Chapter 37

After Leech left, Grant helped me track down the world's foremost expert in Coptic without breaking a sweat. Not only did the expert take my call but he told me to use his name to contact another academic type who would be of more use to me, even if he spoke less English. The second expert was very patient—even when I had to temporarily excuse myself to laugh hysterically, because the humans I was talking to had no idea how crazy everything they were saying sounded.

They had to be wrong.

Too bad I didn't think they were.

Grant had to drag me to my classes afterwards, because I was in too much of a panic to really care where I was. I guess it was important that I go, though I started babbling in Greek during my Hebrew class and couldn't seem to stop myself. They had to have been wrong.

By the time my classes were finished, I almost desperate to ask Grant to take me to Nast headquarters—I needed Bryce to tell me I was an idiot, right that second. They had to be wrong about the spell. But I kept my mouth shut because I wasn't that crazy just yet.

Grant pulled up in front of the hotel as usual, greeting the valet in the same put-upon tone he had used every day. It usually made me laugh, seeing powerful supernaturals having to behave according to human rules even if today I could only manage half a grin. Grant could jump to the car faster than it took the valets to realize we wanted it. Yet Grant had to pretend to need help and even worse, he always had to tip.

Once he had finished with the pleasantries, Grant came over and opened the door for me. I knew better than to open the door myself, now. We were safely inside when Grant set about telling Paulson where we were, but we were no more than half way through the lobby when we spotted Paulson running down the stairs. They shouldn't have been here. Grant gave the smallest of sighs and then went to stop his subordinate from making a scene.

Paulson managed to gasp out: "Thomas is here. He wants to see her. Now."

I looked at Grant, needing some sort of permission before I could freak out completely. His face had gone ashen. Slowly, he turned to look at me, voice tight. "Shall we, miss?"

"What does this mean?" I asked as I followed the bodyguards to the elevator. The answer was rather too repulsive for me to contemplate without external confirmation.

"We won't let anything happen to you," Grant assured me he pressed the elevator doors closed. Twice. He was worried. "Thomas won't be happy. Be careful."

"I know."

The conference room was on the second floor. The Nasts must have owed the hotel a fortune at this point. Even the solid wood doors couldn't quite disguise the sound of raised voices. Grant stalked towards the doors, but stopped just before his fist made contact.

"You don't have to go in if you don't want to, Miss MacArthur. We can leave."

"He'll come back."

Grant knew; that's why he reluctantly nodded. But before he knocked, he told me: "Do not stay in that room longer than you have to, understand? I can only protect you if he physically attacks you and he doesn't have to resort to that in order to destroy you."

I knew that, too.

The voices stopped when Grant knocked and Fitz answered the door. So Sean was here, too. I slipped past the large man into the room and was more than a little relieved that he allowed Grant to follow me inside.

Thomas was seated at the head of the table, with a man I vaguely recalled from the board meeting standing behind him. Bryce was standing by the window, watching the traffic below as Sean paced along the other side of the room, his face bright red. All three men glanced at the door. Bryce blanched, Thomas turned as red as his grandson and Sean made an effort to control himself.

"I heard you were looking for me?" I asked.

Thomas gestured at the man behind him, who nodded once and then headed in my direction. Suddenly both brothers were moving—Sean headed off the man, while Bryce came around the room and silently stood beside me, hand wrapped around my bicep. Sean was talking.

"The very least you could do is explain to her what's going to happen."

"She knew this would happen. She agreed," Thomas snapped.

"He's a shaman?" I asked Bryce. He was still staring at his grandfather—his eyes couldn't seem to tear themselves away from the old man—but he nodded. "Anderson."

Thomas hadn't wasted any time.

"See?" Thomas demanded. "She knows. Let's get this over with."

"No," Sean said. "We are not doing this. You can take back your goddamn help because we don't want it if this is the price. You don't—"

"Sean?" Bryce's voice was colder than I could ever remember it. "Shut up. This doesn't concern you."

"Like hell it doesn't. I won't let you—"

"Since you've been too goddamn busy taking it up the ass the past few years to give a shit about anything that goes on in my life, when I say this doesn't concern you, Sean, you should listen to me. Now be a good heir and play nice."

