Trick Of The Light Part 3

I ignored the excuse. True or not, it was still an excuse. Zeke could've taken him out without killing him. He . . . I gave an internal sigh and let the ire drain away. No. He couldn't have. He was Zeke, it had happened too fast for him to think it through, and Griffin had been just a moment too late this time. It was a done deal. Now we just had to deal with it.

"You." I shoved Zeke into the nearest chair, but without any real force. "You have a conceal and carry, right?" I was almost positive he did. Eden House liked to avoid trouble as much as possible, and on occasion there was some collateral damage while demon hunting. Shouldn't be, but there was. Eden House or not, the demon chasers were human. They made mistakes or accidents happened. Either way, they could plant guns, knives-h.e.l.l, samurai swords-on the innocent in seconds to get their own off, if that's what it took.

I didn't wait for his reply. I started to reach for Griffin to give him a shove toward Zeke, but he was already there. "Coach him on what to say," I said, "and how to say it, quick, before the cops get here." The how to say it was just as important as the what.

"The rest of you." I took in the room of my regulars with a swing of a pointed finger, short nail frosted red. "You are literally on your hands and knees in relief. This man saved your life. That psycho son of a b.i.t.c.h was going to kill every last one of you for the pennies in your pockets. And he may have mentioned doing things to your dead bodies. Bad things. Really, really bad. You're too scared to remember." Eyes blinked, a mouth or two gaped, and I repeated it a little more loudly, "Literally on your knees."

Chairs tipped over. Pool cues dropped to the floor and my grand total of seven clients went down with them.

By the time the cops got there, Zeke had his Glock on a table and his head in his hands. "He made me," he said with a fair imitation of shock. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't back down. He was going to kill everyone. Swear to G.o.d. Everyone."

It went on an hour or so there as someone came to drag off the carca.s.s in a nice black plastic bag. The cupful of brains they left on the floor. Oh, they took a small sample, but the rest . . . oatmeal gone bad and it was seeping into my ancient wood floor. I had Leo out with a mop and some bleach, but the floors were old and cracked. We'd be spraying that spot with a good shot of potpourri deodorizer every morning for a while.

They took Zeke to the police station for the paperwork. Griffin went with him as his "lawyer friend." No, Griffin wasn't a lawyer. I wasn't quite sure what they were taught when Eden House took them in and trained them, but they were as educated as any college grad. Better yet, they had enough fake ID to walk into the White House, get a Twinkie from the vending machine in the bas.e.m.e.nt, then high-five the Secret Service on their way out. If Griffin told a cop he was a lawyer, I knew he'd backed it up with something.

Zeke had still been doing a good job as he left. You would've thought he actually gave a s.h.i.t about blowing that guy's head off. The guy was a killer; the guy had a gun; the guy went down. It was Zeke's philosophy about this entire situation, but let a cop see that and, justified or not, he would look at Zeke a little more closely . . . maybe for a long time.

But Griffin had run over it with him a few times before the sirens approached. "You're upset. Yes, he was going to kill you, but you've never killed anyone before. You're shaken up. And throw in a 's.h.i.t, why'd we have to pick this bar? Why didn't we go down the street?' "

Zeke repeated it faithfully under his breath, and d.a.m.n if he didn't actually look almost distressed when the first cop arrived. Ten years ago, he would've killed the guy, stepped over his body to the bar, ordered a beer, and been unable to fake a twinge. Of course, ten years ago he was fifteen and wouldn't have been served, but the point was the same. And inside he was still the same as he'd been ten years ago; he'd just learned to fake it.

Like I said, I thought he knew right from wrong. No, that wasn't true. I knew he knew right from wrong, but he knew it in such a black and white manner-the results often ended up the same as if he didn't. Lack of the gray areas . . . it made for Old Testament justice.

"Hey, whatcha doing? Milking your goat on the Sabbath? Really. Now, where's that nice round rock I'm going to stone you with?" Five minutes later, "By the way, you won't be needing that goat anymore, will you?"

