Vicki Pettersson - Cheat the Grave

Pausing to pull one of Tripp’s quirleys from my pocket and pop it in my mouth as he used to do, thought about that. Olivia, and her aversion to slithering analogies, must have rubbed off on me because I decided she was right. It was disgusting.

“I’m not a night crawler,” I said to myself as I emerged into the cool night. “I’m a high roller, baby.”

With chips in my pocket, and a few cards still held against my chest. Still in the game. I searched the vast, black sky, ignoring the burning stars, eyes finally locking on the moon. Of all the gaseous orbs suspended in the bosom of the sky-of all Solange’s talk about stars and power-I preferred this gentle planet best. It was malleable, pliant, welcoming. Tonight’s was smeared at the edges, though vibrant at the center, at least until a tier of paper-thin clouds swept over its face. Within minutes they’d wiped it from the sky, leaving behind only a promising glow.

It was a reminder that something you thought you knew well could alter its appearance in a blink, and surprise you with entirely new features. If it could happen with a planet, then it could easily happen with a life.

It had just happened to mine.

And it made me wonder if you could ever know anyone well at all…including yourself. I did know this much. I didn’t want defenses so strong that I remained untouched over the course of my lifetime. Watching Caine turn physical contact into a perversion, one requiring pain just to feel anything, had taught me that much. Watching Warren’s stubbornness, even at the expense of the troop, underlined it. I didn’t want to be alone or inflexible either, not physically or in my mind. Instead I’d listen to Io, lean on her a little, maybe on Carlos too, and for the first time allow myself to feel even more because of my losses.

Glancing up again, I found Sirius in the sky, the star Solange wanted to craft with the remainder of my soul. I thought of the chips, and soul bits, I’d won for myself in poker, and wondered how I was ever going to cash those in, and if it was really even possible. Tripp hadn’t trusted me enough to say how at first, and in the end he’d been too busy dying. But he’d known. Which meant someone else did as well.

Footsteps sounded behind me, closing in, but I didn’t turn. I was fixed on that bright star again, feeling the loss of Hunter so greatly-and opening to that loss-that it moved inside me, deforming me yet again into something new.

“You know what?” I said, gaze still fixed on the Big Dog as I rolled the quirley between my fingertips. “I don’t believe it’s an agent’s job to preserve choice for the mortal population of this world.”

Carlos reached my side. He looked solid, smelled good, and felt safe. I shifted closer to him. “Then what?”

“We’re not meant to defend it. We’re meant to create more of it.”

For the mortals. And for us. We all had the right to choose.

Carlos inhaled deeply beside me, which made me wonder what exactly he was smelling. Probably red pepper, brine, and diesel oil, the earmarks of determination, stubbornness, and righteous anger. “Io told me.”

I nodded, waiting to see what he’d say next.

“So, even with this new information, you haven’t changed your mind?”

“Bitch has my man.”

He inclined his head. “It will be even more dangerous for you now.”

Every life gets sideswiped at one time or another. Sometimes even more than once. The question is, what do you do after that? Do you build something new out of the shrapnel…or do you just stay safe?

I knew what my mother’s answer was as surely as I knew she was still tunneling and plotting out there in the world. I turned my head and smiled at Carlos, sharing my answer with him. “Shows how much you know about women, Carlos. This will make me more dangerous.”

Carlos stared, face and scent unreadable to me, but he finally returned my smile before jerking his head at my quirley. “You’ll have to stop smoking, mi morena .”

“Oh, it’s okay.” I pulled the odd brown cigarette from my mouth, thought of Tripp, then shrugged. “I don’t inhale.”

Carlos gestured to the underground entry then. I nodded, he slipped a protective arm over my shoulders, and we headed back to my temporary home beneath the pockmarked craters of Frenchman’s Flat. The other rogues, he told me-the grays and the night crawlers, my new allies and troop-were waiting to offer up their congratulations. I placed one hand over my belly, where Io had told me the real connection between Hunter and me lay…and dropped the other over Mackie’s blade. No, I still wasn’t super. But I had breath, a blade, and I had choice.

It was enough for now.

Profound thanks go to my business and creative partners, Miriam Kriss and Diana Gill, whom I’m also blessed to call my friends. Immense gratitude also goes out to Jeaniene Frost, Melissa Marr, Kim Harrison, and Rachel Vincent for being ever-supportive allies and peers. Thanks to my readers as well, especially Dave Torres, Raven, and Joy Maiorana for early readings, and those other twisted souls on my message board who’ve used my books as an excuse to spawn happy chaos in cyberspace. I’m proud to be your mascot.

The New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Scent of Shadows, The Taste of Night, The Touch of Twilight , and City of Souls , VICKI PETTERSSONwas born and raised in Vegas. She still lives in Sin City, where a backyard view of the Strip regularly inspires her to set down her martini and head back to the computer.