While Sean flinched, it was at the brutality of the comment; there was no shock on his face, only hurt. Thomas looked disgusted, but not surprised, either. The Nasts had evidentially decided playtime was over—they weren't going to pretend. Sean liked boys; Bryce had to have kids, so he obviously couldn't have them with me; Thomas wasn't going to help Savannah unless he managed to make someone else as miserable as he was and Bryce had volunteered. At least we were all on the same page.

"I believe the Cortezes requested your presence a good half hour ago," Thomas said. "If you hurry, you may still be able to assist them."

Sean stared between his two relations, betrayed, disgusted and at a loss for words. How did he still not get this was the only way to survive? If you weren't this cold, it would kill you. For the good of the company, Thomas had to demand whatever he needed from his grandsons. For the good of the company, his grandsons had to give up whatever he said. That was how it had always been, and how it always would be. For the good of the company.

Maybe Sean did get it—he managed half a smile as he turned to go.

"I'll talk to you later tonight about the San Diego gang," he said to his grandfather. "I hope you're all right, Gillian."

And then he left, slamming the door just a little bit louder than he should have.

"Anderson will deal with her now. We can wait downstairs," Thomas told his grandson.

"He can't," Bryce said. "How do we know you won't stop helping the second you get your way?"

"I gave my word. As did you, I remember. So stop stalling."

This was bad for so many reasons, reasons we couldn't exactly explain to Thomas. Since Bryce hadn't been able to talk his way out of it yet, it looked like it was up to me to figure something out.

"No," I said as firmly as I could. "Not him. Bryce promised it would be a woman. It has to be a woman, or I won't—I'm not doing this to be difficult, sir, I swear, but it has to be a woman. I'm sure he's highly qualified and whatever but—"

"Shut up, girl." So I did. I tried not to flinch but I didn't succeed and unfortunately that finally got Bryce talking. "She's not Sean. You don't get to talk to her that way."

"We both know Sean has been in denial about the reality of your situation for quite some time. I hardly see why we should be concerned about him knowing. It may even be better for you—he could always change his mind now and do what is best."

"If Sean decides to get married, I will kill him myself."

And there was no doubt that Bryce meant it. Only he was allowed to be miserable—only he was allowed to hurt Sean. If Sean tried to be a good little Cabal son and fuck whatever woman the company picked out for him, Bryce would never forgive his brother. One of them had to be remotely happy and it wasn't ever going to be Bryce.

Thomas looked a little taken aback, but quickly covered. Too smoothly, he moved on. "If that's how you feel, we better get rid of the witch. Don't you agree?"

"I promised her...I—" He finally managed to pull it together. "It has to be a woman. I'd prefer Alba. She's the only one I trust to do this without hurting her."

"I wanted this done today."

"Don't worry, Grandpa. You can commit infanticide tomorrow just as easily."

"Don't be tiresome, Bryce."

His grip on my arm had become painful, but he let go of me when he started ranting.

"Her father was nothing to the Cortezes—class E, a talentless Expiscor, who they didn't even bother to kill after he fucked up. Her mother is the most useless witch on the planet. Not that they talk at all. The only supernatural connection she has is with Savannah and she'd break that off if you gave her twenty bucks.

"She's friendless, powerless and young enough that you could turn her into anything you needed her to be. So what could you possibly object to except the fact that I said I wanted her? Why is that such a bad thing?"

"Alba is a very busy woman," Thomas snapped as he stood. "Anderson is here now; if you cared about this family you would never risk gambling its future on that kind of parasite."

"Anderson?" Bryce said. "Just so you know, my bodyguards have strict orders to kill anyone who touches Gillian without her permission. Parasite or not, Grandpa, she wants a female shaman. So get her Alba, or buy us a christening gown."

Thomas didn't say a word as he marched out, but I was very glad Grant was two feet away because I think the old man might have killed me with his own hands if given the opportunity. Anderson followed his boss out of the room and I made sure there was no way he could lunge and grab me. It was the last thing we needed right now

The three of us stood in silence for a long while, until Bryce broke it with a stream of curses that would have made Savannah proud.

"Sir?"

"Fuck him."

With that, Bryce stormed out of the room, tearing down the hall. I cringed as I heard something break (something valuable, I was sure), but Grant was already on the job. He opened the door, ordered Paulson to stay with me and then disappeared after Bryce.