Too bad I didn't need a goat.

Exaggerated, all right, a little. Even with his issues, Zeke wasn't that black and white. Although I was amazed with his problems that Zeke had been able to attach to Leo and me. As for Griffin-it was just a given, as I'd thought before . . . the Universe. They were two halves of a deadly whole. Zeke needed Griffin and Griffin needed Zeke. Griffin needed to take care of someone. He was a fixer. Wanted to fix, had to. Was it the way he grew up in foster care, surrounded by the weaker kids? A common-sense answer, but was it the right one?

Apparently Zeke's acting lessons paid off, because four hours later, Griffin called and said tiredly, "It's over. There will be more paperwork and a token appearance in court, but everyone is agreed it's justifiable."

"He held up good, then." I'd finished painting my toenails and was now cleaning the Smith. Both were bright and sparkly.

Deadly too.

"He did good. One cop almost had him slipping, but he caught himself. He's come a long way, you know?"

I loaded the gun silently.

He hesitated. "All right. He hasn't, but he can pretend now and that's more than he could do before."

I slammed the cylinder home and said quietly, "It's not his fault he's the way he is. It's not your fault either, Griffin. You've saved him. If you hadn't been fostered with him for those years, he wouldn't have survived. He certainly wouldn't be free." From what Griffin had insinuated about the seriousness of what had happened when Zeke was fifteen, Zeke would be locked up somewhere. Still.

"Don't be ashamed of him, Griffin," I went on, and put the gun on the table. "That only makes me ashamed of you."

His voice went dark. "I'm not ashamed. No one else could've survived what he has. No one else could learn to function like he has."

I pulled the ponytail holder from the top of my hair and let my hair fall haphazardly around my shoulders. "Then be proud. Of yourself. You're mostly responsible for that." I disconnected and left him with that thought. Two seconds later I cursed myself. I'd forgotten to ask if they'd blown up a demon or an iguana earlier today. I hovered a hand over the phone, then let it go. One day my curiosity truly was going to be the death of me.

The next day I felt like death would be a relief.

The bar was closed. It closed every year on the same day: the anniversary of Kimano's death. Zeke and Griffin had asked a few times why the closing. They'd never gotten an answer and finally gave up. Message received: Private, so don't come knocking on the door and don't ask why.

Leo stayed those days. Leo had known Kimano. We had history, the three of us. Leo could never miss Kimano like I did, but he did miss and he did mourn him as a brother of the spirit, if not the blood. But even if he hadn't, he would've been there for me. The bottom line was that the two of us were too much alike to ever come together in any permanent way, and we wouldn't belittle what we had with anything temporary. It wouldn't be enough and then there would be regret dimming what was so brilliant between us now-that bond that couldn't be broken.

It was nice, knowing that.

But the potential of what could've been if one of us had been only the slightest bit different was always there. Yet another bond that couldn't be broken. There was a wonderful warmth in knowing that as well.

He slept in bed with me the night before. I woke up to blinds-filtered Nevada sunshine with his arm heavy around my waist, simple solace. He was one of the rare ones who knew s.e.x didn't necessarily equal comfort.

I stayed in bed the entire day and he stayed with me. Other than food and bathroom breaks, we curled up and said nothing. Once in a while he'd chuckle against my shoulder and I'd curl my lips, instinctively knowing just which Kimano memory had come to mind.

We'd done this for years now. At first we talked and laughed about them, but now we knew the routine and the flavor of them so well, that when he laughed, I knew. And when I groaned and covered my eyes, Leo knew. Kimano had never been good at his job, but he'd left more memories behind than if he had been. He was much softer hearted than he should've been. Our mother had raised us to be tough, to do the job at hand, no matter what it was, and do each one as if it were your first, last, and only job. Hold people accountable always. Be accountable always. I liked working; it was easy for me. But Kimano let the slackers slide, because he was one himself.

