Rob Thurman: Grimrose path

"Exactly how many men in a bedroom does it take to satisfy you?" The raven tattoo on his chest flapped its wings, which actually meant Leo was flexing. Men and gods, the vanity never ended. Sometimes you had to love that about them.

"That's an odd question coming from a man who just came out of the closet," I pointed out as I pulled the covers back for him.

He slid under them and wrapped his arm around me as I turned on my side, facing him instead of the picture of my brother. "Did you notice this time?" His hair was loose and far longer than mine, but that wasn't what he was talking about.

Men and gods and one who was both.

"That you were going to take on Azrael nude?" I moved my hand under the pillow and pulled out the raven feather I kept with me always. I hadn't lost it with Trixsta. I didn't think I could've lost it if I wanted to, but I could give it back. "I noticed." I put the feather in his hand and folded his fingers around it. "I don't think I need this anymore."

He tightened his fingers and hand into a fist, then opened it. The feather was gone, home inside him. "We are the same, you know. In all the ways that are right. Our differences, they are what brought us together in the beginning. Our spots, faded or not, make us whole. They don't separate us."

"From one leopard to another?" I asked, skimming fingers through a fall of hair suddenly full of black feathers.

"From one leopard to another," he confirmed before kissing me.

It wasn't sun and warmth. It was dark and cool, shadows and tricks, the echo of the end of the world, and the potential for the same locked deep inside. Locks can be broken and trust was nearly a fairy tale to me, but I knew if Leo's lock ever did break, it wouldn't matter. My trust in him never would, whether I was trickster or human.

And I did like being human, vulnerabilities and all. It made seizing victory and grabbing that gold ring more difficult, but all the more satisfying for it. Yes, I definitely liked this human life. I might come to love it. Only time would tell there, but for today? For this moment, drowned in feathers, silver silk, and the faintest scent of honeysuckle from a Tennessee summer night?

Life was sweet all right.

Sweet as it came. About the Author Rob-short for Robyn (yes, he is really a she)-Thurman lives in Indiana, land of rolling hills and cows, deer, and wild turkeys. Many, many turkeys. She is also the author of the Cal Leandros series: Nightlife, Moonshine, Madhouse, Deathwish, and Roadkill; a stand-alone novel, Chimera; and a story in the anthology Wolfsbane and Mistletoe. She is also the author of Trick of the Light, the first book in the Trickster Novels series.

Besides wild, ravenous turkeys, the velociraptors of Indiana, she has a dog (if you don't have a dog, how do you live?)-one hundred pounds of Siberian husky. He looks like a wolf, has paws the size of a person's hand, ice blue eyes, teeth out of a Godzilla movie, and the ferocious habit of hiding under the kitchen table and peeing on himself when strangers come by. Fortunately, she has another dog that is a little more invested in keeping the food source alive. By the way, the dogs were adopted from shelters. They were fully grown, already house-trained, and grateful as hell. Think about it next time you're looking for a Rover or Fluffy.

For updates, teasers, deleted scenes, and various other extras, visit the author at www.robthurman.net and at her LiveJournal. Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next Cal Leandros novel

I was a killer. I woke up knowing that before I knew anything else.

There was a moment between sleeping and waking where I swung lazily. The dark was my hammock, moving back and forth. One way was a deeper darkness, a longer sleep. But there was more than darkness there. There were trees past the black, hundreds and thousands of trees.

And an ocean, blue as a crayon fresh from a brand-new box. A ship rode on its waves with sails white as a seagull's wings, flying a flag as black as the seabird's eyes.

There were dark-eyed princesses named after lilies.

Waterfalls that fell forever.

Flying.

Tree houses.

It was a place where no one could find you. A safe place. Of it all, vibrant and amazing, the one thing I wanted to sink my fingers into and hang on to for my life was that last: a safe place.

Sanctuary.

But all that disappeared when I swung the other way, where there were sibilant whispers, an unpleasant clicking-insectile and ominous-and a cold, bone deep and embedded in every part of me. If I'd had a choice, I would've gone with sleep, safe in the trees. Who wouldn't? But I didn't have that warm and comforting option. Instead I was slapped in the face with icy water. That did the trick of swinging me hard in the wrong direction and keeping me there. I opened my eyes, blinked several times, and licked the taste of salt from my lips. It was still dark, but not nearly as dark as when my eyes had been shut. There was a scattering of stars overhead and a bright full moon. The white light reflected as shattered shards in the water washing over my legs and up to my chest. It looked like splinters of ice. It felt cold enough to be. There was the smell of seaweed and dead fish in the air. More seaweed was tangled around my hand when I lifted it, the same hand that held a gun. A big gun.

A priest, a rabbi, and a killer walk into a bar…

A killer woke up on that beach, and that killer was me. How did I know that? It wasn't difficult. I slowly propped myself up on my elbows, my hand refusing to drop the gun it held, and I took a look around me to see a stretch of water and sand littered with bodies, bodies with bullet holes in them. The gun in my hand was lighter than it should've been. That meant an empty clip. It didn't take an Einstein to work out that calculation. The fact that the bodies weren't my first concern-it was pissing and food actually, in that order-helped too. Killers have different priorities.

I could piss here. I wasn't a frigging Rodeo Drive princess. There were only the night, the ocean, and me. I could whip it out and let fly. But the food? Where would I get the food? Where was the nearest restaurant or take-out place? Where was I? Because this wasn't right. This wasn't home. I dragged my feet up through the wet sand, bent my knees, and pushed up to stagger to my feet to get my bearings. I might have been lost. I felt lost, but I only needed to look closer, to recognize some landmarks and I'd be fine. But I didn't. I didn't recognize shit. I had no idea where I was, and I was not fine.

I was the furthest from fine as those bodies on the sand were.

That's when the killer realized something: I knew what I was, all right, but I didn't have a goddamn idea who.

I reached for me and I wasn't there. I took a step into my own head and fell. There was nothing there to hold me up. There was no home and there was no me. Nothing to grab or ground me-no memories, only one big gaping hole filled with a cliche. And that-being a cliche? It bothered me more than the killer part. That part I took so much in stride that I'd automatically used my free hand to start dragging the bodies further out into the water, where they'd be carried away. Out of sight, out of mind. The killer in me needed no direction. It knew it wasn't Joe Average, law-abiding citizen. It knew it couldn't be caught with bodies and definitely not these bodies.

They weren't human.

There were monsters in the world, and that didn't surprise the killer or the cliche in me one damn bit either. They both knew why I carried that gun. Monsters weren't very fucking nice.

I looked down at the one I was currently dragging through the surf. It looked like an ape crossed with a spider, which isn't a good look for anyone. It weighed a ton, was hairy with several eyes on a flattened skull, and had even more legs sprouting below. The mouth was simian, but there were no teeth. Instead there were two sets of mandibles, upper and lower. Both were dripping with something other than water, something thicker. At the sight, the base of my neck began to throb, red spikes of pain that flared behind my eyelids every time I blinked. I released Harry-hairy, Harry, close enough-into the waist-deep water I'd pulled it into and swiped my hand at the nape of my neck. I felt two puncture marks about three inches apart, then held my hand up to the moon. There was blood, not much, and a clear viscous fluid on my palm. It looked like good old dead Harry had gotten one in me before I'd gotten one in him.