"You okay?" Paulson asked.

I managed a smile. "That went well."

"They can't help being repulsive. Don't take it personally. I've learned not to." Paulson began picking up steam, having wanted to say this for months. "They just think anyone who isn't part of their tiny circle isn't be good enough. You always have to remember that about them. I've been on this job for almost six months now and Bryce has yet to say a complimentary anything about me. All I get is insulted, and from what I've overheard, he doesn't treat you much better. He treats you like crap, like his own personal toy. You don't deserve that. I don't know why you put up with it. No one on the planet gets away with the shit he does. You shouldn't let him. We shouldn't..."

"Feeling under loved much?"

"The only reason he brought me to L.A. was to try and switch me for someone else and the only reason he hasn't done that yet is because he doesn't want to piss you off. The second you take off, I'm out of a job, but you know what? I don't even care. I'm going to be so glad to get away from him."

"Then why haven't you quit already?" I couldn't quite keep the smile off of my face. Paulson's anger was no more than Bryce's usual bluster, except unlike Bryce, Paulson didn't know it was all just an act. "If you can't wait to be gone...if he can say those things about me without thinking...why do we stay?"

"We don't have options. We don't get everything handed to us."

"No. I don't think that's it. You could get another job, you know. One that didn't require you to kill people for a living. It wouldn't pay as well of course, which is why you don't quit, but you could."

"At least I'm getting paid."

"That wasn't very nice." I had hit him too close to home. He knew I was right—he could leave, he was just too greedy. "I know it makes me sick that I can't function properly unless I'm connected to this world that I hate. I know that about myself. Most of the time, anyways."

"It's not our fault they've made us dependent on them."

I laughed, though I tried not to sound mean about it. Paulson wasn't trying to be amusing, he just couldn't help wanting to believe the lies we all told ourselves so we could sleep at night. The Cabals made us do it. Those damn Nasts.

Why couldn't I leave? I didn't know. There was no grandfather demanding I stay—Bryce had been right to say I had no one besides Savannah, who didn't even count, in the supernatural world. So why did I cling to this world so desperately?

Shaking my head, I forced myself to move on. "Sorry about that. I think Thomas Nast has seriously messed me up. Just give me a minute, okay? You probably have to report back anyway."

He looked confused, but he really was a lousy bodyguard. When I motioned for him to go, he went. Grant was going to kill him. The second Paulson was in the elevator, I hit the stairs, running up them as quickly as I could. When in doubt, run: it was the family motto, after all. I was a little out of shape, so it winded me more than it should have, but I still made good time.

I passed Paige's floor without stopping. However much I wanted her to be, Paige wasn't Savannah. She wasn't even my mother. She was a good woman, one I would like to be like if I could, but not one I particularly got along with or one who understood me at all. Savannah could help. Paige...not so much. What could Paige say? She wouldn't say I should have known better—she was too kind for that. And I didn't want her pity, because this wasn't her world, not really, and she would never understand why I couldn't leave it.

I continued up the stairs. The roof seemed like a good place to hide. A spell got rid of the alarms on the door and I pushed my way outside.

It was a smoggy, hot day in Los Angeles and the sun made a very different impression on my skin than the air-conditioned hallways of one of the more expensive hotels in the city. That's why I was shivering. I found a nice, sort of clean spot beside some sort of chimney and curled up into a tiny ball.

What was I going to do with myself now? As much as Bryce liked to complain, I wasn't really trying to kill myself. But the more I talked to Thomas Nast, the more afraid I got—did this end only with me dead? What the hell would he do if he found out we were lying? Maybe I should have let Nadira screw up the way she had wanted to.

I wanted to laugh. Five minutes in a room with Thomas Nast and I was already contemplating the unthinkable. Bryce lived with the guy at one point—no wonder he couldn't go three minutes without calling me worthless.

But as hurt as I was at what he had said—even if it was the truth—I found I wasn't as mad at him as I was with his absent sister. Because Bryce had no choice, had told me from the very beginning this was a bad idea that would just get me hurt, but Savannah had made stupid Sabrina school sayings and fist bumps and all sorts of things that made me think she was promising not to hurt me.

I needed her and she wasn't here.