There was a soft, heavy breathing by my ear and a few stands of straight black hair wafting over my cheek. Leo had never failed to stand by me . . . or lie by me, if that's what I needed . . . which was a change for him in his younger days. He'd been big, bad, and full of anger. He'd mellowed over the years. He was still big and bad if you put him to the test, but he'd learned a little more tolerance and a lot more patience. What he did to those who p.i.s.sed him off in the past . . . well, it made seeing him throw a man through the plaster bathroom wall seem considerably mellow, almost kindly in fact.

I, on the other hand, had gotten a little less mellow with age. Taking care of Kimano's killer might take care of that; it might not. We'd just have to see.

My eyes drifted to the picture on the dresser. A stark black and white-it was Kimano in a patch of gra.s.s with his arm slung around the shoulders of a grinning coyote and a sharp-eyed raven on his shoulder. Lenore. He'd written Arizona across the back of the photo. He always said I had the worst memory for the fun things, the silly things. Maybe he'd been right, but the bad things . . .

Those I never forgot.

The gold bars from the slats in the window slowly pa.s.sed across the wall, only a shade lighter color than the wall itself. Then night came, later night, and finally by the clock, midnight. I rolled over to face an already-sleeping Leo, wrapped my arm around his waist, shut my eyes, tucked my face against the blazing heat of his neck, and let the new day begin.

Chapter 4.

The first customer through the door the next day was Griffin. He looked like he'd had a hard two nights. Between the cops, justifying Zeke to Eden House, and a possible exploded iguana, he deserved the look. He sat down at a stool as I patted the top of his head and said, "Morning, sunshine."

He swatted at my hand and muttered, "Screwdriver." I looked up at the clock: ten a.m. I shrugged and served it up. At least he was getting his vitamins. He took a drink, then took his first good look at me, and winced.

"Is that a comment on how I look, Griff?" I bent over, folded my arms on the bar, and rested my chin on them to study him expectantly. "I'd think twice before answering, just for your personal safety."

"No." He took another drink. "It's the way you feel. Sad, angry, and a little hormonal. Is your per-" He stopped, very wisely, and took another drink. "Sorry. It's the empath thing. Normally I don't get much off you. Sometimes nothing at all. You must've had a bad day and I must've had a s.h.i.tty yesterday to even bring all this up."

Since he was right and apologetic, I let it go. He'd told me about being an empath a long time ago, when Eden House had come looking for him . . . their own telepaths and empaths picking up him and Zeke. If burning demons worked, the House would probably be out there scouring for their own little Stephen King fire starters too.

About being an empath, he'd said back then, it's mainly boring. He'd pointed at the people in the bar. Cranky, h.o.r.n.y, hungry, h.o.r.n.y, p.i.s.sed off, h.o.r.n.y, sad, h.o.r.n.y. After a while of that, he'd snorted, it got real old real fast. A thankless talent, I thought. There weren't too many people running around filling the world with joyful vibes. Being an empath would really, well, suck. But it was useful for the job. Demons, they felt nothing like humans. They had one emotion humans didn't have, at least not to this degree. It was murder, greed, and a longing, all wrapped up in one single ribbon of emotion so intense that it didn't have a name. He said when he closed his eyes he could see it . . . dark purple with jagged streaks of bile yellow and blood red.

When I asked what Zeke "heard" when he psychi cally touched demons, Griffin said nothing good. It was all Kill, eat souls. Weak. He's weak. He'll give his up in a heartbeat. Zeke could only read the very surface of anyone's thoughts, though. The bigger and badder demons like Solomon . . . the more-controlled demons . . . could and did pa.s.s for humans at times. But Zeke was the strongest telepath Eden House had, just as Griffin was the strongest empath. To my knowledge, the only demon they couldn't pick out was Solomon, although they didn't have to, because Solomon had been bold enough to tell Eden House he was setting up shop. That was before Zeke and Griffin's Eden House days. Solomon's human body was probably in his late thirties. A very s.e.xy late thirties.

Yep, they definitely had to pick those bodies out of a catalogue: Hot Soul Suckers-check out the discount late-nineties models at the back of the book.

