Trick of the Light t-1

by Rob Thurman

  Trick of the Light

  ( Trickster - 1 )

  Rob Thurman

  Now you see it....Now you don't....Now you're history.

  There are demons in the world. Monsters. Creatures that would steal your soul. You might hide under your covers at night and pretend all's right with the world, but you know. Even if you don't want to admit it...

  Las Vegas bar owner Trixa Iktomi deals in information. And in a city where unholy creatures roam the neon night, information can mean life or death. Not that she has anything personal against demons. They can be sexy as hell, and they're great for getting the latest gossip. But they also steal human souls and thrive on chaos. So occasionally Trixa and her friends have to teach them some manners.

  When Trixa learns of a powerful artifact known as the Light of Life, she knows she's hit the jackpot. Both sides — angel and demon — would give anything for it. But first she has to find it. And as Heaven and Hell ready for an apocalyptic throwdown, Trixa must decide where her true loyalty lies — and what she's ready to fight for. Because in her world, if you line up on the wrong side, you pay with more than your life...

  Trick of the Light

  (The first book in the Trickster series)

  (2009)

  A novel by

  Rob Thurman

  To the real Leo.

  Thanks for letting me borrow your name.

  You will never be forgotten.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my mom—an ass-kicking woman in her own right. No demon would dare cross her path. I would also like to thank my evil twin, Shannon (your ability to not strangle me on a daily basis continues to amaze me); my patient editor, Anne Sowards; my infallible link to the publishing world, Cam Dufty; Brian McKay (the Once and Future King of copy writing); kind and wonderful author Charlaine Harris; Agent Jeff Thurman of the FBI for the usual weapons advice; the incomparable art and design team of Chris Mc-Grath (an art god) and Ray Lundgren; Jennifer Jackson; Tony Lopes for his weak negotiation skills in the matter of one Slimer; great and lasting friends Michael and Sarah-of-the-red-shoes; Mara—keep those books coming; and last but never least, my fans—all of you are what makes this worthwhile. And a special thanks to Marjorie Liu for her inspired assistance with the photo situation.

  Chapter 1

  To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. I’d read that in a book once, a fairly famous one. Right now I was going with the time of reaping. Fire had been sown and fire would be reaped. Now. By me, personally. Why?

  One: Fire burns. Fire destroys. Fire cleanses.

  Two: Fire drives up your insurance rates like crazy.

  Three: It was deserved. Oh yes, it was very much deserved.

  And how do I know this? A lot of ways, but mainly because I know there are demons in the world. Monsters. Creatures that would steal and eat your soul. Devils that would . . .

  Wait. You’ve heard this before, right? Seen the movies. Read the books. You might hide under your covers at night or avoid the deepest shadows of the darkest alleys and pretend all’s right with the world, but you know. I don’t need to tell you. I don’t need to show you the light . . . or the dark.

  You know.

  Like me, you know. Even if you don’t want to admit it.

  Chickenshit.

  But that’s okay. Since I knew, I could personally pitch a Molotov cocktail at a nightclub that sat halfway between the university and the Strip, an area otherwise and ironically called Paradise. No hiding under the covers for me. I knew about what hid in the dark all right, and there was nothing I enjoyed more, at least tonight, than watching some son of a bitch demon’s club burn to the ground. Demons in Paradise. Could they be any more smug?

  It was six a.m. and the club was empty. The last drunk had staggered out twenty minutes ago into the dark November morning. Frying patrons wasn’t on the agenda and a fire wouldn’t do the demon or his demon employees much harm even if they were standing in the middle of it, not if they changed from human form back to the genuine article fast enough, but I still enjoyed it. You get your kicks where you can.

  And this was a kick. I inhaled the fragrance of burning gasoline, felt the hot wind lift my hair, and the thud of the ground under my sneakers—my normal high-heeled boots were out for this one. I also felt the adrenaline squeeze my heart, pumping my blood faster and faster. Damn, I loved that feeling. I looked up at the sky, faintly orange because Vegas was never dark, fire or not. The neon made us a sun all our own. It was exhilarating: the smell of smoke and alcohol, the sound of shattering glass as the bottles smashed through windows, and the glorious red and yellow of leaping flames.

