Rob Thurman - Trick of the Light

“The time for crying is over. Now is the time for sun,” he said simply.

I sat up to make it easier to put the chain around my neck. I touched the gold and red with a reverent finger. Odd that Leo had come from a place of unimaginable cold and darkness—his place of birth and what lived inside him for so long—yet he had always been my sun. I would’ve said thanks, but with the thousands of years between us . . . he knew what he was to me. Just as I knew what I was to him.

“Now.” He settled the sun in place on my chest. “What you need is a project. A mission.”

I did need something. A purpose beyond the average trickster job requirements. I was used to it now—like a pastime, albeit a potentially fatal one. “Like what?”

“Let’s see.” He stood and held a hand down for me. “How about driving every last demon from Vegas? Eden House here couldn’t, but the païens in New York did. Do you want them thinking they’re better than we are?”

The thousands of païens in New York had sent their demons packing, as Robin Goodfellow had been reminiscing on the phone when I’d talked to him. He was my fellow trickster, sometime informant, and had also been known as Pan and Puck in the day. I’d been surprised he hadn’t brought up the days of the Kin’s rule of Vegas when we had talked. The Kin was the werewolf version of the Mafia and had worked hand-in-paw with the real Mafia back in the Bugsy Siegel days up all the way until the Mob lost its hold in the seventies. Not that the human Mafia had ever known whom they were partnered up with. People, the ones blind to the real world, rarely did. In the end I thought that the Kin was glad to leave Vegas. All that fur? Far too hot. They’d probably panted even in their human form.

Demons were enough to deal with anyway. Of course there were only Leo, Griffin, Zeke, and me versus the entire population of those demons. I smiled to myself. It seemed like a fair contest. “Sure, why not? It ought to keep me busy for the first two years anyway. What will I do with the other three?”

“At least you won’t have people asking to take their pictures with you or trying to give you money for stealing your land,” he grunted, pushing the door open and tugging me along behind him.

“You chose the form; I have no sympathy. Besides, you’re a trickster. You know more than enough about Native American lore to fool any tourist, Leo Rain of Eagle Droppings. You created some of the lore yourself,” I pointed out. He preferred the North, but like every other trickster, Leo had done his work in every continent and occupied island on the face of the planet.

“I know. I screwed myself,” he rumbled in complaint. “It was entertaining in the beginning. I hate tourists. Making asses of them made my day, but it’s getting old. Next one I’ll offer to reenact Custer ’s Last Stand in extremely vivid detail. Waivers and death insurance included. Worse yet, now I have this.” He lifted his shirt. On his chest was something new: a tattoo of a raven, tribal and stark, arrowing toward the sky, its wings spread.

“The Light really spanked you but good.” I laughed, tracing the outline.

“I’m just lucky it didn’t put Lenore beneath it,” he rumbled in resignation.

The front door opened and two early birds came in. Paunchy, balding, and pink husband. Pudgy, bleached-blond petrified curls, and pinker wife. Both sets of watery blue eyes fixed on him and the tattoo, and the cameras came out. “I’m starting with them,” he growled. “Go write up the waivers.” I laughed again, pulled down his shirt, and shoved him toward the bar.

The rest of the day blended from afternoon to evening and it was the same as it had always been. The same work, same fried food, same regulars. I hummed and sang the entire time. Once again, my voice isn’t the best, but my regulars are usually drunk enough not to care. I could’ve been an opera singer for all they could tell. Leo eventually couldn’t take it anymore and turned the TV up loud enough to drown me out.

I ignored him, except for flipping him off, and kept singing. About eight p.m., Zeke and Griffin came in. Zeke looked like Zeke, and Griffin looked . . . good. He seemed all right. I smiled at him. He was strong and I knew he’d be strong enough for this, because I wasn’t losing him to despair any more than I was losing him to death. I went to his table as Zeke went to the TV and turned it off.

I sat to the right of Griff. “Is everything all right? You look good.” I patted his cheek. “Good color. Bright eyes. We can get a vet in here to check to see if your nose is cold and wet, but otherwise you look great.” He did. He looked better than he had before the Leviathan thing had gone down.

Zeke sat on the other side of Griffin and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. It wasn’t a squeeze or warning or reassurance, just the comfortable curl of a resting place for his hand. “We’re doing it,” he suddenly announced aloud to the entire bar. The kind of aloud that penetrates through the wall to the bathroom stalls. I mean, it wasn’t precisely out of nowhere, the information, but he could’ve worked up to it a little. That wasn’t Zeke though. “We’re not just screwing either. We’re in a relationship .” He said the last word very carefully, as if he’d never said it. He may never have.

Meanwhile Griffin dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “You are?” I asked him, amused. I’d seen how proprietary they were of each other and that had nothing to do with being partners. Then there had been Zeke refusing to let me share a bed with Griffin. The whole spooning thing I’d taken as a joke, and not because I hadn’t seen this coming. I had. I just hadn’t thought it would be this soon. I hadn’t thought they’d realize it so quickly. I did know Zeke would’ve made the first move. It was the only way Griffin could be sure it was what Zeke wanted and not Zeke going along with whatever he thought Griffin wanted—following his lead, as always. And Zeke had done it apparently, seizing that free will with both hands.

Well, you know what? Good for Zeke.

“A relationship?” I repeated, my lips twitching with humor at Griffin’s sudden retiring nature.

“We are,” Griffin confirmed, hands cupping over his forehead to shield his eyes from Zeke’s show.

“And the sex is fucking unbelievable,” Zeke said, continuing with the rundown.

“Oh hell.” Griffin’s head thunked against the table and stayed down there. I leaned over his back to ask Zeke curiously, “How unbelievable?”

“Last night . . . ,” he started with the same enthusiasm I’d seen him show for his favorite weapons—and that was considerable enthusiasm indeed.

I leaned forward further. It was all kinds of interesting what you could hear when an ex-angel who hadn’t mastered his internal filter started to talk details.

I genuinely had seen this coming. I wasn’t so full of it that I believed brown was this year ’s new magenta. It made absolute sense. Angels and demons were gen derless creatures until they chose a human form (the only form they could choose, by the way . . . amateurs). In their pure crystalline form, angels were androgy nous in appearance—neither male nor female. As for demons, if they had a gender in their true serpent shape, only a zoologist would have a hope of knowing for sure.

Put either creature in a freshly baked cookie dough human body and they had the hormones to work with, I guessed, unless they were like Oriphiel who didn’t pack his plumbing. The others, however, angels and demons alike, I couldn’t see having a strong preference either way. Created sexless, then changing into a human suit whenever they felt like it, I couldn’t see them swinging hard to either end of the sexual spectrum. It wasn’t as if they had a human’s lifetime of social experience or gender role imprinting—although the genetics of it . . . never mind. I wasn’t a biologist. I was just a trickster having the time of her life watching two guys having the time of their lives. Who cared how it happened? It could be like teenagers getting in a car to drive it for the very first time. Do you want a stick or an automatic? Who the hell cares? They just want to go .