by Rob Thurman
Neither knew what the Light looked like though. At least I doubted it. I wasn’t all that sure myself. It was enough that I knew what it did or what it was supposed to do. If it was everything I’d heard it to be . . . let’s just say Trixa knew the value of a thing. Anything. Everything. Griffin and Zeke might be in the dark on this one, but not me.
The Light of Life . . . an impenetrable shield that could protect Heaven or Hell from any attack, any second war. Who could put a price on the ultimate defensive weapon? Who could put a price on invulnerability? On absolutely guaranteed survival?
I could.
Contacts, context, and a knowledge of history—it made me one smart girl.
Money made Hun one cooperative guy.
He looked down at the barrel jammed hard against his ribs, assuming he had any under that thick layer of blubber. Then he looked at the money. It was an easy choice. He reached over and took the money. “I heard of it. Some caver, Jeb, found it in an abandoned mine a few towns over. Don’t know why he calls it that. It’s not like a diamond or anything. Just a shiny quartz rock as big as your fist. The guy says it glows at night, but what’s that worth?” He spit in the dirt. “Nada.”
“And why’d he call it the Light of Life?” I didn’t move the gun. There’d been many a donkey who’d gotten the carrot and then kicked the crap out of the veggie farmer right after. I was content to wait until our conversation was over and Big Foot was back hammering at his shack.
He frowned, hiding the pearly whites. “I don’t know. He just did. From the minute he found it and came over to show it to me. The Light of Life, he kept calling it. But he’s a caver and cavers are nuts, so what the hell? He can call it whatever he wants.”
By the time I left, I had the revolver under the passenger seat, a layer of dust coating my car ’s red paint, and a giant gluteus maximus print on the hood. Call the National Enquirer. Sasquatch exists and here’s the proof—ass-print exclusives, fifty bucks a pop.
I also had Jeb the crazy caver’s address and wasn’t the day looking brighter and brighter? A particularly loud song blared on the radio and I slapped it off. The Light of Life. It was going to do two things for me. Two rewards rolled into one. It was going to get me something far more valuable than gold or diamonds and at the same time, a whole lot of nasty, nasty vengeance on the son of a bitch who’d killed my brother.
You’re supposed to take care of your younger brother, no matter how far he strays. Travel was in my family’s blood. That was a given. You still take care of your brother. No matter how far he goes. No matter what.
Kimano.
I stared blindly at the road. The black sheep of the family. Lazy, content with beaches and waves. Work could always wait another day. For all the ways he was so different from me, I loved him. Loved the hell out of him. Sure, there was work to be done, but it didn’t mean he always had to do it. That’s how far gone I was on my baby brother. Me. Bar owner, informant, occasional demon killer, and various other things best not spread around. I edged into the workaholic stage. But to me it had never mattered that my brother wasn’t like me. Kimano never failed to make me laugh. In all his life, he never failed . . .
But once.
Smooth brown skin covered with blood and torn to shreds, dark eyes staring blankly at the sky. I hadn’t laughed then. I hadn’t thought I’d ever laugh again.
Years later I’d learned to, but the true laughing I was waiting on, the laughing I craved with everything in me was the kind I would spill over the body of my brother’s killer. We all have days in our lives. The Day. The One. Weddings, births, hopscotching on the moon . . . this would be my day. And my patience was running thin. Now, with this—the Light—things were finally moving. Because they all wanted the Light. The demons—Below. And Eden House, which equaled Above.
Things were going to start moving and moving fast.
I’d listened and pried and questioned a long time now and with what I knew, I could have Kimano’s killer. Hell would turn him over in a heartbeat if I promised them the Light. And it had been a demon that had killed my brother. I was as sure of that as I was of anything. A demon kill . . . it wasn’t anything you ever forgot. And one dark silver-gray scale left behind.
One was all it took.
The demon wasn’t all I wanted. It was what I wanted the most, but still not all. It was asking for a lot, shooting for the moon, but sometimes . . . once in a rare while, you can have your cake and eat it too. I had better uses for the Light than Hell did—and Heaven . . .
