I lifted my gaze and scowled at the heavy, dark clouds, imagining just one single beam of light. “Damn, I wish there was sun.”
The lead Iya was only a few feet away when a small ray of gold pierced the storm and shone across his face. He went up in flames like a Buddhist monk. The heat forced me back a step, then two. I bumped into Luther.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
I wasn’t sure. I could command a storm, bring the lightning and the thunder and the rain. I could even create a magic tattoo for shape-shifting by wielding that lightning like a mystical needle complete with supernatural ink—hence the phoenix on my neck.
But get rid of a storm? Bring the sun? Hadn’t seen that coming.
I tilted my face to the sky, imagining a giant split in the charcoal twilight. I envisioned the bright yellow daylight bursting through. I thought about it so hard, I broke a sweat. Reaching upward with both hands, I smacked my palms together then pushed them apart.
And the sun came out exactly as I’d wanted it to.
CHAPTER 11
Within minutes every last Iya was gone. I glanced over my shoulder. Luther appeared as shocked as I was.
“Lucky you didn’t take off the collar,” he said.
“Lucky,” I echoed. There’d have been a lot of blood before the ashes that way. Been there, done that, didn’t like it. Ashes and blood created a paste reminiscent of tar-and-feathering. I much preferred this method. The wind stirred, and the remains of the Iyas simply fluttered away.
“Why didn’t Ruthie tell me I could bring the sun?” I demanded.
Luther frowned. “Got me.”
“Well—” I waved my hand. “Get her ass out here.”
Luther lifted a brow. “You really want to go with that statement?”
“No.”
Ruthie had raised us with love and an iron fist, and she saw no reason to change what worked even when the kids became adults. Since Ruthie’s fist came in the shape of Luther’s hand these days, any disrespect and I might wind up snacking on my teeth.
“Just let me talk to 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.