Trick of the Light

by Thurman, Rob

  But regardless, hear about and see enough demons over the years and you knew one when you saw it. You didn’t need any fancy, psychic empath abilities. You just knew. The blinding good looks, the waves of unnatural charm they put off, the sly glint in their eyes . . . the scales and tail tended to tip you off as well, when they were caught.

  Like now.

  Suddenly the human form under their hands flickered. It was trying to go back to Hell, but it couldn’t. When a demon was physically anchored to this world, it was stuck and it couldn’t take you to Hell with it unless you’d consented, sold your soul. At least Heaven had given humans that one advantage when it had tossed the rebels to the pit. That and an age limit on selling what God gave you. More of a maturity level really. One didn’t want little Billy selling his soul to go to Disney World.

  When escaping didn’t work, the demon shifted to its true form. Serpentine with thrashing wings and tail, it was patterned like a rattlesnake, but in swamp green and dull black. It opened its mouth and hissed, showing jagged teeth of dirty glass, but nowhere as brittle. “Pathetic, motherfucking humans,” it snarled. “Death is what—”

  I stuck the single-barreled shotgun, a Remington and a beauty, under its pointed jaw and pulled the trigger. The slug changed a snake skull into something a little more avant-garde. Black blood flew, splattering Zeke and Griffin on their faces, necks, and chests. “Trixa.” Griffin groaned. I had ruined his gray-blue silk shirt and fawn-colored ostrich skin jacket. When Eden House had hired him away from sweeping my floors, there’d been a definite increase in salary. And it showed. The man liked his clothes.

  “Sorry,” I said with utter insincerity as I pumped another slug into place. You never knew. Demons were tough, but they could be killed in their physical form, human or demon, if you used the proper tools and aimed at the vulnerable area, the head—or the brain or whatever passed for it in a demon. You could rip the rest of them to pieces, but they’d keep coming. “But that’s my mama he was talking about. And that I will not put up with.” Not that my mother wouldn’t laugh at the thought of me protecting her “good” name. “And you know Elvis wouldn’t talk about his mama that way either,” I finished.

  “That was too quick. Let’s go find another,” Zeke said as the body by his knees melted away to the next best thing to an oil slick. It spread across the cracked gray asphalt, staining it a permanent black.

  “Think again, workaholic. Time to go home.” Griffin stood, spread his arms to take in the mess, and frowned. “Safety on.” It was Griffin’s way of telling Zeke he was serious. Zeke could go literally forever once he started something—at least until he keeled over from exhaustion or dehydration. And if he started on a demon hunt in an unsatisfied state of mind, he would do it. He was a gun that would fire until the ammunition ran out.

  Unless . . .

  “Safety on,” Zeke echoed with a sigh, dissatisfied but cooperative. Then he took in Griffin, who looked as if a bucket of black paint had been tossed on him. This grin was different from the one for the demon. This one was genuine. It softened the too-lean face, lightened the green of his eyes, and relaxed the scowl of dark red-brown brows. “That’s gonna cost you.”

  Griffin gave a scowl of his own, but it wasn’t a serious one. Zeke’s smiles were rare. It had taken him so long to actually learn how that not I, not Leo, and especially not Griffin could give him hell for it. Simply couldn’t.

  Griffin turned to look at me, and I tossed him his shotgun and waved my fingers. “Better get out of here in case someone actually calls the cops this time.”

  “You’re not paying for this, I take it,” he said, resigned.

  “Sugar, you’re so cute when you joke around like that.” I patted his cheek.

  The night was more or less over anyway. I let Leo close up and went to my apartment above the bar. It was basic as they came: one room—a bedroom and a bathroom combined with a big bed and a huge claw-foot tub. But basic is good. I don’t cook. And I don’t mean I don’t like to cook. I flat out do not cook, so I didn’t need a kitchen. Food was meant to be bought already prepared. Takeout was the single highest accomplishment of modern civilization.