They could get in line as well.
Chapter 3
Jeb the Caver.
What was there to be said about Jeb the, assumed by Hun, crazy caver?
Well, for one, he was dead.
Not demon dead, but when you’re dead, you’re dead, and do the particulars really matter?
I sighed and pulled a ponytail holder out of my jeans pocket and bundled my curls on top of my head, clearing the way for a better look. He was tied to an old kitchen chair with wire that ate into his flesh, once raw and bloody—now dry and stiff. Whoever had done the fancy stuff had used a knife. Knife wounds are quite different from damage made by demon claws. Those are serrated, and while some combat knives are, they’re not quite so finely serrated. Jeb had been tortured pretty thoroughly. The Light might have been worthless to a jeweler, but it had meant something to him—touched him somehow, and he wasn’t about to give it up. And even with two fingers and an ear missing and a savagely slit throat, I don’t think he had. Someone had gone away mad. What a shame.
I searched his house, no bigger or better a shack than Wilder ’s, and found nothing. I didn’t expect to. If anything had been here, the person with a knife would’ve found it—the same one I would bet was with Eden House.
I’d have said they were ruthless before, without qualms about doing what had to be done. Eden itself had been of the Old Testament, and Eden House didn’t much differ. They weren’t much into forgiving and Suffer unto the little children, but torture? Would they go that far? Would Above allow it? And if it was Eden House, why hadn’t they brought a telepath?
Too many questions. It didn’t matter who had done it. My link to the Light was gone.
Needless to say my mood was not good when I finally made it home, walking into my bar just in time to see Zeke plant a bullet point-blank in a robber ’s forehead.
“Wait!” Griffin grabbed Zeke’s wrist a split second too late—the “think” cue not quite making it over the finish line.
“What?” Zeke looked confused and a little annoyed. “Wrong?”
“Give me a second,” Griffin muttered. “I’m thinking.”
“Not too wrong, then,” Zeke said with satisfaction.
“Son of a bitch!”
Zeke and Griffin looked up from the crumpled body to me and each sidled a step back. They didn’t often see me well and truly angry. I was cheerful, I was easygoing, I was . . . I was so pissed, I couldn’t see straight. “He was armed,” Griffin said immediately in defense of his partner. “He was robbing the place and he had a gun. He could’ve killed somebody. That guy in the corner. The ones at the pool table. Leo.” He jerked his blond head in the direction of my bartender, who stood behind the bar with arms folded. “Your Leo.” Leo gave me an “Eh, it could’ve gone either way” shrug.
“And you like Leo,” Zeke pointed out, trying to slide his gun back under his jacket without being seen. “Everyone likes Leo. I like Leo. He gives me free beer.”
Leo instantly disappeared into the back kitchen, no doubt to call 911. Yeah, right. “I run a business here,” I shouted after him. “This isn’t a soup kitchen or a damn beer kitchen either.”
“He would’ve killed someone,” Zeke said as I approached him—and he said it honestly, because truthfully I wasn’t sure Zeke had figured out how to lie yet. Either that or he simply didn’t have the motivation to be bothered. “I felt it. It was right there, like acid sizzling in his brain.”
I ignor
ed the excuse. True or not, it was still an excuse. Zeke could’ve taken him out without killing him. He . . . I gave an internal sigh and let the ire drain away. No. He couldn’t have. He was Zeke, it had happened too fast for him to think it through, and Griffin had been just a moment too late this time. It was a done deal. Now we just had to deal with it.
“You.” I shoved Zeke into the nearest chair, but without any real force. “You have a conceal and carry, right?” I was almost positive he did. Eden House liked to avoid trouble as much as possible, and on occasion there was some collateral damage while demon hunting. Shouldn’t be, but there was. Eden House or not, the demon chasers were human. They made mistakes or accidents happened. Either way, they could plant guns, knives—hell, samurai swords—on the innocent in seconds to get their own off, if that’s what it took.