"I heard through the grapevine. Something happened." Griffin finished the screwdriver and exhaled, eyes clearing slightly. "Something about the Light of Life. Remember me telling you about that a few years ago?" He didn't wait for a comment, which was convenient for me. "No one's giving out anything specific. Just that there was a body and no sign of the artifact."

"Of which you still don't know anything-what it actually is or does," I said matter-of-factly. Trinity and Jackson hadn't told them. Then again, neither had I, but that was one case of the less they knew, the better-for everyone. Not that that made my next comment any less manipulative, but sometimes you have to be deceitful to warn those you care about . . . without blowing your own plans. It still felt wrong, a feeling I wasn't used to. "Some trust your House gives you guys. Makes you wonder how badly they're going to paddle your a.s.ses if they find out I've been going on demon hunts with you." No House telepath could read them now. Zeke had learned to shield his casual thoughts and taught Griff to do the same. It was one of the few occasions when Zeke was his teacher, not his partner.

Zeke chose that moment to come in. "You must be psychic," he said matter-of-factly as I rolled my eyes, although for him it was a good effort. "Demon hunt tonight. That tip you gave us looks good. Going?" He ordered a Corona while I considered it. I'd heard there was a bar a few miles from mine where people were getting rich, famous, and laid like crazy. That had soul selling all over it, and I'd pa.s.sed the news along.

Sitting on the stool next to Griffin, Zeke beat his hands in a slow, hypnotic tempo on his legs and frowned when I put the bottle of beer in front of him. "Where's the lime?"

I looked over at Lenore on his perch. "Bird, lime." He flashed a beady eye, flew over, plucked one out of the tray, strutted over, and stuffed it in the mouth of Zeke's bottle.

"There you go." I smiled cheerfully. "Enjoy."

He scowled. "I fight demons. Isn't that enough? I have to take on bird flu too?" But he pushed the lime on down and took his chances. He took a swig, than glanced at Griffin. "You don't look so good. You got up way too d.a.m.n early. Could hear you banging around in the kitchen."

Griffin and Zeke lived together, a necessity with Zeke's condition. "Some of us had things on our minds," Griffin muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Cops, lawyers, court, the House, Mr. Trinity. So sorry I disturbed you."

Zeke hunched his shoulders slightly. "Oh yeah. Sorry." And he was . . . sincerely sorry. Not for what he'd done, but for the trouble it was causing Griffin.

"h.e.l.l with it. It'll pa.s.s." Griffin exhaled and ges tured for another drink, just orange juice this time. "And before we get into the demon hunt issue, Trixa, I'm curious. What would the House do if they found out you went on hunts with us? The first thing would be to probably ask us how you know about demons. I doubt they'd approve of us hanging out with a descendant of the worshippers of pagan G.o.ds any more than they'd like hearing about the demon hunts."

"Am I supposed to register surprise here? Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live and all that. I'm not a witch and this isn't Salem, but people are still people." I wiped a counter, plastic and cracking, but clean. "And too bad for them anyway. Me and mine might know things even they don't about the big bad world. Certainly things pups like you are in the dark about." I gave them a wink as I finished up with the counter.

"Pups"-Zeke shifted closer-"boys, they just can't help themselves, no matter how many times you remind them, 'not so much. I'm not fifteen anymore.' " He immediately winced at the thought, big and bright, I shot at him that stopped his last word and thought in their tracks. "Ow. Big sister. Hands off. I hear you. You're loud." He rubbed it away. "But there's only six years . . . ow. Okay. Stop. Someone out there won't think of me as a little brother. I'll find them." Great, a mission. Zeke on a mission. That was not good. I didn't call him on the prying as I usually would have, not with this subject. And I knew how to keep my surface thoughts casual and basically bulls.h.i.t. Griffin had needed lessons; some of us are born with natural bulls.h.i.tting skills.

