Page 105 of The Succubi's Choice

Like attempting to define what their relationship is, when she saw the naked affection and the emotion of him seeing his previous host, and while getting her the dress, would cheapen the moment.

But still, he has that arm around her shoulder, and it’s far more comforting than it has any right to be.

Conversation around them is as normal as it ever seems to be here, and she sees Grant obviously scoot near her, in an attempt to get her attention.

For someone so smooth he’s so incredibly obvious.

She looks at him just ever so slight, not moving from underneath the Archdemon’s arm, and she sees the million emotions cross Grant’s face.

They’re probably unreadable to most humans, but to her they’re very clear. He’s dismayed with her. He’s worried. He’s unsure. And he’s a little afraid.

“Little sister,” he starts, and she wishes he wouldn’t use that phrase. “Little sister, what happened?” He reaches a hand out, like he’s about to touch the injured arm, but it falls short.

The conversation happening around is a buffer, something to provide them almost a hair of privacy. Even the Archdemon speaks to the ghoul on the other side of him, casual.

“Like I said, they tortured me.”

His eyes narrow, at her for the evasion and at them for the act, and he’s crystal clear in all of the things he’s feeling.

For a split second, she wonders if that’s how she is to everyone. Just a raw nerve of projecting emotions, everything that crosses her mind also crossing her face, like the easiest-to-read map.

“How?” He asks, and she’s suddenly reminded that he’s in this pseudo position of power, that he’s in this inner sanctum of people who know, and all of his odd emotional attachments are almost an afterthought to that.

Still, she’s not one to want to broadcast the details to everyone, so she lowers her voice even further. “Copper needle in my arm, some sort of poison mixed in, they didn’t tell me the details.” She wishes she could give it to him, find out more information, for he just may be the one person in all this who can actually answer questions for her. Actually be able to answer her with something resembling trustworthiness and experience in a body like hers. “Makes my charm go wild, it’s...”

“Hmm,” he says, very firm, like he doesn’t want her to say more. “That was certainly stupid of them.”

She works to keep her eyes focused on Grant, to not let them stray over to the woman on the other end of the small table. “You think so?”

“Almost certainly,” he says, and this time he does reach out to her, does softly touch her arm, does trace along the black vein marks. Unbidden, her charm sparks, into the air and useless, and they both watch it. “This is what the Organization does,” he says, soft, softer than his fingers along the scars. “They ignore that they are hurting an actual person, then are surprised when they don’t follow all their rules, when the person acts out.”

It hits a bit close to home and she has to swallow down another lump of emotions, but the soft swipe of his fingers against her scars is somehow soothing. It’s rare, startlingly rare, when someone calls her a person without knowing her well. “Speaking from experience?”

He looks at her, sharp, before back at the marks. “Not like this.” He locks eyes, for a brief second, with the Archdemon. “I assume you’re doing something about this?”

“He already has,” she says.

“It’s in progress,” Not-Thomas, Cjell, whatever he needs to be called, chimes in at the same time.

Across the room, she sees Beatriz blanch.

Granted her face isn’t changing, but it’s enough of a shift in her demeanor.

Grant seems to read that, seems to realize that the danger is in the very room, and he releases her arm and sits back, more in control, more smoothing down his features, replaced with a very familiar pinched look, one she sees in the mirror whenever she feels like she needs to look professional or dispassionate.

Again, she hopes she’s not that transparent.

“I heard from the remaining twin,” Beatriz says, crisp, and all conversation ceases. The arm around Miri’s shoulder tightens, briefly, imperceptibly, as Miri’s stomach drops.

“And?” The vampire responds, their voice long and drawling out, like they aren’t perturbed.

“He’s in the mountains of Colorado, claiming to find a new source of power there,” she says, and Miri remembers to breathe after a second. “We need to think about helping him.”

There’s silence, still, as everyone looks at each other, and Miri tries not to panic, internally, at the mention of him. That people would want to help him, help bring back the terror that gripped most of the community at his reign of death with his brother.

“Why.” The ghoul states, the period in his sentence abundantly obvious. “He’s crippled.”

She feels the Archdemon breathe, slow and steady, too steady to be natural, too steady to be unconscious. He’s counting his breaths, keeping them under control.

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