I didn’t wait for his reply. I started to reach for Griffin to give him a shove toward Zeke, but he was already there. “Coach him on what to say,” I said, “and how to say it, quick, before the cops get here.” The how to say it was just as important as the what.
“The rest of you.” I took in the room of my regulars with a swing of a pointed finger, short nail frosted red. “You are literally on your hands and knees in relief. This man saved your life. That psycho son of a bitch was going to kill every last one of you for the pennies in your pockets. And he may have mentioned doing things to your dead bodies. Bad things. Really, really bad. You’re too scared to remember.” Eyes blinked, a mouth or two gaped, and I repeated it a little more loudly, “Literally on your knees.”
Chairs tipped over. Pool cues dropped to the floor and my grand total of seven clients went down with them.
By the time the cops got there, Zeke had his Glock on a table and his head in his hands. “He made me,” he said with a fair imitation of shock. “The bastard wouldn’t back down. He was going to kill everyone. Swear to God. Everyone.”
It went on an hour or so there as someone came to drag off the carcass in a nice black plastic bag. The cupful of brains they left on the floor. Oh, they took a small sample, but the rest . . . oatmeal gone bad and it was seeping into my ancient wood floor. I had Leo out with a mop and some bleach, but the floors were old and cracked. We’d be spraying that spot with a good shot of potpourri deodorizer every morning for a while.
They took Zeke to the police station for the paperwork. Griffin went with him as his “lawyer friend.” No, Griffin wasn’t a lawyer. I wasn’t quite sure what they were taught when Eden House took them in and trained them, but they were as educated as any college grad. Better yet, they had enough fake ID to walk into the White House, get a Twinkie from the vending machine in the basement, then high-five the Secret Service on their way out. If Griffin told a cop he was a lawyer, I knew he’d backed it up with something.
Zeke had still been doing a good job as he left. You would’ve thought he actually gave a shit about blowing that guy’s head off. The guy was a killer; the guy had a gun; the guy went down. It was Zeke’s philosophy about this entire situation, but let a cop see that and, justified or not, he would look at Zeke a little more closely . . . maybe for a long time.
But Griffin had run over it with him a few times before the sirens approached. “You’re upset. Yes, he was going to kill you, but you’ve never killed anyone before. You’re shaken up. And throw in a ‘Shit, why’d we have to pick this bar? Why didn’t we go down the street?’ ”
Zeke repeated it faithfully under his breath, and damn if he didn’t actually look almost distressed when the first cop arrived. Ten years ago, he would’ve killed the guy, stepped over his body to the bar, ordered a beer, and been unable to fake a twinge. Of course, ten years ago he was fifteen and wouldn’t have been served, but the point was the same. And inside he was still the same as he’d been ten years ago; he’d just learned to fake it.
Like I said, I thought he knew right from wrong. No, that wasn’t true. I knew he knew right from wrong, but he knew it in such a black and white manner—the results often ended up the same as if he didn’t. Lack of the gray areas . . . it made for Old Testament justice.
“Hey, whatcha doing? Milking your goat on the Sabbath? Really. Now, where’s that nice round rock I’m going to stone you with?” Five minutes later, “By the way, you won’t be needing that goat anymore, will you?”
Too bad I didn’t need a goat.
Exaggerated, all right, a little. Even with his issues, Zeke wasn’t that black and white. Although I was amazed with his problems that Zeke had been able to attach to Leo and me. As for Griffin—it was just a given, as I’d thought before . . . the Universe. They were two halves of a deadly whole. Zeke needed Griffin and Griffin needed Zeke. Griffin needed to take care of someone. He was a fixer. Wanted to fix, had to. Was it the way he grew up in foster care, surrounded by the weaker kids? A common-sense answer, but was it the right one?
Apparently Zeke’s acting lessons paid off, because four hours later, Griffin called and said tiredly, “It’s over. There will be more paperwork and a token appearance in court, but everyone is agreed it’s justifiable.”
“He held up good, then.” I’d finished painting my toenails and was now cleaning the Smith. Both were bright and sparkly.
Deadly too.
“He did good. One cop almost had him slipping, but he caught himself. He’s come a long way, you know?”
