“Now, that,” he said, taking her hand and heading toward the bar, “is something to look forward to.”

Five minutes later, nicely fortified by a cold gin and tonic and a kiss, she spotted Roc sitting in a chair against the wall. Of course; everyone was supposed to have met in the room at nine, but she and Greyson had been a few minutes late.

Beside him sat Carter Slade, Greyson’s assistant. Well, “assistant” wasn’t quite the right word; after Templeton Black—the old Gretneg of Greyson’s house—had died and Greyson had become Gretneg, Carter had taken Greyson’s old job, which meant he was a sort of advisor/assistant/second-in-command.

Both of them rose when she and Greyson approached. Only one of them met her eyes. Carter kissed her hand, made an appropriate greeting, but didn’t look at her. He never did. She didn’t know if it was some kind of respect thing—she’d never heard of it, but she kept forgetting to ask—or if it was a particular issue of his, but a tingle of annoyance rose up her spine just the same.

Much like the tingle when she realized what had been missing from her discussion with Greyson by the pillar.

She was at the meeting as a Gretneg, an equal. What if she wasn’t? Would he have brought her anyway, even though she wasn’t a demon? Or would he have brought . . . someone else?

“I have those papers for you to sign, Grey.” Carter started to gesture, as if he was picking up his briefcase, only to discover it wasn’t there. Just as well. It would have spoiled the perfect lines of his tuxedo, his perfect appearance in it. Carter’s dark hair never seemed to grow; his olive skin never flushed. Typical for a demon, really, but still.

When had she become so surrounded by cool, immaculate adults?

Except Roc. Bless him. Or whatever one did for demons. She smiled at him. Being who and what they were, they didn’t have important business to discuss that couldn’t even wait until after dinner. People were unhappy; her demons fed off it; that was pretty much it.

“They’re in my room anyway,” Carter went on. “And tomorrow morning you have a meeting with Lord Lawden.”

“Can’t you delay that?”

Megan couldn’t read demons, at least not very well. Since the events of the previous December, she’d occasionally been able to get flashes—usually from Greyson when they were physically close—and she’d always been able to feel demon anger like an icy breeze over her skin. But this time she absolutely felt Carter’s desire to glance at her, felt him resolutely avoiding doing so. Why?

“I really think it’s best you get it over with quickly,” he said, and a shiver ran down Megan’s back that had nothing to do with the fact that she was standing directly beneath an air vent.

“I seriously doubt it will be the last discussion I have to have with him,” Greyson replied.

“No, but—”

“I’d rather you delay it. I need a few more days to prepare.”

Carter shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

Megan and Roc glanced at each other. Greyson hadn’t said anything to her about a meeting with Win, but then they didn’t discuss his business, so why would he? It didn’t concern her, and one of the best things about their relationship—one of the best things on a list she thought was rather embarrassingly long—was that they didn’t invade each other’s privacy.

Private business apparently dealt with, they all headed into the dining room. Megan barely managed to suppress a gasp on entering; demons were into formality and luxury and didn’t believe much in the character-building powers of self-denial, but even some of the grandeur she’d seen in the last eleven months faded when compared with the room before them.

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 Haiken 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 flea-pit 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 and 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. It was 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. She’d 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 . . .