"An innocent," I said, warningly. Zeke didn't hurt those who didn't deserve it, but once again . . . with that black and white view of the world, up until now that may have been a case of pure luck. He had to be careful. Who among us was honestly completely innocent? Who among us hasn't deserved a little punishment once or twice? Trouble was, Zeke wasn't so good at doing "little." And with an innocent he would be pushing that luck somewhat less.

"Innocent." That's what I said and "thought" very casually in case Zeke was eavesdropping. At a much deeper level I sent the absolute dead-on emotion of utter denial to his partner. If "never" could be an emotion, this was it. Only for a man, any man-even one as unique as Zeke-there was no such thing as "never" in this department. Zeke was no virgin. He'd had his share of one-night stands, and those women had been fortunate. Either as innocent as I told him to look for now or not bad enough to set him off. I wasn't quite sure what Zeke would do if he ever picked up a murderer, caught a stray thought of something ripe with evil, yet purely human.

Zeke turned to look at his silent partner. "What?" Silent to any onlooker, but not to Zeke. "Oh." His gaze drifted down to his own hands-hands that could kill with or without a weapon. "I get it." His eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared as the obvious solution came to him. "I won't read them. I won't look. Okay?"

"Yeah, partner, that's okay. That's good." Griffin, who'd obviously had the same thoughts I had, sighed and pushed his gla.s.s of OJ back toward me for another screwdriver, because both of us knew it was never that easy. "I changed my mind. Load me up." As I did, he leaned back and stretched, muscles no doubt stiff from digging Zeke out of that deeper and deeper hole he'd gotten himself into. No wonder he didn't want to think about any future ones lurking out there. "So?" he asked me. "Going?"

"Maybe," I conceded. "Leo's out today, so he can cover for me tonight. A little hunt might be some fun."

"Good. I can break this in." Zeke, his thoughts of women and one-night stands vanishing instantly in favor of something he loved far more, pulled a revolver the size of an antiaircraft gun out of his jacket and laid it on the bar. "They confiscated my Glock, so I had to get a new gun from the House armory." The armory where they didn't keep grenades, and I was guessing that Zeke actually had authorized access to. "Isn't it something f.u.c.king else?" He smiled down at it, grim and satisfied at the thought of all the demon damage that could do. He was like a kid at Christmas . . . a homicidal kid maybe, but . . . "A Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum. The muzzle flare is vented out the muzzle and the sides," he said, as proudly as if he'd designed the gun himself. It looked like it was as big as my car. I leaned closer and corrected myself. It looked bigger than my car.

I gazed at it, then at his savagely content face, and bit my lip. Patting his arm, I managed to say solemnly, "Oh doll, it couldn't be that small, I promise you. It just isn't physically possible."

Zeke didn't let my psychoa.n.a.lysis ruin his love affair with his new gun. He brought it that night, concealed in a holster under his jacket. I was surprised the weight of it didn't have him leaning to one side, since it was as heavy as the anchor on the t.i.tanic, but it didn't.

Dressed in all black with his hair pulled back into a ponytail, Zeke looked like what he was . . . dangerous. d.a.m.n dangerous. He lounged against the wall opposite the emergency door with arms crossed. Bait or the hunter. Zeke loved being both.

Griff and I were dressed the same as Zeke and both of us were carrying shotguns as we crouched in the dark alcove between two Dumpsters near the mouth of the alley-keeping Zeke in sight. The only light in the place was directly opposite him and was a dim bulb mounted over the door, but demons didn't need a lot of light to see. They didn't need a lot of light to kill either. I was guessing that h.e.l.l was a dark, dark place.

"Do you ever wonder why they do it?" Griffin murmured. "Sell their souls? Do they really think a few years of all they could want here could be worth going to h.e.l.l? How do they let someone talk them into that?"

"People are stupid, shortsighted, and sometimes just desperate for something more." I had heard there were souls, besides immature ones, that demons wouldn't take. They wouldn't take a soul for a selfless act. Wouldn't or couldn't. No trading your soul for your dying husband or wife, child or brother. No trading it for the cure to cancer. No doing evil to accomplish good. The road to h.e.l.l wasn't paved with good intentions after all. "Besides, who's to say Heaven's any better? No sh.e.l.lfish, no pork, no hot guy-on-guy Westerns. No s.e.x at all. Think about that. No s.e.x and no barbecued shrimp. How could h.e.l.l be much worse?"