  “Beautiful,” I murmured, feeling the sear of heat against my face. It didn’t touch the heat of satisfaction inside me.

  “Not without its charm,” Griffin commented dryly next to me before turning and following me. “You and your hobbies, Trixa.”

  “Yeah, great. I’m hungry. Let’s go.” That would be Zeke. Griffin Reese and Zeke Hawkins, quite the pair. I wouldn’t say Zeke had a short attention span; he didn’t. But when a task was done, it was done, and what was the point of hanging around? Zeke was a born soldier at heart. I came. I saw. I kicked ass. What’s next? But it was a little more than that. Zeke was special, in more ways than one, which was why there was a Griffin. The Universe saw a need and filled it. Saw an imbalance and stabilized it. The Universe was good at that. Unless you wanted to get laid . . . then you were on your own. It was the downside of putting business before pleasure.

  But this was a pleasure too, and I was cheered as I stood at the side of two boys I’d watched grow to men and we watched the smoke billow. Family came in all shapes and sizes. It even sometimes showed up Dumpster diving outside your bar. Family also shared hobbies, but this little excursion was close to being over. Time to go. I turned and ran, vaulting over the low chain-link fence that surrounded the dirt and gravel vacant lot next to the club. Running across the street, I hopped over the door to Griffin’s car and into the backseat. He had an old convertible. I’d no idea what make. It was old, big as a tank, and with an engine that would’ve been better suited in a jet. It was great for fast getaways and even better for mowing down whatever unholy thing playing crossing guard might stand in the way of your escape.

  As the sirens began far away, I turned and pillowed my arms on the back of the seat, ignored the dig of a slight rip in the upholstery under my skin, and watched the fire recede into the distance. I didn’t ask them to put the top up in the fifty-degree weather. I loved the bite of chill air against my skin. And I didn’t need to look up front to know Griffin was driving. Zeke didn’t take to driving too well. If he wanted to go, he went. Red light? Stop sign? What did that have to do with anything when you were following a demon? Hell-spawn trumped traffic codes. Between his absolute attention on his goal and his black and white judgment, things—such as driving into a bus with painted strippers cavorting on the side—tended not to work out so well.

  Especially when the bus was full of German tourists in shorts so short that they required a Brazilian wax for the men as well as the women. There had been thighs as bountiful as baking bread, as wobbly as Jell-O, and as pitted as the surface of the moon. I still had flashbacks over that one, and all thanks to one of Zeke’s few attempts at taking the wheel.

  Zeke with his dark copper hair pulled back into a short, three-inch braid; eyes that were the green of the first leaf to bloom in the Garden of Eden; a scar on his neck that looked like someone had tried to cut his throat and half succeeded . . . No, Zeke wasn’t right. Not that he was wrong . . . just different. It wasn’t his fault. No damn way it was his fault. Whoever had borne Zeke had done him serious
damage. I think he knew right from wrong, but sometimes in doing right he went so far that wrong was just a kiss away. “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time” was more than Zeke’s philosophy. It was his very reason for being. And if the punishment far outweighed the cause, well, that was Zeke. He saw individuals and their actions in black and white only; gray didn’t exist for him. He simply couldn’t feel it, and he certainly didn’t see a point to it.

  And if he did slip into doing wrong while trying to do the opposite, he was sorry. Extremely sorry. Unlike most, he didn’t count himself exempt from his own code. So far Griffin had kept him from doing anything that would make him so sorry that he’d throw himself off a building. Then again, I didn’t know the story behind the scar on Zeke’s throat.

  Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe that was why I’d never asked.

  Griffin. Griffin was a good guy, much better than I was sure he knew. He wasn’t so much modest as . . . well, he simply didn’t know. The patience he had with Zeke, it would’ve put Mother Teresa to shame.