Because when I started thinking I was just as pathetic as the Cabals thought I was, I needed Savannah around to kick me in the ass, to make fun of me, to distract me so it stopped hurting so much, to make me realize they were completely wrong. She was supposed to be there to keep me from feeling like this. Looking out for me, even when I told her not to, even when I made her regret it when she did it. She said she would be there.

Savannah would have marched back into that conference room and told Thomas Nast where he could shove his orders, that he had no right to screw with his family the way he did. She would have told him that the only evil parasite around here was in him. At the very least, she would have been smart enough not to let the three of them talk about succession together.

I heard someone approach, but I had gotten used to the measured steps. Though I was a little surprised when Grant pulled up his pants and gingerly lowered himself, trying to clean the floor before he sat down. The sight of the perfectly groomed bodyguard on the ground made me smile, a little.

"What are you doing here?"

"You don't have to make it easy for Thomas, Miss MacArthur. You could have selected a more covered location."

"I like the smog. It's good for my lungs." He didn't even crack a smile. "How did you find me? Dumb question. You're the best."

"Yes."

"If you're the best, then why am I up here?"

"You can't exactly go to the hotel room, now can you? Otherwise, you and Mr Nast are just going to get into an argument, even if you're both actually angry at Thomas and not each other."

"Actually, I think I'm pretty angry with Bryce, too. Or I will be until my feelings stop being hurt." Not that I wanted to talk to Grant about that. "Is Grant your first or last name?"

"I'm like Sting. Or Cher. Whichever you would prefer," he said without smiling. The joke still made me giggle.

An arm came around my shoulders, rubbing small, comforting circles against my arm. I hadn't expected that, but I didn't mind it at all. It was nice having someone hold me like this—like they were going to take care of me, not because they expected something in return, but just because it's what they should do. I let myself rest my head against his shoulder.

"How do you become like that?" I wondered. "How do you make yourself care more about a damn company than anything?"

"I don't think that's fair, Miss MacArthur. Until two days ago, Mr Nast believed Thomas loved him. He's usually very good at reading people; I don't think he was mistaken. Thomas simply doesn't know how to show it, not the way the rest of us do. But he let Mr Nast go to Berkley—everyone thinks it's because Kristof told him to, but no one has told Thomas to do something in a very long time. He wanted his grandson happy."

That was worse, somehow. If Thomas did love his family, how the hell did he justify making them so miserable all the time?

But I was sick of thinking about Thomas Nast.

"Why do you always call Bryce Mr Nast? He's so much younger than you and he wouldn't care what you called him, especially since you've been around him for so long. Mr Nast just sounds weird."

Grant took a long time answering, tying to work out how to tell me. He started with a tiny bombshell: "Grant isn't my name, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"Grant isn't the name on my birth certificate. It hasn't even been my name for the majority of my life. My various mug shots have a very different name attached to them."

I snorted. I couldn't help it. Grant looked like a Grant. The idea of him being a troublemaking non-Grant was just inconceivable.

"You're lying."

"No. I had my name legally changed years ago, so it really is Grant now, but it wasn't always."

"Does the company know?"

"Of course they do. When I figured out I was a half demon and signed up with the Nasts, they took care of the paper work so my old name is technically free and clear."

"So how did you become Grant?"

"Even after I signed up, I was still the same child I was before, too proud to listen to instructions. I thought I was in charge of my powers and I refused to believe anyone who said otherwise. My first assignment I jumped in the wrong direction, alerted the authorities to our presence, and got one of my partners shot.

"I was under Kristof's jurisdiction, but fortunately for me that weekend Sean had come down with the chicken pox. He informed me I was to report to his house. I would have made a run for it, but even back then, I knew it was better to take my death sentence like a man, not a coward. So I reported as ordered."

Even though I knew Kristof hadn't had Grant executed, I still didn't like this story much. Because not everyone was as lucky as Grant.

"As I was walking up the driveway I heard shouting. I looked up and Kristof was leaning out a window begging this blonde demon child to get off the roof and come back inside. The kid refused and then tried to run. He slipped and would have splattered all over Nast property, except I managed to catch him.

"But even saving his son's life didn't earn me Kristof's forgiveness. He promised to spare my life and return me to duty, no hard feelings—I just had to be his son's bodyguard until he could find a replacement for the man he had just fired. I thought it was only going to be a temporary situation and how hard could looking after an seven year old be?"

