Rob Thurman - Trick of the Light

“They like their privacy. Now leave it alone. Leo is fine. And, Griffin, don’t ask me again how I know that finger isn’t his. You’re giving me a headache. I just know, all right? How I know, you don’t need to know. Got it?” I said, patience thinning. I wasn’t proud of it. But everything was coming together now after so long. I needed to concentrate, not squabble.

“No, I don’t have it,” he snapped back. “And what about the angel you said was here? What angel? What did he want?”

At least that I could tell him. “Oriphiel,” I sighed. “I know you had to learn enough from the House to know he’s up there, no mild-mannered little Christmas angel. He’s come to hold Trinity’s leash while Trinity thinks he holds mine.”

At that moment Lenore winged through out of nowhere, as usual, swooped down toward the pool table, and snatched the bow to the box in his beak. He then flew toward the back office. I’d decided to drive to the desert and bury the finger, but I could see that wasn’t in the cards for me after all, which was for the best. I still wasn’t done with my research on what the seed of Light had flashed through my brain. “I’m taking a shower. Take Lenny and my car”—what was left of it—“and get rid of the finger, would you? My keys are on Leo’s desk.” I softened it further, adding, “Please? Bury it. Treat it with respect.” Although I knew Griffin didn’t need to be told that. “And if any more boxes show up, don’t open them. There’s no point.”

“But how . . .”

I went up the stairs, leaving the questions I couldn’t answer and the poignantly pitiful body part behind. The next time I faced an angel, demon, or human ice cube like Trinity, I wanted to be at my best. Having to fight in cotton, Mother Goose pajamas didn’t have me feeling quite at my peak. I could do the same damage, but as a samurai went into battle in his armor, I preferred to go in my clothes. Mark Twain would’ve understood. He’d once said, Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society. My interpretation ran along the lines of naked people had limited options on where to hide their weapons. Thin cotton jammies weren’t much better. And weapons? They had a great deal of influence on society.

Human and demonic.

The day was shot. I’d known that from the beginning. Angels, demons, severed fingers, Griffin irritated with me and with every reason, more boring research to be done, and now this.

I cupped my cheek where Trinity, swear to my best pair of high-heeled demon-stabbing boots, had just bitch slapped me. “You said you could do this,” he said, reaching into his suit pocket for a handkerchief to wipe off his hand as if I were contaminated. I was surprised he didn’t pull out a bottle of antibacterial wash and scrub up like a surgeon. “And you are not living up to your claims.”

“You slapped me.” Bemused and stunned, I said it as if the sky had abruptly turned green and promptly fallen on my head,. “You actually slapped me.” Never mind I’d punched one of his men two days ago. That had to be done . . . as a lesson not to imagine they could force me under their control, that they couldn’t push me. I didn’t think they learned it, because this was pushing. I didn’t think I’d ever been slapped in my life. Hit, kicked, thrown against a wall, thrown over a wall, clawed, and stabbed . . . a demon carrying a mundane switchblade . . . I hadn’t seen that coming. All understandable with what I did. But slapped? I was insulted.

No, I was furious , which might be why I lost my temper. Completely. A luxury I rarely allowed myself.

“What are you, Iktomi? Thirty? Thirty-one?” He knew exactly how old I was per any documents on file with the city. He would’ve investigated me thoroughly the second he found out I was involved with Griffin and Zeke’s hunts, and more important, connected to the Light. He was only demonstrating how little I mattered by pretending to forget such routine information. “You are a child compared to the long history of Eden House, a child in this war.”

“And let me guess, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.’ ” I pulled my Smith from the holster at the back waistband of my black jeans and pressed the muzzle hard, right between his cold eyes. “What about ‘Spare the bullet’? Ever heard that one, Mr. Trinity?”

We were up in my room, where I was doing the research I’d planned on. Books and on the Internet. I hadn’t found what I was looking for yet, but I was close. Trinity had one of his two men kick open the door downstairs. I’d heard it and not been particularly surprised. Picking the lock would’ve been more subtle, but Trinity wasn’t in the mood for subtlety now. He was only in the mood for results.

They’d ascended the stairs as I stood up from the chair at my desk, fully expecting who it was. What I didn’t expect was for him to walk over and, without a word, slap me across the face. It was a slap full of contempt and no anticipation that you’d raise a pinky in self-defense . . . or revenge. How unfortunate for him that he was that lacking in perception. I decided a gun was too good for him and much more than I needed to take both him and attitude down.

I must have still had my mama’s advice on my mind as I moved the gun, aiming it at the men with him. I then gave him a swift knee to his crotch, swept his legs from beneath him to drop him on his side, and rammed the knuckles of my left balled-up hand onto the floor hard and fast. It was so close to the front of his neck that I brushed his skin and he knew, for a nicely unpalatable fact, I could’ve crushed his larynx if I’d wanted. It was a move I’d picked up in Israel, where the martial arts aren’t meant to be pretty and color coordinated—they’re meant to kill.

“It’s been a long time since you fought any demons hand to hand, hasn’t it, Mr. Trinity?” I asked as his eyes closed tightly in pain as he struggled not to embarrass himself by cupping his damaged-during-delivery package. “I fought one last night.”

His two men moved closer, then backed away when I narrowed my eyes and aimed the gun at them. “I’ll bet it’s been thirty years since you actually faced one down,” I added. “I kill demons all the time. I can kill you with a lot less effort, time, and firepower. And don’t think your boss is sending anyone to help you. Heaven let Eden House burn. Why would they save you?” I stood from my half crouch beside him. “Besides, I talked to Oriphiel this morning. It seems he has the same confidence in you that you have in me. I doubt he’ll care if he loses his middleman. How many Eden Houses are there anyway? How many Mr. Trinitys? I sincerely doubt you’re irreplaceable.” I put a booted foot on his leg and rolled him over from his side onto his back. “But I am. I’m the only one the Light speaks to. And you know what? That should have you kissing my feet, if not other parts of me.”

I walked to the bed, took the book I’d “borrowed” from the library, and said casually, “When you’re done writhing in pain and self-pity, I’ll be downstairs and maybe . . . maybe we’ll talk. If you puke, avoid my rug and have one of your pathetic minions clean it up, and when you start plotting your revenge”—I smiled—“and I know you will, be sure you wait until after you have the Light to carry it out. Otherwise, Mr. Trinity, you’ll be carried out by Eden House pallbearers. As far as I can tell, you’re no better than a demon. If I don’t have a problem with killing them, why would I have one with killing you?”

I certainly didn’t have a problem beating the crap out of an old guy. I suppose that made me a bad, bad girl. But the fact that he was in his late sixties, early seventies, didn’t make it harder mentally and only easier physically. A bad girl, but a practical one. He might have the Sean Connery look, but Connery never would’ve gone down that easily. Mr. Trinity was a disgrace to his profession. As they say in so many professions, there are no retired demon hunters, only dead ones. Trinity might not have gone soft, but he’d gotten slow.