"Is there really no s.e.x in Heaven?" Zeke said aloud, sounding worried. He was listening in to Griffin's thoughts again and being about as stealth conscious as a marching band. We both ignored him.

"Put you one-on-one with a demon and I'll bet you could have him selling his soul to you," Griffin snorted at my ear, then added,"If demons had souls."

"Sweet talker." I jabbed him with my elbow, then tensed as the door opened and a demon walked out, followed by a girl. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small, a B cup, but so were mine. The last thing you needed when running down a demon was a double D smacking you in the face, but that probably wasn't her opinion. She was twenty pounds heavier than the magazines told you she should be with an a.s.s a tad bigger than an anorexic starlet's. In other words, she was normal-which was most likely the worst possible thing to be in her eyes.

And then there was the demon. . . . Picture a male model with empty eyes and a smile as bright as a thousand diamonds-or as predatory as the flashing teeth of a personal injury lawyer. Not all lawyers were demons, but let's say there was a fairly high turnover among the Vegas ones, thanks to Eden House and an endless supply of shotgun slugs.

"Hurry up and run so I can start killing," Zeke told the girl impatiently. He'd pulled out the Colt and pointed it at our prey.

The girl stood frozen. Even in the low light I could see the beat of her pulse, rapid against the pale skin of her throat . . . the beat of her starving heart. She wanted, so badly, all the wrong d.a.m.n things. I stood, braced the stock of the shotgun against my shoulder, and said, "Listen to him, girl. Try helping others instead of helping yourself. Take your shallow dreams and run to something better, because there is better. Go!" She didn't move. "Run!" There was a flutter of green silk, fake, and the glitter of diamonds, also fake, and she was gone . . . running past us, out of the alley, and disappearing around the corner. I hoped she believed me. It was true. There was better. She only had to open her eyes and see it.

The demon's smile didn't waver. "Eden House dogs. You . . ."

Zeke shot him between the eyes with three consecutive shots that came so fast, they almost sounded like one. "They always want to talk." He lowered the gun. "Eat your still-beating heart. Skin you alive. Strangle you with your own intestines. Blah-blah. Boring."

The head of the human demon had gone misshapen. Hollow point rounds for maximum damage. Zeke liked his toys to do the job first time around. This time he'd nailed the demon before it even had time to change back to its true form. Scales rippled across its slack face, but it poured downward into a black puddle before it could change any further. No brain, no demon.

Easy. It hadn't been worth taking off my boots and putting on my sneakers. h.e.l.l, it wasn't even worth putting on deodorant in case I had to run and sweat.

But that's when we found out why the demon hadn't lost its smile.

I spotted them first . . . on the roof. Five of them and they weren't bothering with human disguises. Bat wings thrashed and they dived at us, transparent teeth bared. Three of them were black, with ebony scales that sucked in the light. You didn't see that color often, and it was never a good time when you did. The other two were a sickening, swamp green-brown, more of what I was used to. They weren't armed with weapons. With their teeth, speed, and claws seven inches long, they were already equipped. And all those teeth, all those talons, they had one target.

"Zeke!" I shouted it and ran, but Griffin was ahead of me. Nothing against Griffin, but I was one fast runner, d.a.m.n fast. It didn't matter-he was motivated. Unfortunately, that motivation didn't stop Zeke from going down. Not that he didn't take some down with him, because he did-popped two in their heads as they fell from the sky on top of him. It was d.a.m.n good shooting and from the surprised flare in their red and yellow eyes, unexpected from a human.

Cool, precise, without a hint of nerves. That was Zeke. I doubted he felt his nerves dance with anything other than annoyance when the claws of the third black demon sank into his upper chest and arm, pinning him to the ground and keeping him from reloading.