I giggled. "How miserable did he make you?"

"I was only supposed to be there for a few months. But then there was an incident with a ventilation shaft and my punishment was extended to a year. Then there was an exploding birthday cake—don't ask—and that was another six months.

"It went on like that until he was eleven. He got into a fight with his father over some unimportant event and tried to run away for the third time that year. I tried to talk him out of it just so I wouldn't have to bother following him out of the house. He started shouting at me instead. Eventually he quieted down and I'll never forget what he said next. He just stood there, shoulders slouched and said to me 'why do you care, anyway? You're just dying to leave.'

"He got me thinking about things I had never thought about before. I didn't take the job seriously. I made no secret of the fact I hated it. I complained about the fact that the child didn't respect me, but had I done anything to earn that respect? Not in the slightest. That was the day we made our deal."

"What deal?"

"I wouldn't quit until he said I could as long as he learned my name."

"How could he not know your name? Didn't he need to use it to order you around?"

"We didn't talk much. I was still a sulking child myself, remember. He had an unfortunate habit of calling his bodyguards...other names. I was Moe."

It took me a moment and then I cringed. "The three Stooges?"

"Yes. But when I offered him the deal and he accepted and asked for my name I found myself being given a chance to become something new. I've never actually told him my name wasn't always Grant. It doesn't really matter, as he's only ever known Grant. After I renamed myself I started to feel like I should behave how a Grant would. Be polite. Listen. Be humble. I was better at adapting to some changes than others."

I giggled as he admitted: "Though maybe it was my old self who told him there were less cumbersome ways of getting his father's attention. That was what caught his interest in the beginning. We started talking more after that. It was a shame how lonely those children were sometimes.

"Holding doors open now doesn't erase the fact that I once thought hot wiring cars was a necessary skill for survival, but it does remind me that I wouldn't chose to be that child anymore. It was hard at first, and sometimes I only managed to keep it up because I knew there was someone who needed me to be better, but eventually...I wasn't pretending, anymore."

"So you call him Mr Nast..."

"Because being the second son doesn't mean he's worthless; he still deserves respect. Someone needs to remind him of that because the company won't. He also needs to remember that being polite, being civil, being a decent human being isn't as outside of his reach as he thinks."

"If you wanted him to be a decent human being, I don't think calling him Nast is the way to go about it."

"I don't know much about the politics or economics of this company, Miss MacArthur. I know what I saw, though, and Kristof Nast was a good father. Maybe not the best, but when he saw I was succeeding, that the boy was starting to understand there could be something more for him in this world than turning a profit, he went out and investigated every music program in the country. There is something for him to be proud of in that name, even if he doesn't always remember it."

I found myself blushing, a little. Savannah had turned out okay, too, so what right did I have to say all their blood was bad?

"Too bad Kristof died when he did."

"Yes." There was a little bit of bitterness even the high-trained bodyguard couldn't hide. "A year or so later and it wouldn't have made a difference, I don't think. He would have liked being happy too much. But he was still so young and I...he didn't believe me anymore. He stopped thinking you could become someone new."

"Maybe he hasn't forgotten. If Thomas keeps pushing him, he might reinvent himself entirely."

As a patricidal psychopath, but still.

"Forgive me for not finding that comforting."

Grant was always the same, unruffled and calm. There was something remote about him, as always, something that should have stopped me from opening my big mouth. But open it I did. Because as much as he played at being the perfect bodyguard, he wasn't. Perfect bodyguards didn't get involved.

"I think you did a pretty good job with him."

Grant gave me half a smile. "You would be the first."

"Still...when he's not telling his grandfather how pathetic I am, Bryce isn't all that bad."

"Forgive my impertinence, Miss MacArthur, but you don't actually believe that's how he sees you, do you?"

"Just because you can separate what he means from all the crap he does, doesn't mean it's easy for the rest of us. I shouldn't have to..."

"No, you shouldn't."

"But I do. What does that say about me?" I didn't think I'd like the answer, whatever it was. I wasn't like Grant, crazy enough to believe he could be better. But I might have been delusional enough to think he was worth bothering to understand, anyway. "Don't answer that."

"Certainly, Miss MacArthur."