  My bed was waiting. On its headboard, carved in Mexico, animals prowled back and forth: leopards, foxes, wolves, coyotes, birds—all painted as bright and bold as you could get. In the sink by the tub, I brushed my teeth, stripped off my makeup, then touched the teardrop around my neck, and finally I cried. I cried every day for my brother. My overall family wasn’t that big, and the immediate family was even smaller. With my brother gone, a third of my family went with him. When he had been killed and left in the bloody sand, he’d taken a third of my world with him.

  I gave it only a few minutes: There was mourning and there was wallowing. And wallowing wasn’t going to help do what had to be done, was it?

  Dressed in my Rugby shirt and panties (it didn’t feel like a silk night), I climbed under the red bedspread and turned off the bedside light. I’d only dozed off when I had a feeling, smelled spice, and then the springs of the mattress gave under a warm weight that straddled my hips. I heard the soft, dark words, “I want to touch you so badly. Your bare skin, the silk of your hair . . . ,” as I reached down, pulled my shotgun from beneath the mattress, and had it jammed under Solomon’s jaw in less than three seconds. I could see his shadowed eyes in the light from the street that seeped through the blinds.

  This was why I’d kept my favored silk sleepwear in the drawer tonight: Solomon and his games. I’d suspected he wasn’t done when he’d left the bar.

  “I don’t know what chick flick you stole that from, but you deserve your money back,” I said as I pulled back the hammer.

  “Not a good time, then, I take it?” he asked with amused gravity.

  The steel of the trigger was as cool against my finger as the sheets were against my skin. “An absolutely perfect time,” I disagreed with dark cheer. He was shirt-less, but at least he was wearing pants. If he hadn’t been, I think he knew I would’ve blown his head off right then and there.

  “So stubborn. Pity.” The corner of his mouth quirked up and although he didn’t move, the weight of him seemed even heavier and far more intimate. Then he shimmered out of existence.

  His chest had been as lightly furred as I thought it’d be, and broad. Did demons have some sort of hot-male-body catalogue to choose from? Snorting at myself, I replaced the gun after easing the hammer back down and turned over on my stomach. Solomon could put on any face or body he wanted—I’d never forget what was on the inside. I wouldn’t let myself. This time I went instantly to sleep. And I had dreams. . . .

  Not the kind you’d think.

  I dreamed of blue-green water, black sand, and blood.

  So much blood.

  More than anyone could hope to live without.

  Chapter 2

  Morning was slow. I liked it that way. I could run errands if I wanted or go back upstairs and sleep in late . . . if Leo didn’t bitch too much. Right now he was too busy with two tourists from the pasty East. How they’d wandered into this part of town, I hadn’t a clue. This was definitely off the tourists’ beaten track.

  “I’ve never met an American Indian before,” the first chirped. She was a chirpy kind. Wavy red hair, freckles, round blue eyes, and skin whiter than snow. “What’s your Native American name?”

  Leo’s dark eyes looked down the bar at me, literally pleading for help. I propped my chin in my hand, winked, and watched the show. Exhaling, he said with perfect seriousness, “Leo Thrusting Moose Phallus.”

  That was a new one. I liked it. You wish, I mouthed, but held up nine fingers out of ten for scoring. In the past there had been Leo Constipated Elk, Leo Maker of Warm Yellow Water, Leo Mounter of Unwilling Dogs, and whatever idiots actually remained after one of those were treated courteously with the name of his tribe when they asked: the Tribe of None of Your Fucking Business.

  These two weren’t that stupid. They were already headed
for the door. Despite his hawk nose, lightly copper skin, and black hair that hung to his waist, all of which made Leo one fine-looking man, he’d tired a long time ago of the tourists’ American Indian fascination. Shaking his head in disgust, he tossed a towel over his shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute or two later Lenore came flapping about and posted on his roost anchored to the bar.

  “I’ve never figured out how you get away with him when the health inspector ’s around.” Griffin, my usual late-breakfast crowd, moved up and sat on a stool in a blue shirt, some horrifically expensive brand naturally, and artfully faded jeans.

  “Ah. Then watch this.” I looked at Lenore. “Health inspector, Lenore.”

  Immediately the raven froze, dark eyes glassy, chest unmoving. Then he slowly pitched forward until he hung upside down from the perch, possibly the dead est stuffed bird ever seen.

