by Rob Thurman
Griffin and Zeke were different. They had had seventeen years or so of living a life they thought human. Zeke mentioned girls. I’d seen Griffin on a date or two. They’d even flirted with me once in a while, but never seriously. None of it had seemed serious. Not the talk, not the dates. None of it.
Subconsciously I thought they always knew they were meant for each other. Two halves of a whole. Zeke needed a guide, the ultimate version of the summer camp buddy system. Griffin, the empath, needed to be needed—for the empath part of him and for the tiny molecule of his subconscious that knew he had thousands of lifetimes of inflicting pain and violence to make up for.
But despite the need on both sides, it was more than that. They just . . . fit. They may have spent seven years in a foster home together, but there was never a sense of brotherhood about them. Not the family kind. The battlefield kind, yes, but not the blood kind, not the emotional bonding of siblings. From day one they’d been partners and that could be a bonding as strong as a familial one. They’d been partners, were partners, would be partners—and now in every sense of the word. You couldn’t look at them and not see it. They belonged to each other like the rest of us belonged to the earth under our feet.
“So?” I prompted Zeke without remorse. I wasn’t too good to hear some nice juicy, mildly pornographic details. “Last night?”
Griffin sat up and cut us both off before I was able to hear anything interesting. “Zeke, I will take your Colt Anaconda and sell it on eBay. One more word about our sex lives and it’s done. Got it?”
Zeke frowned. “Fine. Grump.” He then turned his attention back to the rest of the bar regulars, because, after all, the two of them were regulars here as well. “So what I want to know is if anyone has a problem with this?” The Colt Anaconda Griffin had just threatened was laid on the table with a heavy thud and the steel of it wasn’t any colder than the steel of Zeke’s gaze.
And Zeke? Zeke did not bluff.
Most had shrugged and gone on, some never woke up to hear the announcement, but a few had opened their mouths with disgruntled, unhappy, or judgmental looks on their face. The Colt had every mouth shut and a few tequila shots bought for the happy couple. And they were happy. Zeke might not give a damn about anyone else in this world, with Leo and me as the exception proving the rule, but Griffin was everything to him. On his side, Griffin, who had not once considered Zeke a burden, for all the stolen grenades, dead robbers, beaten cab drivers, car wrecks beyond numbering, the eBay threatening and the final knocking of his head on the table in frustration, had far different emotions for Zeke behind the exasperation. He always had. You didn’t need to be an empath to read them either.
I took one shot that Leo delivered and knocked it back before saying, “An ex-angel and an ex-demon getting together in a same-sex relationship. Heaven and Hell sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Congratulations.” I raised another shot. “That sound you hear is the heads of moral conservatives spontaneously exploding in the distance.” Leo pulled another bottle and joined us.
“Félicitations.”
“Glückwünsche.”
“Congratulazioni.”
“Gelukwensen.”
“Ho‘olaule‘a.”
“L’chaim!”
By then the tequila was gone, but we clinked glasses anyway.
Griffin and Zeke took a cab back to their place. I had a feeling Eli would leave them alone as well as Leo and me—for a while at least. He’d seen what I did to those who hurt my brothers.
We booted out the remaining patrons, most of whom had a cab company on speed dial, and cleaned up the place. As I finished drying my hands, Leo waited and then offered me a gleaming raven feather. I remembered how Griffin had picked up the one that came from Zeke’s wings when we had been in the desert. He’d studied it with curiosity, awe, and wonder. Griffin turned his back on Hell and was now a man who could feel wonder. No one could say that wasn’t a miracle.
This feather was something entirely different. Well, maybe not. It had the touch of a miracle to it too. Under Leo’s patient eyes, I considered it for a moment, then took it. I stroked the sheen of it.
“We’re still too much alike,” I said with a reluctance that tugged sharply at me.
“I know.” He rested his hand on my stomach. It was warm, large, and familiar. I could actually enjoy the touch, let myself feel it in a way I’d never let Solomon reach me. There had been only pretense and trickery. It had been unpleasant, but I couldn’t kill him without proof. I needed proof to know he was the one. Otherwise I was only killing a demon with no certainty it was the one who’d taken Kimano away from me. But I never had to feel his touch again.
“You played him.” Leo who always knew what I was thinking—Leo moved until he was close enough that his breath stirred my hair and any thought of Solomon or his touch disappeared. “It was a thing of beauty.” For a trickster there was no higher turn-on than exceptionally well-done trickery.
