Rob Thurman: Trick of the Light

“That was too quick. Let’s go find another,” Zeke said as the body by his knees melted away to the next best thing to an oil slick. It spread across the cracked gray asphalt, staining it a permanent black.

“Think again, workaholic. Time to go home.” Griffin stood, spread his arms to take in the mess, and frowned. “Safety on.” It was Griffin’s way of telling Zeke he was serious. Zeke could go literally forever once he started something—at least until he keeled over from exhaustion or dehydration. And if he started on a demon hunt in an unsatisfied state of mind, he would do it. He was a gun that would fire until the ammunition ran out.

Unless . . .

“Safety on,” Zeke echoed with a sigh, dissatisfied but cooperative. Then he took in Griffin, who looked as if a bucket of black paint had been tossed on him. This grin was different from the one for the demon. This one was genuine. It softened the too-lean face, lightened the green of his eyes, and relaxed the scowl of dark red-brown brows. “That’s gonna cost you.”

Griffin gave a scowl of his own, but it wasn’t a serious one. Zeke’s smiles were rare. It had taken him so long to actually learn how that not I, not Leo, and especially not Griffin could give him hell for it. Simply couldn’t.

Griffin turned to look at me, and I tossed him his shotgun and waved my fingers. “Better get out of here in case someone actually calls the cops this time.”

“You’re not paying for this, I take it,” he said, resigned.

“Sugar, you’re so cute when you joke around like that.” I patted his cheek.

The night was more or less over anyway. I let Leo close up and went to my apartment above the bar. It was basic as they came: one room—a bedroom and a bathroom combined with a big bed and a huge claw-foot tub. But basic is good. I don’t cook. And I don’t mean I don’t like to cook. I flat out do not cook, so I didn’t need a kitchen. Food was meant to be bought already prepared. Takeout was the single highest accomplishment of modern civilization.

My bed was waiting. On its headboard, carved in Mexico, animals prowled back and forth: leopards, foxes, wolves, coyotes, birds—all painted as bright and bold as you could get. In the sink by the tub, I brushed my teeth, stripped off my makeup, then touched the teardrop around my neck, and finally I cried. I cried every day for my brother. My overall family wasn’t that big, and the immediate family was even smaller. With my brother gone, a third of my family went with him. When he had been killed and left in the bloody sand, he’d taken a third of my world with him.

I gave it only a few minutes: There was mourning and there was wallowing. And wallowing wasn’t going to help do what had to be done, was it?

Dressed in my Rugby shirt and panties (it didn’t feel like a silk night), I climbed under the red bedspread and turned off the bedside light. I’d only dozed off when I had a feeling, smelled spice, and then the springs of the mattress gave under a warm weight that straddled my hips. I heard the soft, dark words, “I want to touch you so badly. Your bare skin, the silk of your hair . . . ,” as I reached down, pulled my shotgun from beneath the mattress, and had it jammed under Solomon’s jaw in less than three seconds. I could see his shadowed eyes in the light from the street that seeped through the blinds.

This was why I’d kept my favored silk sleepwear in the drawer tonight: Solomon and his games. I’d suspected he wasn’t done when he’d left the bar.

“I don’t know what chick flick you stole that from, but you deserve your money back,” I said as I pulled back the hammer.

“Not a good time, then, I take it?” he asked with amused gravity.

The steel of the trigger was as cool against my finger as the sheets were against my skin. “An absolutely perfect time,” I disagreed with dark cheer. He was shirt-less, but at least he was wearing pants. If he hadn’t been, I think he knew I would’ve blown his head off right then and there.

“So stubborn. Pity.” The corner of his mouth quirked up and although he didn’t move, the weight of him seemed even heavier and far more intimate. Then he shimmered out of existence.

His chest had been as lightly furred as I thought it’d be, and broad. Did demons have some sort of hot-male-body catalogue to choose from? Snorting at myself, I replaced the gun after easing the hammer back down and turned over on my stomach. Solomon could put on any face or body he wanted—I’d never forget what was on the inside. I wouldn’t let myself. This time I went instantly to sleep. And I had dreams. . . .

Not the kind you’d think.

I dreamed of blue-green water, black sand, and blood.

So much blood.

More than anyone could hope to live without.

Morning was slow. I liked it that way. I could run errands if I wanted or go back upstairs and sleep in late . . . if Leo didn’t bitch too much. Right now he was too busy with two tourists from the pasty East. How they’d wandered into this part of town, I hadn’t a clue. This was definitely off the tourists’ beaten track.

“I’ve never met an American Indian before,” the first chirped. She was a chirpy kind. Wavy red hair, freckles, round blue eyes, and skin whiter than snow. “What’s your Native American name?”

Leo’s dark eyes looked down the bar at me, literally pleading for help. I propped my chin in my hand, winked, and watched the show. Exhaling, he said with perfect seriousness, “Leo Thrusting Moose Phallus.”

That was a new one. I liked it. You wish , I mouthed, but held up nine fingers out of ten for scoring. In the past there had been Leo Constipated Elk, Leo Maker of Warm Yellow Water, Leo Mounter of Unwilling Dogs, and whatever idiots actually remained after one of those were treated courteously with the name of his tribe when they asked: the Tribe of None of Your Fucking Business.

These two weren’t that stupid. They were already headed for the door. Despite his hawk nose, lightly copper skin, and black hair that hung to his waist, all of which made Leo one fine-looking man, he’d tired a long time ago of the tourists’ American Indian fascination. Shaking his head in disgust, he tossed a towel over his shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute or two later Lenore came flapping about and posted on his roost anchored to the bar.

“I’ve never figured out how you get away with him when the health inspector ’s around.” Griffin, my usual late-breakfast crowd, moved up and sat on a stool in a blue shirt, some horrifically expensive brand naturally, and artfully faded jeans.

“Ah. Then watch this.” I looked at Lenore. “Health inspector, Lenore.”

Immediately the raven froze, dark eyes glassy, chest unmoving. Then he slowly pitched forward until he hung upside down from the perch, possibly the dead est stuffed bird ever seen.

Griffin gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed. He never did that when we worked here.”

“Yes, he did. Lenore’s special. He’s been around a long, long time.” And then some. Doing tricks was the very least of his repertoire. “He’s an old fart.”

I tapped him on his back and he sprang back up, pecking me on the hand in outrage, and cawing, “Nevermore, ass-wipe. Nevermore.”

“You just didn’t stick around long enough to see his little trick then,” I went on, stepping back out of beak range. “You and Zeke were still not precisely seeing eye to eye with the local authorities yourself. You’d be hiding in the back. And watch the language, Lenore.” If I could give it a shot, so could he.

I’d known what Griffin and Zeke were the minute I caught them loitering in my alley, ready to scour the Dumpster for food. They were homeless when I hired them, and just . . . lost—lost as you can get. I’d given them the job of keeping the storage rooms cleaned up and pretended I didn’t know they slept there—two kids with two changes of clothes and literally nothing else. We didn’t serve real food at Trixsta, but we served bar food—anything fried with cheese—and I let them eat free and take what was left over at the end of the night. And I’d run them over to the diner to fetch supper for Leo and me every night. Four meals instead of just two—Zeke simply ate his and didn’t wonder why I did this. Griffin wondered, wanted me to take it out of the money I paid them, but gave up when I scowled and threatened him with bathroom puke duty every night. After that he just worked harder and mooned after me like a puppy for a few months. It was cute and at least he didn’t piddle on the floor.