  Griffin gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed. He never did that when we worked here.”

  “Yes, he did. Lenore’s special. He’s been around a long, long time.” And then some. Doing tricks was the very least of his repertoire. “He’s an old fart.”

  I tapped him on his back and he sprang back up, pecking me on the hand in outrage, and cawing, “Nevermore, ass-wipe. Nevermore.”

  “You just didn’t stick around long enough to see his little trick then,” I went on, stepping back out of beak range. “You and Zeke were still not precisely seeing eye to eye with the local authorities yourself. You’d be hiding in the back. And watch the language, Lenore.” If I could give it a shot, so could he.

  I’d known what Griffin and Zeke were the minute I caught them loitering in my alley, ready to scour the Dumpster for food. They were homeless when I hired them, and just . . . lost—lost as you can get. I’d given them the job of keeping the storage rooms cleaned up and pretended I didn’t know they slept there—two kids with two changes of clothes and literally nothing else. We didn’t serve real food at Trixsta, but we served bar food—anything fried with cheese—and I let them eat free and take what was left over at the end of the night. And I’d run them over to the diner to fetch supper for Leo and me every night. Four meals instead of just two—Zeke simply ate his and didn’t wonder why I did this. Griffin wondered, wanted me to take it out of the money I paid them, but gave up when I scowled and threatened him with bathroom puke duty every night. After that he just worked harder and mooned after me like a puppy for a few months. It was cute and at least he didn’t piddle on the floor.

  “You never asked back then.” He picked up a glossy black feather that had fallen to the bar. No more the teenager with a crush. He was a man now and a good one. I liked to think I had something to do with that. “What we were running from.”

  “At first it wasn’t my business.” Or rather, they didn’t want it to be my business. I started scooping the ice into the bins. “And later I figured it out. Zeke.”

  The blue eyes darkened. “The social workers told those goddamn foster parents to watch him. Told them to never leave him alone. I should’ve known better than to think they actually listened. I should’ve been there.” He shook away the guilt, at least the visible kind. “They never cared about us and they especially never cared about what Zeke needed.” He dropped the feather. It twisted once in the air before drifting down. “And don’t ask me what happened, all right? Don’t.”

  “I won’t.” I’d just wait until the time came. I picked the feather back up and handed it to him. “Keep the feather. Raven feathers are good luck.”

  “Like that?” He reached forward and lightly touched the teardrop around my neck. “Is that good luck?”

  “No.” The roughness of Griffin’s combat-worn skin was an interesting sensation on my neck and his serious expression almost irresistible. Almost. Nothing had yet been able to let me forget they were anything but boys I’d all but raised for a few years, no matter what their ages now. Four or five years can be nothing, or it can be all the difference in the world.

  Plus . . . well . . . I smiled to myself, then moved his hand away.

  “Not luck,” I continued, giving the ice a break as Lenore sidled over to sit on my shoulder. “It’s a Pele’s tear from Hawaii. Lava that solidifies into the shape of a drop or tear, named for the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes.”

  “So you’ve been to Hawaii?” he asked curiously.

  “Once or twice. I wear it for my brother.” Lenore moved back to his roost and tucked his head under his wing. He picked up the emotion in my voice easily enough. So did Griffin.

  “A brother,” he said slowly. What he meant was, “You had a brother,” had not have, but he didn’t want to come out and say that, did he?

  I said it for him. “That’s right. I had a brother.” End of topic as I closed my lips tightly and went back to shoveling ice with a vengeance.

  Griffin turned the feather in his fingers, looking for a painless way out. Painless for me. “So you’ve been to Hawaii, but you never lived there? You’re not part Hawaiian, Trixa?”

  That did make me laugh. “Look at me, Griff. I’m part everything.” I untied the apron around my waist. “Watch the bar for me, would you? Just until Leo gets back.”

  Good-naturedly, especially for a demon killer, he moved behind the bar. “You really are going to give that bird a complex calling him a girl’s name.”

  I shrugged and smiled. “What else are you going to call a raven? Edgar Allan Poe? It’s a little long. But you can call him Lenny if it has your testosterone in an uproar.”

