her.”
Luther did his thing, and this time Ruthie appeared. “Lizbeth, you can’t be callin’ me all the time. I got things to do. Children to manage.”
“The world to save.”
“Darn right.”
“Why didn’t you tell me I could bring the sun and exterminate the Iyas?”
Luther’s body, usually in constant, teenage motion, stilled. His head tilted. “Say what?”
“I thought I had to go vamp, and I almost did. Then—” I wasn’t sure how to explain what I had done, or how. “I brought the sun and chased away the storm and they all—”
I made a gesture that indicated fire, explosion, kaboom. She got the picture.
“I nearly took off my collar.” I shuddered at the thought of what would have happened then. “You should have just told me to bring the sun.”
“I would have been happy to.” Luther’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. “If I’d known you could.”
I’d been rubbing the grit of a hundred Iyas out of my eyes, but at her words I dropped my hand. “Say what?” I repeated.
“I sent you because I knew your vampire could deal with several hundred Iyas, and Jimmy could deal with your vampire. I had no idea that you could bring the sun.”
“And why can she?”
I turned just as Jimmy joined us. Sweat had drawn squiggly lines in the dust on his face. Streaks of blood—his? theirs?—marred his hands and forearms. Tiny burn holes randomly dotted a T-shirt that proclaimed TEAM EDWARD . Sanducci was a real comedian.
Jimmy’s cover for his globe-trotting-demon-killing was portrait photographer to the stars. He was a genius with a camera. Almost as good as he was with a silver knife.
His photos had graced magazines, books, posters, CD cases, once even Times Square. Everyone who was anyone understood that if Sanducci took their photograph, they had arrived, or they very soon would.
However, there was one final test of glory—Sanducci and his T-shirts. He wore them all the time—with jeans or a jacket, for breakfast or bed. But no matter how many were stuffed into his post box every month—and there were a lot—he only wore the shirts of those he had photographed. It became a stamp of stardom if Sanducci himself was photographed in your shirt.
Sanducci gave great photograph. Beneath the mess, he was just short of beautiful. Olive skin, black eyes, hair so dark it appeared blue in certain lights, and a face that had been known to stop traffic in small to midsized towns. For just a few seconds, I enjoyed staring at him. Then Summer Bartholomew appeared, and all my warm, fuzzy feelings evaporated.
“Who’d you bang lately?” she asked.
My fingers curled into my palms. Why was it that every time we met, I wanted to slug her?
Oh, yeah. Hated her guts.
Even after a dusty, bloody battle with storm monsters, she appeared the same as always—blond and petite, with wide blue eyes and perfect pink lips that matched her perfect pink nails. Her usual outfit—skintight jeans, size zero, a fringed halter top, boots, and a white cowboy hat—was in place and there wasn’t a speck on it.
“Rodeo fairy,” I muttered.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Summer put her arm through Jimmy’s.
Jimmy jerked away. Summer’s face fell. She blinked as if she might cry. I’d feel sorry for her if she hadn’t sold her soul to Satan. Literally.
“Any word from your boss?” I asked.
Her gaze narrowed. Behind the pretty blond facade, something slithered.
Summer was a fairy. She could practice glamour, a type of shape-shifting that made her more attractive to humans. However, since her magic didn’t work on anyone on an errand of mercy—and that was pretty much my schedule 24/7 these days—I figured she was as annoyingly cute as she appeared. I’d always thought there was more to her than we knew about.
I’d been proven right when we discovered she was moonlighting for the other side. Her excuse: She’d had to save Jimmy. The price? Her soul. Lucky for Summer I’d sent
Luther did his thing, and this time Ruthie appeared. “Lizbeth, you can’t be callin’ me all the time. I got things to do. Children to manage.”
“The world to save.”
“Darn right.”
“Why didn’t you tell me I could bring the sun and exterminate the Iyas?”
Luther’s body, usually in constant, teenage motion, stilled. His head tilted. “Say what?”
“I thought I had to go vamp, and I almost did. Then—” I wasn’t sure how to explain what I had done, or how. “I brought the sun and chased away the storm and they all—”
I made a gesture that indicated fire, explosion, kaboom. She got the picture.
“I nearly took off my collar.” I shuddered at the thought of what would have happened then. “You should have just told me to bring the sun.”
“I would have been happy to.” Luther’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. “If I’d known you could.”
I’d been rubbing the grit of a hundred Iyas out of my eyes, but at her words I dropped my hand. “Say what?” I repeated.
“I sent you because I knew your vampire could deal with several hundred Iyas, and Jimmy could deal with your vampire. I had no idea that you could bring the sun.”
“And why can she?”
I turned just as Jimmy joined us. Sweat had drawn squiggly lines in the dust on his face. Streaks of blood—his? theirs?—marred his hands and forearms. Tiny burn holes randomly dotted a T-shirt that proclaimed TEAM EDWARD . Sanducci was a real comedian.
Jimmy’s cover for his globe-trotting-demon-killing was portrait photographer to the stars. He was a genius with a camera. Almost as good as he was with a silver knife.
His photos had graced magazines, books, posters, CD cases, once even Times Square. Everyone who was anyone understood that if Sanducci took their photograph, they had arrived, or they very soon would.
However, there was one final test of glory—Sanducci and his T-shirts. He wore them all the time—with jeans or a jacket, for breakfast or bed. But no matter how many were stuffed into his post box every month—and there were a lot—he only wore the shirts of those he had photographed. It became a stamp of stardom if Sanducci himself was photographed in your shirt.
Sanducci gave great photograph. Beneath the mess, he was just short of beautiful. Olive skin, black eyes, hair so dark it appeared blue in certain lights, and a face that had been known to stop traffic in small to midsized towns. For just a few seconds, I enjoyed staring at him. Then Summer Bartholomew appeared, and all my warm, fuzzy feelings evaporated.
“Who’d you bang lately?” she asked.
My fingers curled into my palms. Why was it that every time we met, I wanted to slug her?
Oh, yeah. Hated her guts.
Even after a dusty, bloody battle with storm monsters, she appeared the same as always—blond and petite, with wide blue eyes and perfect pink lips that matched her perfect pink nails. Her usual outfit—skintight jeans, size zero, a fringed halter top, boots, and a white cowboy hat—was in place and there wasn’t a speck on it.
“Rodeo fairy,” I muttered.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Summer put her arm through Jimmy’s.
Jimmy jerked away. Summer’s face fell. She blinked as if she might cry. I’d feel sorry for her if she hadn’t sold her soul to Satan. Literally.
“Any word from your boss?” I asked.
Her gaze narrowed. Behind the pretty blond facade, something slithered.
Summer was a fairy. She could practice glamour, a type of shape-shifting that made her more attractive to humans. However, since her magic didn’t work on anyone on an errand of mercy—and that was pretty much my schedule 24/7 these days—I figured she was as annoyingly cute as she appeared. I’d always thought there was more to her than we knew about.
I’d been proven right when we discovered she was moonlighting for the other side. Her excuse: She’d had to save Jimmy. The price? Her soul. Lucky for Summer I’d sent
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