“Sometimes an artist needs recognition of his work. Past or not,” he said complacently as his hand moved in a brisk slapping motion toward my ass. The ill temper on my face darkened into something that would’ve blown Galileo’s heart to pieces just like that metaphorical hand grenade and destroyed everything else within a fifty-mile range.
Leo let his hand drop casually as if it had been a joke all along and he would never possibly ever consider slapping me on the ass no matter how frisky he was feeling. Men. Gods. Or a mixture of the two. All the same. “Remembering the bad old days get you a little worked up there?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Just don’t forget why everyone who knows you or has heard of you or done a book report on you calls them the bad old days, all right?”
He grunted and fetched another towel to help me. “I won’t forget. I won’t go back. You know that.”
“I do,” I said, and smacked him on the butt instead. And I did know. I had more faith in Leo than anyone in the world except my mama. The two of them tied.
“And I didn’t boil an ocean.” He used the towel to return the favor, locker-room style, before finishing up the crumbs on the floor. “It was a lake. A very large lake, granted, but just a lake. And despite my past lake-boiling abilities, I don’t know what we’re supposed to glean from “sickle.” Knowing Galileo, he most likely wanted a Popsicle to satisfy his sweet tooth before he shuffled off his mortal coil. Assuming there is anyone or anything large enough to shuffle that mass off anywhere.”
“If he did mean death,” I groaned, and sat down in Galileo’s vacated chair. It was still warm. It was also still in one piece. Amazing. “That could be almost anyone or anything on my list. How many are on your list?”
“Mmm. About ten. The same as are on your list, only I was capable of putting mine in alphabetical order.” He sat too as another of our regulars wandered in out of the afternoon light. Leo jerked his thumb at the bar. “Help yourself.” That was also fairly regular around here. Our customers didn’t cheat us, not our regulars. They didn’t have to be psychic like Galileo to know better; they just knew . . . like a rabbit knows to hold still in the grass when the hawk soars overhead. Bunnies liked to fuck, but bunnies did not like to be fucked up. Our regulars were as smart as those rabbits . . . almost. They paid their tabs promptly and never eavesdropped. Everyone had an agenda. They were perfectly happy with theirs: alcoholic oblivion.
“Leave me alone,” I said crossly. “I don’t like A’s.” One time, the closest time that I was almost eaten, it was by an A. It was embarrassing. And not a little terrifying, as much as I hated to admit that anything could terrify me—me, Trixa, badass trickster. But if you don’t admit to the truth, then you end up as something’s lunch and that beat embarrassing every time.
There were things bigger and badder than me out there. Even some demons, despite how I spelled out the ranking. Regular demons no, but there were demons in Hell so horrific they couldn’t come to Earth without destroying the ground beneath them and setting fire to the air they breathed. If Heaven had gotten one thing right, it was keeping them and Lucifer in Hell for eternity, because they were part of Hell itself. Embedded in it, one with their prison, there was no escape for their kind.
Technically that made me correct in my ranking . . . tricksters outranked demons; reading the fine print wasn’t necessary. But there were creatures on Earth, païen creatures, creatures that began with an A, that could put an end to me, a very unpleasant end—to me and nine hundred demons. Unlike demons, however, they were completely mad, and while there weren’t as many as there had been, it didn’t matter. As long as there was one left and that one came for you, you ran until you couldn’t run any farther. I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t go out without a fight, but some fights you can’t win . . . and that’s why you run and why you don’t put your list in Leo’s anal-retentive alphabetic order because A’s were a bad letter. They deserved to be on the bottom of the list or, better yet, on the back of the list where you didn’t have to look at the name.
I wrapped my finger in the gold chain of my necklace. “In fact, let’s just assume it’s not the A one, because if it is, there’s nothing we can do about it and if they want to eat demons, better demons than us.”
Leo took my other hand, rubbed his thumb across the back of it, and said with absolute belief, “It’s not them.”
I nodded. “No, it’s not.” I clasped his hand hard. “So let’s take a look at the other nasties.”
“And none of them tried to eat you?” Leo asked with an affectionate humor that had me pinching the nerve in his hand instead of just holding it. “With your sparkling personality and gentle easygoing nature? You’re sure?”
“I didn’t say that. And one does have a scar in an area he might have been fond of at one time, but him I can handle. And I do sparkle. Shine like the sun, the moon, the stars, and every silver or gold coin I stole in the good old days.” I smiled, good mood restored, because it still was the good old days for me. Leo had changed his ways, but mine didn’t need changing.
We ended up laughing about long-past adventures as we made our way down that list. It made it easier. It balanced it out. Bad guy, good memory. Very bad guy, very good memory. Even worse guy, memories with huge gaping holes thanks to the massive amounts of wine we’d drunk that particular time.
Then suddenly closing time had come and the only progress we’d made was to have a good time reminiscing. But in my book, having a good time is the best progress you can make in almost any situation. Leo went home and I went upstairs to my apartment. I undressed, slipped into my favorite silk pajamas, brushed my teeth, and slept with all those memories swirling in bright colors. Wonderful dreams. Wonderful night.
All the better to make the morning even worse in comparison.
Chapter 4
Roses are red.
Sometimes.
The one was, and it was beautiful, starting at the bottom with the pure deep crimson that was almost black, the red of the setting sun disappearing into twilight. The petals then gradually lightened to a vivid deep red the exact color of freshly spilled blood. The flower wasn’t full-blown, but a curve of a fresh bud not yet realizing its potential. Curves were good. I liked curves, whether on myself, because a woman should have curves, or in the impossible-to-follow swerves and convolutions of what passed for the thought processes of the male species. Males trying to wrap their minds around a concept that didn’t involve a football or pulling a trigger. They were cute that way, like homicidal puppies. Curves of the body and curves of the mind.
As for color . . .
Red was my favorite. Red like fire, a little arson warmed a girl’s heart. But what was tied around the rose pulled away your attention too fast to dwell on the color.
I should’ve enjoyed the rose. Most women like flowers, right? I should’ve put it in a vase filled with water. After all, red was more than my favorite; it was my signature, how I signed my work as a trickster. What was wrapped around the rose was the same sort of thing . . . only a preemptive version.
Less of a “Gotcha” and more of a “Here I come, ready or not.”
We were in no way ready for this.
So it was at eight, for once not sleeping in, that I stood and stared at the rose lying on the scarred and stained surface of my bar. Help me, Earth, Sun, and Sky. What were we going to do now?
I continued to stare at the rose, was utterly ignored by the Earth, Sun, and Sky, and finally decided to put it in a vase after all. I filled one from beneath the sink and carefully picked up the flower by its green stem. That same stem was wrapped in that black silk ribbon with an absolutely perfect bow. I made sure the material didn’t touch the water. This was someone I did not want to insult, piss off, or even slightly annoy with the slightest hint of disrespect. One trailing black end of the glossy material was embossed with gold lettering. Only a few letters, a calling card if you will. It read KPONYΣ.