Rob Thurman - Trick of the Light

“Hey, whatcha doing? Milking your goat on the Sabbath? Really. Now, where’s that nice round rock I’m going to stone you with?” Five minutes later, “By the way, you won’t be needing that goat anymore, will you?”

Too bad I didn’t need a goat.

Exaggerated, all right, a little. Even with his issues, Zeke wasn’t that black and white. Although I was amazed with his problems that Zeke had been able to attach to Leo and me. As for Griffin—it was just a given, as I’d thought before . . . the Universe. They were two halves of a deadly whole. Zeke needed Griffin and Griffin needed Zeke. Griffin needed to take care of someone. He was a fixer. Wanted to fix, had to. Was it the way he grew up in foster care, surrounded by the weaker kids? A common-sense answer, but was it the right one?

Apparently Zeke’s acting lessons paid off, because four hours later, Griffin called and said tiredly, “It’s over. There will be more paperwork and a token appearance in court, but everyone is agreed it’s justifiable.”

“He held up good, then.” I’d finished painting my toenails and was now cleaning the Smith. Both were bright and sparkly.

Deadly too.

“He did good. One cop almost had him slipping, but he caught himself. He’s come a long way, you know?”

I loaded the gun silently.

He hesitated. “All right. He hasn’t, but he can pretend now and that’s more than he could do before.”

I slammed the cylinder home and said quietly, “It’s not his fault he’s the way he is. It’s not your fault either, Griffin. You’ve saved him. If you hadn’t been fostered with him for those years, he wouldn’t have survived. He certainly wouldn’t be free.” From what Griffin had insinuated about the seriousness of what had happened when Zeke was fifteen, Zeke would be locked up somewhere. Still.

“Don’t be ashamed of him, Griffin,” I went on, and put the gun on the table. “That only makes me ashamed of you.”

His voice went dark. “I’m not ashamed. No one else could’ve survived what he has. No one else could learn to function like he has.”

I pulled the ponytail holder from the top of my hair and let my hair fall haphazardly around my shoulders. “Then be proud. Of yourself. You’re mostly responsible for that.” I disconnected and left him with that thought. Two seconds later I cursed myself. I’d forgotten to ask if they’d blown up a demon or an iguana earlier today. I hovered a hand over the phone, then let it go. One day my curiosity truly was going to be the death of me.

The next day I felt like death would be a relief.

The bar was closed. It closed every year on the same day: the anniversary of Kimano’s death. Zeke and Griffin had asked a few times why the closing. They’d never gotten an answer and finally gave up. Message received: Private, so don’t come knocking on the door and don’t ask why.

Leo stayed those days. Leo had known Kimano. We had history, the three of us. Leo could never miss Kimano like I did, but he did miss and he did mourn him as a brother of the spirit, if not the blood. But even if he hadn’t, he would’ve been there for me. The bottom line was that the two of us were too much alike to ever come together in any permanent way, and we wouldn’t belittle what we had with anything temporary. It wouldn’t be enough and then there would be regret dimming what was so brilliant between us now—that bond that couldn’t be broken.

It was nice, knowing that.

But the potential of what could’ve been if one of us had been only the slightest bit different was always there. Yet another bond that couldn’t be broken. There was a wonderful warmth in knowing that as well.

He slept in bed with me the night before. I woke up to blinds-filtered Nevada sunshine with his arm heavy around my waist, simple solace. He was one of the rare ones who knew sex didn’t necessarily equal comfort.

I stayed in bed the entire day and he stayed with me. Other than food and bathroom breaks, we curled up and said nothing. Once in a while he’d chuckle against my shoulder and I’d curl my lips, instinctively knowing just which Kimano memory had come to mind.

We’d done this for years now. At first we talked and laughed about them, but now we knew the routine and the flavor of them so well, that when he laughed, I knew. And when I groaned and covered my eyes, Leo knew. Kimano had never been good at his job, but he’d left more memories behind than if he had been. He was much softer hearted than he should’ve been. Our mother had raised us to be tough, to do the job at hand, no matter what it was, and do each one as if it were your first, last, and only job. Hold people accountable always. Be accountable always. I liked working; it was easy for me. But Kimano let the slackers slide, because he was one himself.

There was a soft, heavy breathing by my ear and a few stands of straight black hair wafting over my cheek. Leo had never failed to stand by me . . . or lie by me, if that’s what I needed . . . which was a change for him in his younger days. He’d been big, bad, and full of anger. He’d mellowed over the years. He was still big and bad if you put him to the test, but he’d learned a little more tolerance and a lot more patience. What he did to those who pissed him off in the past . . . well, it made seeing him throw a man through the plaster bathroom wall seem considerably mellow, almost kindly in fact.

I, on the other hand, had gotten a little less mellow with age. Taking care of Kimano’s killer might take care of that; it might not. We’d just have to see.

My eyes drifted to the picture on the dresser. A stark black and white—it was Kimano in a patch of grass with his arm slung around the shoulders of a grinning coyote and a sharp-eyed raven on his shoulder. Lenore. He’d written Arizona across the back of the photo. He always said I had the worst memory for the fun things, the silly things. Maybe he’d been right, but the bad things . . .

Those I never forgot.

The gold bars from the slats in the window slowly passed across the wall, only a shade lighter color than the wall itself. Then night came, later night, and finally by the clock, midnight. I rolled over to face an already-sleeping Leo, wrapped my arm around his waist, shut my eyes, tucked my face against the blazing heat of his neck, and let the new day begin.

The first customer through the door the next day was Griffin. He looked like he’d had a hard two nights. Between the cops, justifying Zeke to Eden House, and a possible exploded iguana, he deserved the look. He sat down at a stool as I patted the top of his head and said, “Morning, sunshine.”

He swatted at my hand and muttered, “Screwdriver.” I looked up at the clock: ten a.m. I shrugged and served it up. At least he was getting his vitamins. He took a drink, then took his first good look at me, and winced.

“Is that a comment on how I look, Griff?” I bent over, folded my arms on the bar, and rested my chin on them to study him expectantly. “I’d think twice before answering, just for your personal safety.”

“No.” He took another drink. “It’s the way you feel. Sad, angry, and a little hormonal. Is your per—” He stopped, very wisely, and took another drink. “Sorry. It’s the empath thing. Normally I don’t get much off you. Sometimes nothing at all. You must’ve had a bad day and I must’ve had a shitty yesterday to even bring all this up.”

Since he was right and apologetic, I let it go. He’d told me about being an empath a long time ago, when Eden House had come looking for him . . . their own telepaths and empaths picking up him and Zeke. If burning demons worked, the House would probably be out there scouring for their own little Stephen King fire starters too.