Trick of the Light Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  Praise for the Novels of Rob Thurman

  Trick of the Light

  “Rob Thurman’s new series has all the great elements I’ve come to expect from this writer: an engaging pro tagonist, fast-paced adventure, a touch of sensuality, and a surprise twist that’ll make you blink.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris

  Madhouse

  “Thurman continues to deliver strong tales of dark urban fantasy. . . . Fans of street-level urban fantasy will enjoy this new novel greatly.”

  —SFRevu

  “I think if you love the Winchester boys of Supernatural , there’s a good chance you will love the Leandros brothers of Thurman’s books. . . . One of Madhouse’s strengths is Cal’s narrative voice, which is never anything less than sardonic. Another strength is the dialogue, which is just as sharp and, depending on your sense of humor, hysterical.”

  —Dear Author . . .

  “A fast-paced and exciting novel . . . fans of urban fantasy will love this series.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “If you enjoyed the first two wisecracking urban adventures, you won’t be disappointed with this one; it has just enough action, angst, sarcasm, mystery, mayhem, and murder to keep you turning the pages to the very end.”

  —BookSpot Central

  Moonshine

  “[Cal and Niko] are back and better than ever . . . a fast-paced story full of action.”

  —SFRevu

  “A strong second volume . . . Cal continues to be a wonderful narrator, and his perspective on the world is one of the highlights of this book. . . . The plotting is tight and fast-paced, and the world building is top-notch.”

  —Romantic Times

  Nightlife

  “A roaring roller coaster of a read . . . [it’ll] take your breath away. Supernatural highs and lows, and a hell of a lean over at the corners. Sharp and sardonic, mischievous and mysterious. . . . The truth is Out There, and it’s not very pretty.”

  —Simon R. Green

  “A strong first novel.”

  —SFRevu

  “Cal’s a sarcastic, sardonic narrator who pulls the reader into his world, both the good and the bad. Tightly plotted and fast-paced . . . full of twists and turns.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A subtly warped world compellingly built by Thurman. . . . This book has an absolutely marvelous voice in Cal’s first-person narrative. The combination of Chandleresque detective dialogue and a lyrically noir style of description is stunningly original.”

  —The Green Man Review

  “A damn fine book, and excellent first effort.”

  —Rambles

  “Gripping, fast-paced fantasy.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Engaging. . . . The characters are well-drawn and memorable.”

  —Italics

  ALSO BY ROB THURMAN

  Nightlife

  Moonshine

  Madhouse

  Deathwish

  “Milk and Cookies”

  in Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, September 2009

  eISBN : 978-1-101-13622-5

  Copyright © Robyn Thurman, 2009

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author ’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  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 st
ill 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.