The Grimrose Path (Trickster, #2)(93)

For updates, teasers, deleted scenes, and various other extras, visit the author at www.robthurman.net and at her LiveJournal.





Read on for an exciting excerpt

from the next Cal Leandros novel





BLACKOUT





by Rob Thurman

Coming in March 2011 from Roc





I was a killer. I woke up knowing that before I knew anything else.

There was a moment between sleeping and waking where I swung lazily. The dark was my hammock, moving back and forth. One way was a deeper darkness, a longer sleep. But there was more than darkness there. There were trees past the black, hundreds and thousands of trees.

And an ocean, blue as a crayon fresh from a brand-new box. A ship rode on its waves with sails white as a seagull’s wings, flying a flag as black as the seabird’s eyes.

There were dark-eyed princesses named after lilies.

Waterfalls that fell forever.

Flying.

Tree houses.

It was a place where no one could find you. A safe place. Of it all, vibrant and amazing, the one thing I wanted to sink my fingers into and hang on to for my life was that last: a safe place.

Sanctuary.

But all that disappeared when I swung the other way, where there were sibilant whispers, an unpleasant clicking—insectile and ominous—and a cold, bone deep and embedded in every part of me. If I’d had a choice, I would’ve gone with sleep, safe in the trees. Who wouldn’t? But I didn’t have that warm and comforting option. Instead I was slapped in the face with icy water. That did the trick of swinging me hard in the wrong direction and keeping me there. I opened my eyes, blinked several times, and licked the taste of salt from my lips. It was still dark, but not nearly as dark as when my eyes had been shut. There was a scattering of stars overhead and a bright full moon. The white light reflected as shattered shards in the water washing over my legs and up to my chest. It looked like splinters of ice. It felt cold enough to be. There was the smell of seaweed and dead fish in the air. More seaweed was tangled around my hand when I lifted it, the same hand that held a gun. A big gun.

A priest, a rabbi, and a killer walk into a bar . . .

A killer woke up on that beach, and that killer was me. How did I know that? It wasn’t difficult. I slowly propped myself up on my elbows, my hand refusing to drop the gun it held, and I took a look around me to see a stretch of water and sand littered with bodies, bodies with bullet holes in them. The gun in my hand was lighter than it should’ve been. That meant an empty clip. It didn’t take an Einstein to work out that calculation. The fact that the bodies weren’t my first concern—it was pissing and food actually, in that order—helped too. Killers have different priorities.

I could piss here. I wasn’t a frigging Rodeo Drive princess. There were only the night, the ocean, and me. I could whip it out and let fly. But the food? Where would I get the food? Where was the nearest restaurant or take-out place? Where was I? Because this wasn’t right. This wasn’t home. I dragged my feet up through the wet sand, bent my knees, and pushed up to stagger to my feet to get my bearings. I might have been lost. I felt lost, but I only needed to look closer, to recognize some landmarks and I’d be fine. But I didn’t. I didn’t recognize shit. I had no idea where I was, and I was not fine.

I was the furthest from fine as those bodies on the sand were.

That’s when the killer realized something: I knew what I was, all right, but I didn’t have a goddamn idea who.

I reached for me and I wasn’t there. I took a step into my own head and fell. There was nothing there to hold me up. There was no home and there was no me. Nothing to grab or ground me—no memories, only one big gaping hole filled with a cliché. And that—being a cliché? It bothered me more than the killer part. That part I took so much in stride that I’d automatically used my free hand to start dragging the bodies further out into the water, where they’d be carried away. Out of sight, out of mind. The killer in me needed no direction. It knew it wasn’t Joe Average, law-abiding citizen. It knew it couldn’t be caught with bodies and definitely not these bodies.

They weren’t human.

There were monsters in the world, and that didn’t surprise the killer or the cliché in me one damn bit either. They both knew why I carried that gun. Monsters weren’t very f*cking nice.

I looked down at the one I was currently dragging through the surf. It looked like an ape crossed with a spider, which isn’t a good look for anyone. It weighed a ton, was hairy with several eyes on a flattened skull, and had even more legs sprouting below. The mouth was simian, but there were no teeth. Instead there were two sets of mandibles, upper and lower. Both were dripping with something other than water, something thicker. At the sight, the base of my neck began to throb, red spikes of pain that flared behind my eyelids every time I blinked. I released Harry—hairy, Harry, close enough—into the waist-deep water I’d pulled it into and swiped my hand at the nape of my neck. I felt two puncture marks about three inches apart, then held my hand up to the moon. There was blood, not much, and a clear viscous fluid on my palm. It looked like good old dead Harry had gotten one in me before I’d gotten one in him.

The venom couldn’t be too poisonous. I was alive and aside from my neck hurting and a massive headache from hell, I wasn’t too impaired. I went on to prove it by wiping my hand on my jeans and going back for Harry’s friends. Larry, Barry, and Gary—monsters that I took in stride as much as I did the moon up in the sky. Just part of the world. I’d forgotten myself, but the world didn’t go that easily. The world I did know, it seemed, so I kept doing what kept you alive in this particular world. I towed all the bodies out into the freezing water—Christ, it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees—and sent them on their way. So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen . . .