by Rob Thurman
She tugged me across the table and kissed me on the cheek. “We’ll see. I only wish I had Sir Pickles with me. There isn’t anything alive or dead that’s not afraid of a smack from him. And when I’m done, where will I go?”
“Anywhere you want. We have more heavens than stars in the sky. Tell them I sent you, and I think you’ll find one you like. Ask for my brother, Kimano, when you knock at the doors. I know you’ll like him. All the girls do.”
The pink smile widened and then, the same as a rainbow-sheened soap bubble popping under your curious finger, she was gone. Anna was gone and I was left with the much less amiable dog lady. I didn’t blame that schnauzer at all for making a toilet out of her bathtub. She was not the most pleasant or reasonable of people. If we lived someplace colder, she’d no doubt force the dogs into ridiculous little sweaters or raincoats. Looking at the pictures on the wall again, now every canine face seemed to be pleading, help us. She brushes our teeth four times a day. She wheels us out in the yard and tries to wipe our asses with toilet paper when we go.
She did feed them though. That was something, every one of them fat and sassy on the wall of fame. It was better than the pound and near-certain death. I couldn’t swat her for embarrassing dogs. But for being rude and peeping at her neighbors, I’d put that on the back burner.
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith. Despite yourself, you were helpful. And, please, the dogs don’t care if it’s one ply or two. They’d prefer you didn’t wipe their furry butts at all.”
“You ungrateful, pushy little bitch. Crazy too—ought to be locked up in the nuthouse with your talk of rivers in Hell. No crazy is killing or robbing me—you’ll see that right here and now.” I’d let go of her hands, and she was scooping up the bullets on the table. Her fingers were as nimble as those of a blackjack dealer, which was why I took her gun with me.
“I’ll leave it outside the door. Don’t shoot your mail-man.” I was passing through the doorway when I felt something hit the back of my head hard. A bullet fell to my feet and rolled across the floor. The hell with the gun, she’d started throwing bullets at me. I rubbed the stinging on my scalp and closed the door behind me in time to hear another one clink against the glass. With that arm she should’ve been pitching in the World Series. I put the .357 down on the concrete. She took very good care of her dogs. If I killed her, who would feed and love them?
I massaged my head again. Leo liked dogs. Tempting, tempting, but no. If being a bitch merited death, I’d be notching my gun belt every day. If I had a gun belt. Damn it, that stung. Human pain, yet another thing I could do without in the whole being-human realm. Their nervous system was far too fine-tuned, ridiculously sensitive. In other forms I’d had my limbs broken, my abdomen clawed open, and, on one memorable occasion, had a lung ripped completely out of my body and none of it equaled one menstrual period of the new and human Trixa Iktomi. That might be a small exaggeration, but it wasn’t that far from the truth.
I knocked on the window of the stolen car and the locks snicked open. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I took in the scenario. Griffin had his arm around Zeke’s neck from behind in a classic choke hold. “Did the lesson take a turn for the worse?”
Zeke was tuning the radio. “He won’t go through with it,” he said without the hoarseness or lack of consciousness the arm across his throat should’ve produced. “He couldn’t choke out a Christmas elf with this hold.”
“But I want to. I very much want to,” Griffin countered. The hard line of his arm, the clenched teeth, the face flushed with aggravation; it all said it was true, but . . .
“Ha,” his partner gloated, “now that’s a lie. I can feel it. I can see it. It’s purple. When you lie, I see purple.” Closing his eyes to concentrate on the color, he then opened them again and focused back to the radio. “Okay. You can nap now. You won’t ever be able to lie to me again, not even for my own good.” Griffin’s jaw, if anything, went tighter, but he let Zeke go, then lay back down in the seat. Being Zeke’s student would give anyone a headache, concussion or not.
In a way, it was too bad. Griffin had chosen the wrong thing to lie to Zeke about, but at the end of the day you sometimes needed someone to lie to you, because some days the truth was too unpleasant, too depressing to hear. A good example would be Eli, carrying the heat of Hell with him, materializing beside the car, tearing the door off to throw into the street, and snarling, “He needs four more wings. Four, and then playing Where’s Waldo is goddamn over. He’ll have an X marks the spot to Lucifer. Your plan, if you have one, better be in fucking motion, because the world is about to come to an end.
“All of them.”
Chapter 14
Three months ago when I’d lost my shape-shifting ability, I knew there’d come a time, sooner or later, when I would encounter a situation where a fast gun wasn’t going to be enough. It wouldn’t be because of any low-level demon, but Eligos had taken over Vegas when I’d killed Solomon. He would’ve taken it if I hadn’t killed Solomon. Eli had said Solomon wasn’t in his league and I didn’t doubt him. He also thought I was the best toy he’d been gifted with in ages. He thought he was playing with fire when he played with me, and I had to keep him thinking that. If he knew what I was now, he would do to me what I’d done to Solomon. I had no desire to be in so many pieces that I had to be cleaned up with a sponge and buried in a bucket.
That was why I’d asked Zeke and Griffin to do something no telepath or empath, no angel or demon, had done before. Instead of using their powers to pull in thoughts and emotions, I’d asked them to try pushing out those things instead. I knew Zeke couldn’t make someone see something that wasn’t real. He couldn’t make Eli see me change into a giant bear with the mouth of a shark and the tail of a dragon. But if he tried, worked hard at it, after months of practice, he might be able to blur my edges—to make it seem as if my outline was wavering. Shifting. Not a giant bear, but the beginnings of a change, my edges running like a rainbow of oil sliding over water. And if Zeke could do that, then it was possible that Griffin could send out the emotion of fear. Not a powerful thrust, but only a sliver—it could be enough. If Eli saw me shimmer, felt a spike of fear, he’d see a fully functional shape-shifter, not a hobbled one. If he saw it and felt it, it was doubtful he would take time to examine where those things were coming from—he or someone else. It had no precedent to make him suspicious of it and if you had a fully functional shape-shifting trickster in front of you, all your thinking was going to be concentrated on keeping yourself alive.
The guys had given it their best shot, practiced daily, and considering how lazy Zeke was, that was pure devotion. After two months of self-devised training, they’d tried it on Leo, who’d let his shield relax for the attempt. It had worked—more or less. Leo wasn’t a demon, however, and although it had worked on him, I couldn’t be sure it would on Eli. Still, I’d bet my life on many things along the way. Why should I start changing now?
“Well, Trixa? Is your plan going to save us?” Eli put his hands under the car and flipped us over onto our side. I hadn’t put on my seat belt yet. I didn’t slam into Zeke as I’d grabbed the steering wheel, but I didn’t land on him with the grace and airy lightness of a ballerina either. I heard the muffled grunt as air left his lungs, but that didn’t stop him from already having his shotgun in hand. The same went for Griffin in the back. But Eli was enraged and he was faster and stronger than all of us. Normally, I would’ve tried to talk my way out of this . . . but this time I didn’t believe Eli would be listening. He was asking questions, but he was too furious to listen to any answers—too furious to do anything but kill us.
It was time to see if the boys could do to him what they’d done to Leo. I only hoped they’d been keeping in practice. I gave them a fleeting hand signal. They agreed on a “We are screwed” sign; then I used the steering wheel to pull myself upright, standing on Zeke’s rib cage and rising up into Eli’s view with the happiest, hungriest smile I had in my repertoire. “Plan, sugar?
Who needs a plan when I have lunch in my face bitching up a storm?”
Eli stared at me, his face not even a foot from mine. “What’s your pleasure,?” I drawled. “What part of you would you like pulled off first? Your handsome head? Rip your legs apart like a wishbone? It’s all tasty. It’s all good, Eligos. All good to me. Let’s see how good it is for you.” I took the risk and reached for him. I thought I’d guessed wrong, that the training and the work had been for nothing. I thought we were dead when my fingertips were almost brushing the front of his shirt.
Until he took one step back.
Another moment of trickster triumph. If my legs weren’t al dente and in danger of buckling under me, I would’ve been one happy-go-lucky mass of conceit and smugness. I didn’t like being vulnerable. I didn’t like it at all. I’d been positive that I could get through four or so years without my shape-shifting ability. Pie, cake, cougar soccer moms—all things that are easy. It was feeling less and less that way all the time. I’d tumbled far down the food chain and I didn’t like strapping on a fake fin to blend in with the other sharks. I wasn’t afraid to die. Tricksters can’t be . . . not if they want to do what they do best. But I didn’t want to die without pulling off the trick first. I’d done the Roses. I could do Cronus too. If death came as I took him down, I wouldn’t mind. I didn’t fear losing my life to save this world and all worlds while punishing Cronus . . . obliterating a Titan. It was my purpose. I wasn’t afraid.
I was not.
Oh holy hell, I was terrified.
A human body? I might as well fight Eli by throwing Ping-Pong balls at him. And Cronus? A can of Reddiwip would be as useful. Yes, I had fought off Eli before as a shape-shifter in human form, but I’d had extra speed, extra strength to draw on anytime I needed it. I always had an out, of becoming my true self, although I’d never had to use it. Then again, I’d never faced an Eligos quite so furious.
Furious with me, who was doing everything I could to stop a creature I couldn’t have before when I was still whole, a creature that gods couldn’t hope to stop. I was doing that. Me. And Eli, whose only contribution this past week in helping with Cronus had been brownnosing his boss, hiding in Hell, and waxing his legs to play a centurion at Caesars Palace, wasn’t doing a damn thing except pitching a hissy like a thirteen-year-old spoiled brat whose daddy hadn’t gotten the Jonas Brothers to play at her bat mitzvah.
I started to climb out of the car. “Stay right there, you bastard. I have a nail file, and I plan on skinning you alive with it.” I had a knife as well, but that would be too quick. I didn’t want quick. I wanted slow . . . slow and agonizing. I didn’t approve of snakeskin shoes, but demonskin ones would work great with my wardrobe.
He took another step back, smoothing his hair with one hand and straightening his black-on-black suit jacket with the other. “I have things to attend to. When I return, you can tell me how the plan is going then.” He disappeared precisely as I leaped. Or tried to leap as Zeke had wrapped his arms around my legs to keep me inside the half-flipped car. I briefly thought about using the nail file on him, but he was trying to do what was in my best interest, and, quid pro quo, I didn’t kill him . . . although it would’ve been a huge stress relief.
“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” I kicked at his arms, trying to get free. “He’s gone. Let go.” I kicked harder, but not enough to damage him. Zeke and Griffin were my boys. I couldn’t hurt my boys. “Or do you want me to aim my foot at something more specific and valuable?” I could threaten them, however.
Griffin had pushed open his door, banging my elbow, which did not improve my mood. It didn’t worsen it either, but only because it couldn’t get any worse. Human emotions were the same as païen emotions, but like their nervous system, they were a shade too much. Too intense. Too sharp. Too everything.
When his feet hit the asphalt, he scrutinized me. “It’s all right, Zeke. You can let her go. I don’t see the nail file and you need your specifically valuable parts.” Turning, he addressed the ten or so gaping people who’d stopped their cars to watch the show and announced, “Appearing nightly at the MGM Grand. The amazing Eligos and his lovely assistant.” He indicated me, but was careful to keep his hand out of biting range.
Zeke released me. “You need anger management,” he said helpfully. “The people in our neighborhood tell me that. Sometimes they leave pamphlets in our mailbox.”
“Is that so? Including the people whose house you blew up?” I climbed out of the car without giving in to the temptation to put a heel where it would inconvenience Zeke and Griffin the most, instead using Zeke’s shoulder to launch out of the car.
“No. They don’t talk to me anymore. They either run or throw up—sometimes both. It’s not very interesting conversation. I haven’t found a common interest yet, other than they liked their house and I liked blowing it up.” He followed me out of the car. “They’re sleeping in their car in their driveway. If it starts to smell like meth, I can call you to blow it up. Explosions are a good management technique for anger. I always feel better afterward, but I can give you a pamphlet too, if you want. I have plenty. Piles and piles.”
“When the next ice age comes, we can burn them for heat for a hundred years or so,” Griffin commented as he followed me down the sidewalk when I started moving. “Where are we going now?”
“Home. Nearly being killed by a gecko calls for alcohol, gallons and gallons of alcohol.” If we stayed here any longer, Eli might come back or, by fate’s funny little quirks, we might be shot dead by an old lady in a dog-hair sweater. I wasn’t waiting to find out.
“Back to the bar?” he asked.
“No, not that home.” That wouldn’t be home for a while, not with Cronus showing up there on an uncomfortably frequent basis . . . which would be any number of occasions more than zero. “I hope you guys keep your guest room ready for visitors. Fresh flowers in a vase. Chocolate on the pillow. I’m a simple girl with simple tastes.”
Forty minutes and one expensive cab ride later I was standing in the doorway of a small bedroom with approximately fifty handguns mounted on one wall, ten shotguns on another, and a third host to enough knives to supply all the sushi chefs in Vegas. “What?” Zeke asked, aware that I found it somehow lacking but not knowing why. “At least it doesn’t smell like ass and ammonia.”
True. I had to give him that. It was a step up from the storage closet I’d given him and Griffin—or it would’ve been if there’d been a bed. There wasn’t. There wasn’t a couch, no futon, not a sign of a sleeping bag. There were only two chairs, a table, and enough gun oil and cleaning supplies to take care of the army and half of the marines. “This is your happy place, isn’t it, Kit?” I asked.
Griffin answered for him, “This is Zeke porn. I time him when he comes in here. Too long and I have to break out the fire extinguisher and cool him down.”
“That only happened once, and you weren’t supposed to tell anyone.” Zeke waited for a moment, then bumped his shoulder against mine. “That’s a joke, Trixa. It’s not as good as an explosion, but it’s supposed to cheer you up.”
With Eligos, Cronus, and the very probable enslavement of all worlds, I didn’t know there was anything that could. But that was wrong. That was human thinking, not trickster thinking. To the last second of our lives, the fast-talking last breath we took, we always thought we’d pull it off—pull something out of our hat . . . or our ass. And if we couldn’t? We’d laugh the whole way into the maw of death itself. That was the trickster way. That was my way and being human wasn’t going to change that in me. Nothing ever could.
I pinched his ribs. “Actually, it did and gave me a mental picture to share with Leo against his will. That’s almost worth being embarrassed by a demon. Now about that alcohol. Someone whip me up a margarita.”
But this was boys’ town, testosteroneville, and nary a margarita in sight. I made myself at home on a stool at their breakfast bar. It was ironic. I’d left the bar and yet my butt was still p
arked on a stool as Zeke peered in the refrigerator. “We have beer and . . . um . . . beer.”
I raised my eyebrows at Griffin. “Wine too.” He added, “I picked it out, not Zeke, so it’s in an actual bottle instead of a box.”
I slapped the bar. “What a salesman. Fill me up, sugar.” Contrary to what I’d said earlier, I didn’t want masses of alcohol. Now was no time to be fuzzy headed. All I was looking for was a sense of routine—unwinding, climbing into a bubble bath at the end of a long day with a glass of that non-box wine and relaxing.
Routine.
It bore repeating. I had thought that word and not as a curse. My mama would never let me forget it, if I were stupid enough to tell her . . . and my mama hadn’t raised an idiot. Embracing routine. Forced to exercise. Experiencing human pain, wildly erratic human emotion. I rested my forehead on the bar. It had taken a long time for me to get the news flash that I couldn’t turn being human into a cakewalk, but I’d finally gotten it. Sky and Earth, if I survived this, I didn’t have an inkling how I’d survive the next four years.
“Trixa?”
“I think I’m having a mid-trickster crisis,” I replied to Griffin, without lifting my head. “Ignore the meltdown and pour the wine.”
I didn’t melt down, as cathartic as that would’ve been. I waited for the wine and when it came, like a good little trickster/human, I straightened and got right back on the horse that had thrown me. In this case, life was the horse, and it had kicked me when I was down. It could kick all it wanted. I could be both human and not. I was the fox guarding the henhouse. Watch for the feathers in my grin. Hadn’t that always been true? Damn straight it had been. It didn’t stop me from draining the glass in two quick swallows, but I did feel better. Things were much more difficult than I’d planned for, but that was life . . . for everyone. I would make it work.
