Rob Thurman - Deathwish

She glared at him. “ Regardless , I robbed him, and that lack of forgiveness is firmly aimed in my direction. Our direction,” she amended, glancing at Promise.

“What did you steal?” Niko asked as he simultaneously gestured to me, tapping his meditation beads. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t blow it off. I’d seen where a lack of control had gotten me. I fingered the beads around my own wrist and got to work. I still kept part of my focus on the conversation, which had to not help the meditation. But hearing Cherish’s story was important. I had at least two brain cells. I could split them up.

“Is that so important?” she countered, tilting her head, the black hair falling behind her shoulders, and her violet eyes challenging.

“Yes,” he replied, unyielding. “I think it is.”

“Fine,” she replied, lashes half covering her eyes with what looked like regret or even shame. “It was a necklace. Gold, diamonds, and chunks of turquoise as big as a baby’s fist. I endangered all our lives for one piece of jewelry that was in no way worth the price we’re paying now.”

“Did it do anything?” I interrupted, remembering the power-draining crown another puck had blackmailed us into getting for him.

“Do anything?” she said with confusion. “It sparkled and it looked quite amazing on me. What else would it possibly do?”

“So you hocked it?” Robin asked. “Once it wasn’t quite so amazing?”

“As I said, I bore of pretty things quickly and move on to the next. I’m thinking of changing my ways. It seems a good survival move.” She sighed and touched the ruby choker at her throat. I wondered if it were stolen too.

“Yes, then you can marry men with a foot and four toes in the grave. That’s certainly more respectable,” Robin offered with a smirk.

Promise tapped her crossbow against her leg and said in a voice as sweet as honeysuckle, “I believe, Goodfellow, that I have a painting you should see.”

I saw where this was going, and it was going to be long, drawn-out, and something I’d heard a hundred times before. I went back to concentrating solely on the meditation, bead by bead. Boring but calming, as much as I hated to admit it. When I finished, those moon eyes were still on me. “Jesus,” I groaned to the chupa. “Okay. Deal another hand.”

I played Go Fish for another two hours. I lost again.

Lately, it was a familiar feeling.

Rafferty’s house was over the Verrazano Bridge on Staten Island. It looked the same as it had the last time we’d visited. A tired and deserted ranch house with a fence in the back large enough to hold the biggest of dogs . . . or wolves. Behind that was the nature preserve, thousands of bare trees. Robin, as always, proved adept at gaining illegal entry. I doubt he even broke stride on the simple lock. There was a click of metal against metal, a turn of his wrist, and we were inside. There the utilities were still turned on, a sign that Rafferty thought his trip would be short, or he didn’t have any idea how long he’d be gone. If he’d thought the first, he was wrong. We hadn’t been able to contact him in months. Normally I wouldn’t have invaded his privacy, but desperate times . . . desperate measures. His place suited our needs perfectly.

There was only one problem. It wasn’t on par with the Auphe, Oshossi, or, say, a two-headed werewolf, but it was a problem nonetheless, and one my brother was more than capable of handling. I handed him the toilet plunger as he walked out of the kitchen.

“There’s nothing left in . . .” He stopped to stare glumly at the plunger. “Jesus.”

“I doubt that. If you were he, you could simply wave a hand, unstop it, and simultaneously turn the water to wine. Sadly, we’ll have to settle for your plumbing skills.”

“Why me?” he demanded.

“Why not you? Or do you plan on holding it until we find Oshossi and destroy the Auphe? If so, best to avoid colas.”

“This is revenge, isn’t it?” He took the wooden handle with resignation.

“In a word,” I replied without hesitation, “yes. Plus Buddha-loving bad-asses like me have better things to do.”

He looked with trepidation down the hall toward the bathroom door. “Revenge for that. Revenge for last night with the gate. Do I even want to go in there?”

I curved my lips. It wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t meant to be. He groaned, turned, and trudged down the hall. For the moment, I was alone. Everyone else was outside unpacking the two cars, and I took the opportunity to move to Rafferty’s surgery. It was simply a large bedroom with three neatly made beds, shelves of medical supplies, and the kind of cheap tile that makes it easy to mop up blood. God knew it had seen its share of it. This was the place where Cal had nearly died, then did die, and was brought back. There were no ghosts in our world, I knew that, but if there had been, they would’ve been here.

There was the sound of a footstep. I turned with my sword drawn before my mind had time to catch up with my body. Robin appeared in the doorway, eyes immediately going to the katana. I sheathed it, but didn’t apologize. There was no reason to. He’d lived through the nightmare that had happened in this room the same as I had. He knew.

“I suggest we give this room to Cherish and her pet,” Goodfellow advised as he walked in and circled to take it in with pensive eyes. “Promise and you can have one bedroom, and I the other.”

“And Cal?” Who hadn’t gone near the room since we’d walked through the front door. Among the three of us, he’d had the better sense.

Robin raised his voice to carry. “The couch. He is the youngest, and his ass is so frequently glued there anyway.” His lips quirked as an outraged “I heard that, you bastard” came echoing down the hall.

He gave a light squeeze to my shoulder. “Let us go from here. This isn’t a good place for any of the three of us.” Once in the hall, he promptly closed the door to the room. Out of sight, out of mind. Hopefully. “I’ve called all of my normal homes away from home, the hotels to the fabulous. No one who matches Oshossi has checked in. From the look of him, I doubt he’s staying at a flea trap. I’ll try the private residences for rent next. I know several real estate agents, most as amoral as I am. Almost.” He grinned. “I’ll give them a call. Now”—he clapped hands together—“where do we obtain food in this desolate wasteland? I couldn’t see a single five-star restaurant from the porch.”

“We might want to consider a store,” I pointed out.

“Store? Food doesn’t come from a store. It comes from restaurants or a personal cook, and I doubt any of you are up to my chef standards. The last time we were here, we ate microwave food. Microwave . You may as well circle that monstrous machine with the River Styx and call it the life-sucking Hades that it is.”

“And what did you do before there were restaurants?” I asked, torn between patience and drawing my sword again.

“I had nubile maidens to feed me grapes, and muscular men with honey-covered . . .”

I went to see if Cal needed any help in the bathroom.

That evening, we sat in Rafferty’s comfortable but definitely suburban living room, finishing off Chinese takeout. Robin, horrified and bemused by the bright orange sauce with the consistency of Jell-O that dripped from his chicken, was shocked into an uncustomary silence. Cal sat on the floor with his egg rolls, letting the rest of us have the couch and chairs. Xolo . . . Xolo had a talent for disappearing into the background. I sharpened my attention and caught a glimpse of his sweatshirt and hairless head through the doorway in the kitchen. He was looking raptly out of the window.