Trick of the Light Read Online Free PDF Page A

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