I loaded the gun silently.
He hesitated. “All right. He hasn’t, but he can pretend now and that’s more than he could do before.”
I slammed the cylinder home and said quietly, “It’s not his fault he’s the way he is. It’s not your fault either, Griffin. You’ve saved him. If you hadn’t been fostered with him for those years, he wouldn’t have survived. He certainly wouldn’t be free.” From what Griffin had insinuated about the seriousness of what had happened when Zeke was fifteen, Zeke would be locked up somewhere. Still.
“Don’t be ashamed of him, Griffin,” I went on, and put the gun on the table. “That only makes me ashamed of you.”
His voice went dark. “I’m not ashamed. No one else could’ve survived what he has. No one else could learn to function like he has.”
I pulled the ponytail holder from the top of my hair and let my hair fall haphazardly around my shoulders. “Then be proud. Of yourself. You’re mostly responsible for that.” I disconnected and left him with that thought. Two seconds later I cursed myself. I’d forgotten to ask if they’d blown up a demon or an iguana earlier today. I hovered a hand over the phone, then let it go. One day my curiosity truly was going to be the death of me.
The next day I felt like death would be a relief.
The bar was closed. It closed every year on the same day: the anniversary of Kimano’s death. Zeke and Griffin had asked a few times why the closing. They’d never gotten an answer and finally gave up. Message received: Private, so don’t come knocking on the door and don’t ask why.
Leo stayed those days. Leo had known Kimano. We had history, the three of us. Leo could never miss Kimano like I did, but he did miss and he did mourn him as a brother of the spirit, if not the blood. But even if he hadn’t, he would’ve been there for me. The bottom line was that the two of us were too much alike to ever come together in any permanent way, and we wouldn’t belittle what we had with anything temporary. It wouldn’t be enough and then there would be regret dimming what was so brilliant between us now—that bond that couldn’t be broken.
It was nice, knowing that.
But the potential of what could’ve been if one of us had been only the slightest bit different was always there. Yet another bond that couldn’t be broken. There was a wonderful warmth in knowing that as well.
He slept in bed with me the night before. I woke up to blinds-filtered Nevada sunshine with his arm heavy around my waist, simple solace. He was one of the rare ones who knew sex didn’t necessarily equal comfort.
I stayed in bed the entire day and he stayed with me. Other than food and bathroom breaks, we cu
rled up and said nothing. Once in a while he’d chuckle against my shoulder and I’d curl my lips, instinctively knowing just which Kimano memory had come to mind.
We’d done this for years now. At first we talked and laughed about them, but now we knew the routine and the flavor of them so well, that when he laughed, I knew. And when I groaned and covered my eyes, Leo knew. Kimano had never been good at his job, but he’d left more memories behind than if he had been. He was much softer hearted than he should’ve been. Our mother had raised us to be tough, to do the job at hand, no matter what it was, and do each one as if it were your first, last, and only job. Hold people accountable always. Be accountable always. I liked working; it was easy for me. But Kimano let the slackers slide, because he was one himself.
There was a soft, heavy breathing by my ear and a few stands of straight black hair wafting over my cheek. Leo had never failed to stand by me . . . or lie by me, if that’s what I needed . . . which was a change for him in his younger days. He’d been big, bad, and full of anger. He’d mellowed over the years. He was still big and bad if you put him to the test, but he’d learned a little more tolerance and a lot more patience. What he did to those who pissed him off in the past . . . well, it made seeing him throw a man through the plaster bathroom wall seem considerably mellow, almost kindly in fact.
I, on the other hand, had gotten a little less mellow with age. Taking care of Kimano’s killer might take care of that; it might not. We’d just have to see.
My eyes drifted to the picture on the dresser. A stark black and white—it was Kimano in a patch of grass with his arm slung around the shoulders of a grinning coyote and a sharp-eyed raven on his shoulder. Lenore. He’d written Arizona across the back of the photo. He always said I had the worst memory for the fun things, the silly things. Maybe he’d been right, but the bad things . . .
