Rob Thurman - Trick of the Light

But slow or not, he hadn’t forgotten how to use a shotgun.

He pulled the trigger as he stepped through the door at the bottom of the stairs. The slug from the gun of one of his bootlickers hit the ceiling directly above me, causing plaster dust to drift down onto me. It landed in my coffee as well; black with six sugars, extra sweet like me, but it had gone cold anyway in the twenty minutes I’d sat there thumbing through the book. I looked up, brushed at the black and copper swirls of my shirt, and ran a hand through my hair to see white dust fly. I won’t deny a shiver passed down my spine. I was relatively sure he wouldn’t shoot me off the bat. I was tough, but I had nerve endings like anyone else, and they had minds of their own when it came to the sounds of massive booms near my body. Feeling it and showing it though were two different things. “You know”—I pushed the ruined coffee away—“I’m surprised you had the balls to do that . . . especially considering what I did to them upstairs.”

“You think I can’t kill you, Ms. Iktomi,” he said lev elly. “But I can hurt you. Cripple you if I like. You will give me the Light, and you will not make such unseemly trouble again or I’ll shatter one, perhaps two kneecaps, and watch you crawl to the Light, leaving a trail of blood and screams behind you. Do we have an agreement?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it as he pulled more ammunition from his suit pocket and reloaded the shotgun. A little slower than he’d once been, but not soft, and still a man to be reckoned with. “I think we might.” I nodded, reluctant, but you can’t play two sides against each other if you don’t have both sides present. Kimano would’ve told me that justice wasn’t worth my life, but it wasn’t justice—it was vengeance, pure and simple. And Kimano wasn’t here to tell me anything.

“Although some respect on your side would help quite a bit,” I added pointedly.

“That is unfortunate as I’ve yet to see any reason you deserve it. You’re a mediocre merchant of mediocre alcohol in a less than mediocre establishment. You live and run a business designed to promote nothing but sin. Why two members of my House found you in any way worthy enough to join them in fighting an evil beyond your limited comprehension, I cannot fathom.” He aimed the shotgun again, this time at my chest. “If I do kill you, the House of Eden might not find the Light in my lifetime, but neither will any demon. Think upon that.”

What a way with a compliment he had. At least he didn’t call me a harlot or Jezebel or Whore of Babylon. It was an unexpected and pleasant surprise. “Don’t think they won’t be pissed about that, Mr. Trinity. I already have two jockeying for it.” From the tightening of his lips, this was apparently news to him. Good. “You’re right. If you kill me, they won’t have the Light—they’ll only have you. Are you that anxious to go meet your big boss? With your ironclad, I’m sure, faith, I bet you can’t wait . . . even if you have to be skinned alive strip by bloody strip and your internal organs eaten while your heart still beats to get there.” I shifted my view back to the book and turned another page. “I admire a man of your conviction.”

I heard the metal of the gun’s muzzle clink once, twice, three times against the floor. Trinity was thinking, but what? He was a fanatic. Fanatics are almost impossible to reason with or outthink. “ ‘Thou shall not kill,’ ” I reminded him softly, my eyes still on the book.

“We honor ‘Thou shall not murder,’ and killing a soldier in a war is not murder, especially if that soldier is fighting against God.” I heard his footsteps slow and measured.

“I’m not a soldier.” Any demon could tell him that wasn’t true. “And I’m not fighting against God.” Heaven maybe, but not God.

“But are you fighting for him?”

He had me there. No, I wasn’t precisely fighting for him. I was fighting for myself and my own. Luckily, I found a way around answering his question, not that I didn’t have a lie ready and waiting on the tip of my tongue. “There.” The thrill that ran through me this time was triumphant. There it was. Finally. I ran my fingers over the glossy black-and-white picture. At least it had once been black and white. Now it was black and a pale yellow. “I’ve found it. The next signpost. The last signpost.”

For a moment he forgot to care whom I was fighting for and moved close enough for a look at the picture himself. “This is where the Light is?”

“No.” It was a bleak picture, but beautiful as well. “But this is where the last bread crumb lies, the one that tells us where that caver Jeb hid the Light.” The caver who had been tortured to death . . . by whom, I still didn’t know. I had no evidence that Mr. Trinity had anything to do with it, but I wasn’t about to jump to the conclusion that he wasn’t capable of having it done either. Look what he was willing to do to me.

It made sense that Jeb, the Light—the mixed-up conglomeration of the two of them—would choose this. I thought the shark had been all the Light’s idea—it seemed to have a wicked sense of humor—and all this, leaving a difficult and annoying trail, seemed more than sentient enough for humor to exist in the Light. But with this, the Light had let Jeb have his way. Cavers were desert to their heart and bones. And deserts were rock and sand, caves and scorpions, mines and ghost towns. Rhyolite was one of the bigger ghost towns in Nevada.

There was information everywhere on it, but that drugged-out musician couldn’t make things that easy. Couldn’t give me a name or a glimpse of a highway sign or even a feeling in one particular direction. All I was able to get was the flash of the inside of a building and not even a clear flash. Just a haze of sunlight dancing in different colors of amber and green, so much of it that it almost reminded me of the light seen through a stained-glass church window. That was all I saw—a blurry amber and green glow, a wood floor beneath my feet, and the sense of an L-shaped building. Small. I must have looked at the same place in twenty different pictures before I realized it was the semi-famous Bottle House of Rhyolite. Built mainly out of beer and medicine bottles, it was one of the star attractions in the ghost town. But I hadn’t been there and none of the pictures showed what the inside of the building was like. After so many times of looking at photos of the peculiar thing, it had finally hit me. The sun was shining through the bottles. Our drugged-out, french-fried friend had been standing inside the Bottle House bathed in that odd light. Sightseeing, he’d probably thought. I knew he had no idea an ancient caver and a far more ancient crystal had anything to do with the fact he’d ended up there to drop the last bit of Light that wasn’t in me or tied into the crystal’s whole.

I leaned back in my chair as the overwhelming sense of relief hit me. Not only were the House, the demons, and I pushing me, the Light was also pushing. It wanted to be found. Soon. It wasn’t entirely safe from discovery where it was, not for long. It needed to be in hands that understood it; knew what it was made to do. It had whispered I was the lesser of evils when it first curled into a corner of my brain. I hoped it hadn’t changed its mind. I rubbed at my eyes and slammed the book shut. “Thank—”

“God?” Oriphiel’s smooth voice was back. And he wasn’t alone. Two more angels of the same silver persuasion stood behind him. I wondered if that was what happened when silver angels fell . . . They became gray demons.

I glared at him as he stood beside Trinity. There had been no flash of light this time. One second he wasn’t there; the next he was. It was kinder on the retinas, I had to say. Trinity himself took four steps back when the angels appeared, to put himself firmly where he belonged—in the shadow of Heaven’s hand. “No,” I contradicted. “Thank me. I’m the only one doing the heavy lifting of the three of us. So how about a little prayer of gratitude aimed in my direction.”