Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(61)

“Where did you get all this?” I gape as he rummages through the box of lipsticks, eye shadows, and who knows what else.

He shrugs. “An old boyfriend who used to have a drag show. He dumped me, I kept his stuff. And now I collect when there’s trade. Dabble a bit. Because you never know when you’re going to be called on to make over a monsterslayer.”

“I thought you liked guns!” I blurt.

He laughs. “Is that your way of asking if I’m gay?” He works his thumb against my cheek, rubbing in a contouring cream. “Because, what, I can’t like guns and glamour at the same time? They’re not mutually exclusive, you know.”

“Uh yeah, they kind of are.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says dismissively as he brushes some kind of finishing powder across my face. Gives me a critical once-over and then jerks his chin, indicating that I should turn and look in the mirror. I do. A stranger stares back.

I squirm. Tug at the halter top Clive produced earlier from a box of discarded clothes. It consists of two inverted V-shaped black straps that start at my shoulders and meet a fraction of an inch above my belly button, giving “low-cut” a whole new meaning. A thin horizontal strip of leather holds the shirt together at my breasts. I’ve still got on my leggings and moccasins, but a good three inches of skin shows between the top of my pants and the bottom of the halter top. I’m wearing my hunting knife sheathed on a low-slung leather belt at my hips, and my shotgun is strapped across my back. Clive’s dug up a bandolier from somewhere that crosses my chest like a lethal beauty pageant sash. It’s filled with my shotgun shells—supernatural and plain old human-killer. He’s even found a holster for the Glock, so it rests against my other hip.

“This is really going to chafe,” I mutter, shrugging my shoulders to adjust my back rig. The straps dig into my bare skin, but every time I complain, Clive insists there’s no way to avoid it.

“How about you let me wear my leather jacket?” I tell him. “That’s what it’s for. To protect my skin.”

“No, it would ruin the look.”

“And what exactly is that look? Mad Max?”

“Monsterslayer,” he says. “And you need to own it.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. I got nothing.

He sighs at my discomfort. “Think of it like a costume if you have to.”

“You don’t?”

“You need to understand that the Shalimar is not a normal place. It’s a . . . well, you’ll have to see for yourself. But, trust me, you need to make an impression. You saw what Kai was wearing when you brought him to us.”

The teal pants, the dress shirt and tie. The silver shoes.

“People dress to impress,” he continues. “Besides, with all the hardware you’re carrying, you need something to make it look like it’s part of your overall look, not like you’re actually there to kill anyone.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

He sighs again, tortured by such a poor pupil. “I know you don’t.” He pushes my hand away when I try to get the long bangs out of my eyes. I grimace, but concede control over my hair to the man. He obviously knows more about it than I do. He fusses for a few more minutes and, finally satisfied, he gestures to the door. I maneuver around him to push through and get the hell out of the claustrophobic space. Only to pull up short.

Kai is leaning against the opposite wall, dressed like some sort of futuristic Navajo headman. Soft black lambskin pants tucked into knee-high black moccasins, a dark blue crushed velvet shirt, loose and long, held tight by suede bands on his upper arms and a silver concho belt around his waist. A white shell necklace hangs from his neck, black drops of pearl from his ears, and every finger glitters with rings. He has his hair back up in a messy wash of spikes, the tips edged in silver, and a midnight-blue length of fabric tied around his forehead and knotted to the side. A smudge of silver paint shows around his eyes. It’s all I can do not to gawk like a starstruck schoolgirl. Boy-band movie star doesn’t even cover it.

But to my surprise, Kai is staring at me, himself struggling to find words. “You look . . .”

“Hired-gun hot?” Clive offers from behind me. “Bodyguard sex bomb?”

“Please stop helping,” I mutter, and tug again at what’s pretending to be my shirt.

Kai’s eyes never leave me, and I shift uncomfortably, heat rising on my cheeks. “Dangerous,” he says. “I was going to say you look dangerous.”

I exhale, clap my hands together. “Good. You look pretty spiffy yourself. Lots of bling. Very regal.”

He chuckles softly.

I know I’m babbling, but his eyes on me feel like fire. “Now that compliments are out of the way, can we go?” I head to the front door. “You have Ma’ii’s hoops?” I ask as I walk. Ma’ii insisted we take them with us, just in case we feel the need to go to Canyon de Chelly. Kai agreed to carry them, so I didn’t argue.

Kai pats a small sack tied to his belt. “Had to lose Coyote’s bag, but Grace helped me out with the sack and the outfit. And the bling. And all I had to do was promise her my soul as payment.”

“You got off cheap,” I mutter. “She took my coffee.”



Coyote is standing at the bottom of the stairs, and he turns to take us in. His mouth falls open and for once the trickster is speechless.