“You did a convincing job yourself . . . of worried friend and cranky bird.” His hand moved to my back.
“Worried wasn’t that difficult.” I narrowed my eyes and he amended wryly, “Mildly worried. I know you’ve set the bar more than once for tricksters, but this was different. This was personal, the majority of it, and we’re all capable of being reckless when it’s personal, especially when it’s family.”
There was no denying that, and I didn’t as his hand stroked lower to the small of my back. “I knew it. You are so damn stubborn.” He sighed, feeling, I knew, the still-rough texture of the healing skin through my top. It was the road rash I’d received in the alley where Zeke had been wounded. That was what Leo had meant at Jeb’s wake in the desert when he’d said that I could make things easier on myself. I could’ve simply shifted form enough for my back to be healed. But Griffin might have picked up on the lack of pain, although it was unlikely, as concerned with his partner as he was. To be honest, that wasn’t the real reason. I’d lived as Trixa for long enough that I was Trixa. I wanted it all, the bad with the good. When my shape-changing abilities eventually returned, I thought I would still always be Trixa, no matter what I looked like. Just as Zeke and Griffin had been remade, so had I. And I liked it.
“What’s a scar or two?” I asked.
“The sign of a warrior.” He turned me around and bent to press his lips gently to the area between my shoulder blades. I felt the tingle of half pain, half pleasure. In other words, I felt life, because that was what living was. Pain and pleasure. “Or a trickster too distracted by personal vengeance to keep her eye on the ball.”
The enjoyable drift of anticipation that I’d fallen into disappeared instantly. “Is that a comment on my career competency?” I demanded as I turned back to face him.
“No, on the incredible depth of your ability to love.” He cupped my hand in his, the feather still cradled against my palm. “You’re right. We are still too much alike.”
“But?”
He smiled as I said it before he did. “But we might not always be. I’ve changed over the years. Same spots, as you’re always saying, but a different leopard underneath them. You’ve changed as well. You’re darker. You’ve lost. You’re not as cocky. You know now that things aren’t always as you thought they’d be. That the world still holds mystery and the unpredictable, even for us. Griffin and Zeke taught you that.”
He touched my jaw with callused fingers and kissed me, and it was all pleasure this time. No pain. No thought. Only the pressure of lips, the silk of tongue, the warmth of skin. Our first kiss, but it was as intimate as if we’d done it thousands of times before. It was like watching your favorite movie or reading your favorite book over and over and discovering something new. Something bright and dark, joyful and melancholy, all at once.
I was proud to be a trickster, but it was also good to be this—a silver point of light high and blazing in the apricot and violet morning sky, a moment that seemed as long as my life. Then the kiss ended; the morning star fel
l, as it always did. Leo carefully folded my fingers over the feather. “A token of my future esteem. Someday, if we’re ever less alike than more, give this back to me.”
Waiting was hard, not knowing for certain even more so. It could be years. It could be never. It could be the best thing that happened to me, but then again, Leo already was the best thing to happen to me. No matter if we changed or if we didn’t, that wouldn’t. Couldn’t. A book, written not that long ago from my perspective, said a wise thing. It applied to burning down demon nightclubs, to avenging brothers, and it applied now. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. So elegant, so true, that even a païen like me could appreciate it, embrace it. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. I broke a lifetime of habit to give that wise saying what it deserved.
Amen.
Amen.
About the Author
Rob, short for Robyn (yes, he is really a she) Thurman lives in Indiana, land of rolling hills and cows, deer, and wild turkeys. Many, many turkeys. She is also the author of the Cal Leandros series: Nightlife, Moonshine, Madhouse, and Deathwish; has a story in the anthology Wolfsbane and Mistletoe; and is the author of Trick of the Light, the first book in the Trickster series.
Besides wild, ravenous turkeys, she has a dog (if you don’t have a dog, how do you live?)—one hundred pounds of Siberian husky. He looks like a wolf, has paws the size of a person’s hand, ice blue eyes, teeth out of a Godzilla movie, and the ferocious habit of hiding under the kitchen table and peeing on himself when strangers come by. Fortunately, she has another dog that is a little more invested in keeping the food source alive. By the way, the dogs were adopted from shelters. They were fully grown, already house-trained, and grateful as hell. Think about it next time you’re looking for a Rover or Fluffy.
For updates, teasers, deleted scenes, and various other extras, visit the author at www.robthurman.netand at her LiveJournal.
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