  He snorted, “I’ve noticed Leo and Lenny are never around at the same time. What are they? Superman and Clark Kent?”

  I shoved some money into my jeans pocket and figured my light sweater would do for a sunny November day; it was probably in the high sixties. “There was an incident. Bird crap, vacuum cleaner retaliation. It wasn’t a pretty sight. They tend to avoid each other now, which is probably for the best.” I gave him a quick wave and was gone. I had errands to do and it was a perfect blue-sky morning to do them. I took my car, blazing red as I liked most things in my life—red my favorite color and blazing my favorite philosophy—and drove slowly past the still-smoldering nightclub. I lowered the window to catch a whiff of smoke. A floating memory in the air. Talk about warming your heart.

  I did the rest of my chores in a few hours and was back at the bar with four grocery bags of frozen mini-pizzas, potato skins, and fried cheese of varied colors. Lenore was gone, and Leo and Griffin were watching the small TV mounted over the bar. The rest of the bar was empty except for one guy dozing at a corner table.

  “What’s up? Did they vote another demon into office?” I demanded, putting the bags down with a loud thunk that said, Thanks so much for the help. “Not that they do much worse than humans sometimes.”

  “No, someone was eaten at the zoo,” Griffin said absently, still watching. “At least, the vast majority of him was eaten.”

  I wasn’t a fan of the zoo. I didn’t like to see animals locked up, but I’d been on occasion. The TV was showing a security tape of a little girl, maybe four, sitting on a bench by herself. She had long, light brown hair, melancholy dark brown eyes that could break your heart, and was dressed in a yellow top, pants, and matching tennies, with a red balloon in her hand. Now, wasn’t that a coincidence. She liked red too, and she watched the balloon float in the air with those wide, wistful eyes. If her parents were around, they didn’t show up. The only immediate adult was a man with a leash and empty collar in his hands. He had a friendly smile, light jacket, and oh . . . how sad . . . you didn’t have to hear the words to know what he was saying. I’ve lost my puppy, sweetie. I’ll bet she’s so scared. Could you help me find her?

  Never mind he couldn’t smuggle a puppy into a zoo and not be seen at some point. But a leash and empty collar fit right in your pocket.

  The little girl looked around and static started to fuzz the video. She bit her thumb, smiled back shyly, and held out her hand. Then it was nothing but
static.

  “Wait until you see this.” Zeke had joined us at some point. He must have shown up after I left and he didn’t look too unhappy. In fact he looked pretty cheerful. Zeke’s sense of humor—such as he had—tended to tilt toward the dark end of the spectrum. “I saw it earlier. It’s good stuff.”

  When the static cleared, the video had switched to another part of the zoo. You could hear screaming—throat-rending screaming—see running zoo personnel, and hear the howls of wolves looking for who had invaded their pen.

  It seemed a man had been looking for his puppy and now a whole pack of puppies was looking for him. Apparently they found him too. When the zoo personnel were able to recover his remains, what few there were, he was identified as one Richard Charles Hubbins Jr.—a multiply convicted pedophile. No one was going to be shedding tears over him.

  I tucked a wild strand of hair behind my ear and started unpacking the bags with a warm sense of satisfaction. “I have to say I love it when a pervert gets what’s coming to him. And the puppies got a nice treat too. It’s a win-win.”

  There was one last security shot of the empty bench with the red balloon tied to the armrest. Bright and shiny in the sun, it swayed lightly as if waving at the camera. The police never found the girl or her parents but were asking that they step forward to give statements.

  “What kind of statement do they need?” Zeke snorted. “He made a good chew toy?” Zeke wasn’t into clothes like his partner. Black on black was good enough for him, but today he was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. A completely no-name brand; the jeans probably came from the thrift store. Zeke didn’t care much about all the money Eden House paid. He didn’t care much about material things period. Just killing demons, drinking beer, and beating Griff at pool. Well . . . and guns. He did like guns.

  “They’re probably curious to know who tossed the son of a bitch into the wolf pen.” Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t just at the zoo, were you?”