  He had thick, straight pale blond hair that fell just past the bottoms of his ears. He kept it parted in the middle and when he bowed his head, it hung like a curtain hiding blue eyes. Pacific blue, calm without a single wave to disturb the surface. He looked like a trashy romance novel’s version of an angel. Funny, considering the arson we’d just committed. Funny, considering a lot of things.

  Griffin the angel. I smiled to myself. Griffin the angel was Zeke’s guide dog, so to speak. Where Zeke was blind, Griffin could see just fine. You want to do this, but should you? And Zeke listened—and Zeke rarely ever listened to anyone. Griffin, always. Me . . . mostly. Leo . . . sometimes.

  Zeke listened to Griffin because they’d grown up in the same foster home. I doubted there were any picket fences or puppies or cupcakes. I doubted they had anyone but themselves and when that’s the case, you bond. Sometimes forever. They’d needed each other and they’d gotten each other. Things do work out for the best.

  Sometimes.

  I turned around and wrapped my arms around them as we passed stucco buildings with red roofs, my left arm along Griff’s shoulder and my right along Zeke’s. “You owe the Universe big.”

  Both snorted, but it was Griffin who asked why. I ignored the question and added, “You also owe me lots and lots of money for all those empty bottles you filled with gasoline.”

  He sputtered, “They were empty. You were just going to throw them away anyway.”

  “Not so.” I smiled, the flash of my teeth bright in the rearview mirror. “I recycle.”

  We went back to my tiny bar, Trixsta, located on Boulder Highway along with a few older rickety casinos and car lots. The FSE, the Fremont Street Experience—Vegas’s way of redoing the ailing and progressively sleazier and sleazier casinos, strip clubs, and trademark-Vegas neon signs of “Glitter Gulch” into a high-end pedestrian mall with light and sound shows, concerts, the works—that was all still far down the highway. It hadn’t made it close to my place. That was fine by me. I loved my little neck of the woods, so to speak. It was a tad run-down and tight with the locals, but it kept overhead to a minimum and random, lost tourists accidentally exposed to exploding demons to only one or two a year. My regulars were either passed out, had gotten on meds, or found a new bar when that sort of thing happened. They were happy. I was happy. What more could you want?

  Privacy in the bathroom, maybe.

  As I checked the mirror for smoke smudges on my face, a big hand opened the ladies’ room door—a bit rickety, but it still worked—and its owner took in my reflection. Dark gold skin, hair that fell in an outrageous mass of uncontrollable curls just past my shoulders. It was nowhere near elegant or perfectly styled. It was wild and untamed, and who was I to tell it to behave? It was also black with the occasional streak of dark bronze and rusty red. My eyes, with their Asian tilt, were an amber that was a shade lighter than the streaks in my hair. My nose, a little long, was pierced with a small ruby. I liked red. It tended to be the theme in my life. Neon was Vegas’s trademark and red was mine.

  With my hair, my eyes, my skin, I’d seen people squint in confusion as they tried to slap a label on me. People, my mama had once said, will be idiots. Not can be or might be, but will be. Sooner or later, every person alive will be an idiot about one thing or another. Trying to take the mystery out of something for sheer “had to know” obsession was one of those things.

  Let them be confused. I was everything. No one could pin me down, name me, or put me in a box, and I liked that too, even more than I liked red.

  “Iktomi, stop your primping and get out here.”

  “Problem, Leo?” I tucked a curl behind my ear. It promptly fought its way to freedom.

  There was a problem, I knew; otherwise Leo wouldn’t have stuck his nose—a nice hawklike nose it was too—into the bathroom.

  “Your demon is here,” he said gruffly.

  “Already?” I fished my lipstick, red with just a hint of copper, from the pocket of my black pants and applied it. It’d barely been twenty minutes. His place still had to be on fire. Couldn’t he stand around and make nice with the firemen? That was not to mention the arson inspector, whom I felt rather bad for. We were giving him some long working days, the poor guy. We’d burned the place down four times now. Maybe I’d send him a fruit basket and a nice card: Sorry for the overtime.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be out in a sec.” As the door shut, I touched the pendant around my neck. It was a teardrop of polished black stone on a gold chain. It cried when I couldn’t. “A long time, little brother. A long time gone. I miss you.” I raised it, kissed it lightly, then let it fall back into place and went back into the main bar. What there was of it.

