The wind swirled around, circling the apartment, spinning in the emotions jumping across the cluttered space. The trickster held himself still, although his muscles were so tense the wind wanted to bounce on them.
The rude man turned off the gas flame on the stove. He set the metal spatula on the counter. Slowly, he untied his apron, folded it, and then placed it on the kitchen table.
The trickster watched his every move.
The mustached man stood next to the trickster, watching him. Would he stop him if he tried to leave? The wind had a feeling he would.
The trickster swallowed, his throat tight, and the wind tapped his Adam’s apple.
“I’m sorry it took so long to come,” the trickster said. “It’s been?—”
The rude man lunged across the kitchen and rammed the trickster against the wooden door. The trickster hit the door, and the breath flew out of him.
The rude man shoved his forearm against the trickster’s throat and yelled, “Luvic, you jerk! You killed us! What were you thinking? Do me a favor? Die for me? Really? Really, Luvic?”
“Lia,” the trickster gasped. “Can’t breathe.”
“Oh yeah. Can’t breathe? Too freaking bad. Do you know how many times they’ve replayed March’s Last Defense since my funeral? Ninety-three times. I hate that movie. I hate it. Do you know what they’re saying on my tribute? That I had a secret baby and a drug problem. Are you kidding me? And that I was a mediocre actress. Mediocre! And that my death was the best thing to happen to me, because it rocketed me to Elvis-level fame. Do you know how many sightings there’ve been of Celia Bard since my death? Apparently, I’ve been spotted in Istanbul, Rome, Gibraltar, and of course, LA, where my ‘love child’ lives. I’m Elvis now. I’ll be haunting the world for decades. What the crap, Luvic? How about you die for me, huh? How about it?”
The trickster’s face was turning sunset-red as he pushed at the rude man’s forearm. But then the man disappeared, and the citrus and pearl dust scented woman took his place. The wind shrieked and spun around.
The mustached man was gone too. Instead, the musician was there, smiling at his sister.
“Celia?”
“What?” the citrus and pearl dust scented woman snapped.
“You’re choking him.”
“Don’t care.”
“I care.”
“No, you don’t. You told me so just yesterday.”
“Well, now I do.”
“Why?”
The musician spread his hands.
The wind rode on the trickster’s wheezing breaths. “Lia,” he choked.
She let out a gusty sigh. “Fine.”
She dropped her arm, and the trickster dragged in a breath. He flashed a smile at the musician.
“Thanks, Raggie.”
The musician pulled back his fist and punched the trickster in the jaw. “You’re welcome.”
22
The trickster’s head jerked back, banging against the wooden door. It vibrated, and the wind catapulted off it. Then it swirled around to crouch on the trickster’s shoulder.
This was a surprise. The boy was right. It hadn’t known the musician and the citrus and pearl dust scented woman were alive. For all his life, the trickster had done what his father asked, even when he didn’t want to. The wind had seen the gun; it had sniffed the bullets; it had tasted the cooling, bitter skin of the musician and the citrus and pearl dust scented woman after the trickster had shot them. The wind had known they were dead. Granted, it hadn’t wanted the roof to collapse on their bodies—it had even shielded them—but that was a momentary lapse into a strange, human-like emotion.
Regardless, here they were. Alive and furious.
