“How’s your arm?”

He shrugged, but the quick smile he gave her warmed her heart just as surely as he’d warmed her entire body moments before. “Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll be fine in the morning. Good thing too. I have to go to New York on Monday, and there’s a bunch of stuff to organize before that.”

“But—I mean, aren’t you worried?”

He picked up the half-full glass he’d left on the little table by his chair and drank it off. “Why? Harrel’s a good pilot, and—”

“Somebody tried to kill us, Greyson. Aren’t you worried about that?” She grabbed one of his T-shirts from his drawer and yanked it over her head. Exhaustion started sinking into her bones, and the bed had never looked more inviting—almost never, anyway. But although the memory of the car chase and its attendant panic had faded, thinking about it didn’t do her nerves any good.

“They weren’t trying to kill us, darling. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“They did a pretty good imitation.”

“No.” He poured himself another drink, and a shadow crossed his face. “That was just a warning.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they were witches. If they’d wanted us dead, we’d probably be dead.”

I don’t understand.”

“There’s no way I could have defeated those witches so easily if they’d really wanted to kill us,” he said. “Not unless they were just a couple of kids hunting demons for a lark, which we know isn’t the case.”

“How do we—oh. The jail. They knew I was there.”

He nodded. “And they knew I’d come for you. They were too powerful to be kids, too.”

“The police said someone called them and told them there was a dead body in that house. Do you think the witches might have called? That they’re the ones killing the demons?”

“I don’t think so, no. I think our little friends just took advantage of the situation.” He emptied his glass again. Worry started creeping up Megan’s spine. He looked as if he was bracing himself for something, as if he was trying to forget. Even with a demon’s metabolism, which she knew was pretty good, four Percocet and half a bottle of Bushmill’s couldn’t be helping him think faster.

What was bothering him so much?

“Why did they come after us? Why would witches want to ki—warn us?”

“Me, not us, if I’m right—and of course I am. I’m taking care of it, so don’t worry.”

If she pressed him he would tell her, but now it felt like an invasion of his privacy. Which was probably his intent.

“So who is doing it? Killing the demons, I mean?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

The chill air swirling around her legs was starting to make her uncomfortable. Greyson kept the room ice cold, and usually she preferred it that way too because he was so warm all the time. But there was no point in standing here shivering. She climbed into bed instead, not realizing until she slid between the heavy silk sheets how hard it was to keep her eyes open. “Rocturnus said they used to be punished this way, with the explosions.”

“Did he?” He poured another glass.

“Yes. Why?”

“So for the Yezer this is normal?” She could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

“I wouldn’t say ‘normal,’ but I guess it’s not unheard of. Isn’t it the same for the rest of you?”

“Did he say who used to do it? Was it the Accuser or—”

“Are you going to answer my questions, or what?”

“If you answer mine. Who used to punish them that way?”

“Roc didn’t say. Do you all blow up? I mean, should I expect you to explode one of these days?”

“Only if you don’t do everything I say, all the time.”

Her fist gripped his pillow. His reflexes were a little slower, maybe, from the injury and the chemicals. She might be able to hit him with it if she moved fast enough…

His eyes gleamed. Damn it. “Where is Roc, anyway?”

“Checking on the others. I kind of wanted some privacy while I was—”

“Rotting in jail.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “You put it so nicely.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t take the bait. “Do you remember anything else he said?”

“No. Why?”

He glanced at the clock by the bed. “It’s past one. You should get some sleep.”

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“Eventually. I have a few things to do first.”

She expected him to get up and head back down to his office, but he didn’t. He was still sitting in his chair, drinking and watching her, when she drifted off to sleep.

Wings of fatigue beat behind her eyelids three hours later as they walked into the casino. Her entire body ached. All she wanted to do was go back to bed.

Unfortunately, for reasons she still couldn’t seem to get straight in her sleep-muddled head, that wasn’t possible. Instead she was here, making her way across the floor under scarily intense white lights and the watchful gazes of at least a dozen demons.

She’d been to the casino only once before, when Greyson was doing some work and called her to meet him for lunch. It had been daytime then, the casino a dark silent room waiting for the crowds.

Now the crowds were there. The floor roared with bells and shouts and the harsh bright rattle of poker chips hitting each other. So much noise in such a small space made her head hurt. She didn’t even know how all of these people knew about the place. The demons, yes. But at least half of the shoulders crammed up against the craps and card tables had Yezer Ha-Ra perched on them. It bothered her. She didn’t know much about Greyson’s various legal enterprises, and even less about the illegal ones, but she’d assumed this one—illegal—was demon-only.

He stopped when she did, and followed her gaze. “You’re not the only human who knows demons,” he said quietly. “Just the only one who knows what we are.”

She tried to smile. “I knew I was special. Where’s Gerald?”

He nodded toward the back. “They managed to get him into one of the storerooms. Come on.”

His hand in hers reassured her as he led Megan through the room, past a roulette wheel and a long, well-lit bar where several pretty young ladies served drinks. They smiled as Greyson walked past, their big eyes following him. To Megan they gave the barest of nods, not daring to ignore her completely.

Two guards stood outside a nondescript doorway. “Mr. Dante,” said the first. “He’s inside.”

“This is Dr. Chase,” Greyson replied. “He asked for her?”

“Yeah, he seemed, I don’t know, really off,” said the second. Both of them kept their eyes averted, she noticed, and shuffled their feet. “He sounded like he was speaking our language, but…not.”

“Like a weird dialect,” the first added. “Then English again.”

Greyson and Megan exchanged glances. One of her clients speaking the demon tongue? She couldn’t even speak it, not more than a couple of words anyway. “Bryaela,” of course, although why anyone but Greyson or John Wayne would call someone “pilgrim” she had no idea. He said it was because she was like a little explorer in a new world, but that wasn’t exactly a satisfactory explanation. “Sheshissma,” she knew, but he only used that one when he was feeling particularly amorous, so she’d never had the guts to repeat it.

In fact, now that she thought of it, the only words she knew seemed to be essentially useless outside the bedroom. Maybe he’d agree to give her lessons, or if he wouldn’t, Rocturnus would.

Speaking of whom, where was he?

“Did he say anything else?” Greyson asked.

The second guard shook his head. “No, sir, he just started crying and asking for Dr. Chase. He didn’t want to come in here at first, but…” he glanced uneasily at Megan. “We, uh, convinced him. He was strong too.”

“Let me in,” she said, hating the way he waited for Greyson’s nod before opening the door. Bad enough she’d managed to get herself involved in this demon underworld of violence and crime. Now innocent people were mixed up in it, people who came to her for help and instead got roughed up in a storeroom.