  I was in the bar business, but I wasn’t into the bar business. It was temporary, like most things in my life. There’s always someplace else to go if you have to. Always something else to do. Although, this particular temporary had gone on for ten years now. I think that was an all-time record for me.

  It was small, with a few pool tables, a couple of dart-boards, some tables and chairs, old paneled walls, one TV above the bar—definitely not big-screen—and alcohol. That’s all I wanted or needed. I had this place, my apartment above, and I had purpose. What else would I need?

  Solomon stood at the bar. I’d always thought it was pretty ballsy of him to choose the name Solomon. There were rumors floating around in ye olden times that King Solomon had imprisoned demons to build his temple. How’d I know that? It wasn’t from Bible school—not that I didn’t know the Bible, several versions in fact, including the books a cranky pope had decided not worthy to be included. But it didn’t matter where I picked up the information; in this business it paid to pick up little scraps of factoids here and there, most in the nonbiblical realm. It kept a roof over my head, selling information just as I sold alcohol. And to keep myself busy while I wasn’t doing the first two, I dabbled in my hobby. I might not officially be in the demon-destroying business, but I dipped in a toe now and again. A toe, a shotgun—whatever it took. I liked to help my boys out.

  Zeke and Griffin stood motionless on either side of Solomon. Griffin’s face was blank; Zeke’s was not. It would’ve been better had it been. They did know not to cause trouble in my place if they could help it. They were welcome, always, but fights and cops and ambulances weren’t. Besides, the general public was standing around. You couldn’t kill a demon right here in front of You-know-who and everyone . . . not unless you absolutely had to.

  My boys—and they were my boys since I’d given them their first jobs at fifteen and seventeen, sweeping up the place and taking out the trash—knew the rules and stepped back as I walked up. They were twenty-five and twenty-seven now, all grown-up and a demon’s worst nightmare. Me? I’d come to Las Vegas ten years ago when I was twenty-one. Griff and Zeke had wondered back when I’d hired them how I’d been able to afford to buy a bar at that age. I could’ve told them I inherited it from my fa
ther or mother or great-uncle Joe, but I told them the truth.

  Lying and cheating.

  I wasn’t ashamed. Far from it. I deceived only those who deserved it, and you’d be amazed how many did. Then again, if you were smart and kept your eyes open, you might not be so surprised after all. And that held true for everywhere, not just in Sin City. Bad guys were fair game and the one in front of me was rumored to be the worst in town. A bit of an occupational hazard when you’re a demon, being bad. Like a steering wheel on a car, you didn’t have to pay extra for it—it was part of the package.

  “Trixa Iktomi,” Solomon said with the warmest of smiles. Solomon, whom I’d made it my business to know, had been in Vegas as long as, if not longer than, I, and knew how to sling the bullshit or to turn on the charm, if you preferred the more elegant term. Whichever you called it, it had the same result—a woman hanging on his every word. “My sweet Trixa. Do I detect the faintest smell of smoke? A new scented shampoo, perhaps?”

  I could’ve said something like, “Yes, it’s a new perfume. Everyone’s dying for it.”

  Please.

  I’m not that woman and I never will be. I wasn’t that trite, and I wasn’t playing his games. Any I played would be my own. “Actually, it’s the smell of an asshole’s burning nightclub,” I remarked pleasantly. “Thanks for noticing.” I didn’t have the cleanest mouth, but I blamed it on Zeke. I was working on it though. Self-improvement was one of my many goals. One day I planned on getting around to a few of them. I motioned to Leo to pour me and the asshole two shots of tequila with beer backs.

  Solomon, as I’d made very clear, was an asshole, but a sexy one. Short black hair with a faint widow’s peak, a slightly cleft chin, broad shoulders, good height, and full, Latin lips that got me every time. He was dressed in a simple gray shirt, black slacks, and a black leather jacket.