about them.”

Megan leaned forward in her chair as if she could somehow get closer to the woman by doing so. Why wasn’t she getting anything? She’d never not been able to read someone, unless…Unless they weren’t human. She couldn’t read demons.

My-name-is-Pat didn’t sound like a demon, and Megan couldn’t think of a single reason why a demon would call her show and pretend to be just another human seeking advice. But there was no other explanation for it. Either my-name-is-Pat was a demon, or…

Or she was possessed by one.

“Pat, this seems to be causing a lot of stress for you,” Megan said. “How have you been sleeping?”

Flying blind was definitely not her favorite thing to do, and whatever she knew about demon possession she’d learned from B movies. But she imagined it would be something like Dissociative Identity Disorder, so she came at it from that angle.

“Oh, I seem to fall asleep anywhere,” warbled my-name-is-Pat. “What difference does that make?”

“Do you think you’re sleeping too much?”

“I didn’t know you could get too much sleep. Is that, like, a medical problem?”

Just answer the damned question! “So are you just falling asleep at odd moments or places? You said you seem to fall asleep anywhere.”

“Well, sometimes I sit down and the next thing I know it’s several hours later.” Nervous laugh. “But I’m not getting any younger, you know! We start to need more sleep as we age.”

Given that the woman was probably barely forty, Megan rolled her eyes. Still…she shifted in her seat. The woman was losing time and couldn’t be read. Something was definitely wrong here, and it was a lot more than just a disapproving mother. Hell, Megan’s own mother hadn’t spoken to her in ten years, unless you counted curt little Christmas cards printed complete with signature facsimile—Happy Holidays from Diane and Dave”—as talking. Megan didn’t.

“Have you been to a doctor? About your sleeping?” What to tell my-name-is-Pat? “You’re probably possessed by some sort of demon” just didn’t seem right, somehow. Aside from the fact that Megan had no idea how to treat it or take care of it or anything. Greyson had said all that God versus the Devil stuff ceased being relevant centuries ago, and there wasn’t even a Hell anymore.

So Megan did the cowardly thing, the only thing she could. She told my-name-is-Pat to give her mother a break and remember how hard the old woman’s life must have been. She told her to take vitamins and get some exercise and to cut down on time with her mother if it upset her so much. She told her everything she would have told any client in the same situation, and hoped for her sake this had nothing to do with the red shape behind Gerald’s eyes before he’d leaped at her Friday night.

Her cell phone rang just as she was nearing the turnoff for her neighborhood. Thankfully she was stopped at a light, because the damn thing had fallen so far into the bottom of her purse she would have run off the road while hunting for it.

“Hello?”

“It was lost in your purse, wasn’t it?” Greyson’s voice was sexy and intimate even over the phone. Megan wondered how he managed it.

She laughed. “Maybe.”

“I’d buy you a big heavy chain to attach to it, but you’d probably manage to choke yourself with it if I did.”

“Probably.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Heading home. Are you—”

“Why don’t you come here?”

“Where, the house or your apartment?” She preferred the apartment, honestly. More anonymous, less crowded, and with a much better view. But he spent so much time at the Ieureanlier these days, and with Templeton Black gone, it made sense for him to spend most nights there.

“Actually, I’m at Mitchell’s.”

“Mitchell like a guy, or Mitchell’s the—”

“Restaurant, yes. Come over. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Haven’t you eaten?”

“Earlier. Come on. I’d like to see you before I leave and this way you can have something to eat.”

If she waited she could probably get him to say please, and she did love it when he said please. But she wanted to talk to him anyway. After everything that had happened, after her visit to the Yezer and Althea’s phone call and my-name-is-Pat…

Actually, she probably didn’t want to tell him about Althea’s phone call, now that she thought about it. But everything else, she did. More than that, he should know about it. If the answers weren’t already lurking in that twisty mind of his, he’d find them somewhere else.

“Okay,” she said. “Just let me stop off and change, okay? I’m not exactly dressed for Mitchell’s.”

“I’m sure you look fine.”

“I’m wearing jeans and a big T-shirt.”

“Ah. Put on the dress Mr. Santo gave you yesterday then.”

“I—how did you know—oh, of course. Malleus, right?”

His laugh caressed her. “I know everything, bryaela. See you soon.”

She wished she hadn’t offered to change. Especially not into a dress, because the temperature had dropped even further if that was possible. Just the short walk from the parking lot into the building numbed her legs.

The dimly lit interior of Mitchell’s wrapped around her like the inside of a garnet, warm and filled with subtle sparkles from the candles on the tables. She’d never been there before, but she knew Greyson loved the place.

And no wonder. It smelled like every kitchen of childhood dreams and felt even more welcoming.

She stood by the door for a minute, feeling her muscles relax as heat seeped into them and enjoying the atmosphere. Movement in the corner of her eye made her turn her head in time to see a couple of little demons disappear. Good. They were keeping themselves hidden tonight. She slipped off her coat and draped it over her arm.

“Surely a lovely woman like yourself isn’t dining alone?”

Megan turned, ready to say who she was and why she was here, but the words died on her lips.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he definitely was. Straight dark hair fell casually over his smooth brow, and the candlelight bronzed his tawny skin.