Griffin stumbled.

s.h.i.t. Zeke might not get nerves, but he felt something other than annoyance, all right. He felt pain. And thanks to being an empath, Griffin was feeling it too. Everything his partner felt, he was feeling right along with him. And that was sweet in a bonding, "I feel your pain . . . no, really, I feel your pain" kind of way, but it wasn't any use to us now. I grabbed the back of his jacket and kept him upright as we ran. I also gave him a shake. "You have to have some control over your empathy," I snapped. "Use it! You're no help to him like this."

Zeke had his good hand wrapped around the neck of the demon and was holding those haunted-house, shattered-window teeth away from his own throat. I couldn't see the blood on his chest, black was good at hiding that, but I could see a trickle of it run from the corner of his mouth, the red of it on his bared teeth. I didn't need to hear the accompanying wheeze from Griffin to know the demon's claws had at least nicked Zeke's lung.

I stopped running and fired at the black one squatting on top of Zeke. I missed as the head darted forward with uncanny speed-physics-defying speed. Demons were like people. They were all different. Some were fast; some were slow. Some were smart, some not so much, and some beyond idiotic. It was our bad luck to get a smart, fast one; our worse luck that I underestimated him.

But the chest is a bigger target and I was smart and fast myself. I fired the second barrel of the shotgun and hit him dead-on. He was thrown off Zeke into the back of the alley. The talons must not have felt any better coming out than they had going in, because Zeke arched up off the asphalt and this time Griffin did fall. I used one hand and the support of a knee to reload the shotgun, and I used the other hand to slap Griffin's face hard enough to leave an instant hot, red hand-print. Then I took a handful of his shirt, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him against the alley wall. The push was as hard as the slap and I saw his eyes focus on me. "Griff, you don't turn it off now and Zeke dies. He dies. Turn it off!"

His mouth tightened and he closed his eyes for a split second. His skin was still pale except for the red blotch, but when he lifted the lids, the pupils of his eyes were now normal. Before they had been black with only the thinnest ring of blue; now the blue was back. Dark with rage but back. So was his control, and we'd need it to get out of this trap we'd so stupidly hopped, skipped, and jumped our way into. I couldn't remember all the times I'd been underestimated because I was a woman, but I could count the times I'd underestimated demons. This would be number two and there was no way I was letting it turn out the way the first time had. Not again. Zeke wasn't going to die; Griff wasn't going to . . . none of us were.

"Off?" I asked as one of the brown demons headed for us, crisp air purling under its wings "It's off," Griffin answered grimly as he turned and fired. The demon fell, one wing shredded. It wasn't off, the empathy, not really. I could see that in the bone white line of his jaw, but he had it under sufficient control to pull a trigger and that was good enough. I hit the other demon swooping at us, this time in the head. A slow one. Good. I deserved a slow one. I also deserved a bubble bath and hot chocolate laced with b.u.t.ter-scotch schnapps and topped with whipped cream. But I didn't have that. What I did have was a one-winged green demon and the black one I'd shot off Zeke. Neither of them looked anywhere near as warm and fuzzy as chocolate and schnapps.

Zeke was pushing up to one elbow, ignoring his own gasps for air as he reloaded using a speed-loader. His chest heaved on one side and didn't move on the other. Pure mission Zeke. Air? Only wimps need air. Just give me something to shoot. It looked like the black demon was going to give him his wish. I was wrong. It pa.s.sed over its first victim and headed straight for me, wings working furiously. I didn't have time to reload and I'd never played baseball.

There's always time to learn.

I tossed the shotgun, caught the painfully warm end of the barrel, and swung.

This time I got his head with a crash that destroyed the shotgun's stock. Beautifully polished wood splintered and shattered. And all in all, it was about as effective as. .h.i.tting him with a flyswatter. He did a better job of it with me than I had with him. As I went down, I saw the green demon back up and head for the wounded of the pack. Griffin was right between the two of us, but while Zeke might be almost as a.s.s kicking as he thought he was, with his collapsed lung he was also bleeding and breathing . . . not so good.