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Back The Trickster Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

Calvin Bitterhand. But of course it couldn’t be Calvin Bitterhand. Sam stared at the apparition, desperate at this new skill of the Trickster, that it was able to conceal its true form from his shaman’s eyes. The thing that could not be Calvin put his hand out to Sam and said his name in the croak of a tired old man. Sam hesitated for a beat, nearly fooled by those weary soft black eyes, full of what looked like relief and love, until he remembered how all the other tricks had resolved. He tore his gaze away from that face, turned and ran for his life down the alley, not stopping until he was past the bus station outbuildings, had broken free from the sight of roads and sidewalks into the birch-scrub by the railroad tracks and fell to his knees in the deep, drifted snow.

Far behind him, in Silver’s Main Street, Calvin Bitterhand stood still like a cigar-store Indian, staring into the alley as though he had lost everything a second time.

A small gust of wind toyed with the edges of a black plastic trash bag leaning against the wall, and the rustling was like autumn leaves. He looked at the bag as though it had spoken, then turned and walked slowly away.

44

‘One chopper buzzing the town doesn’t mean it’s another murder.’ Pasqual was glaring at the Australian ski-shop assistant as she spat the words in his face, the face of someone who wished he’d never mentioned it. He shuffled his feet, not knowing what to do with his big body in his discomfort.

‘Yeah well maybe not, but like I say, the news crews camping out here went apeshit. Talking into their portables and shouting at each other to get to town fast. That’s all I know.’

She leaned heavily against the shop counter with her back to him, knocking a stand of Oakley shades to the floor but ignoring it. ‘Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK!’

The boy was nervous now. Two customers who’d been browsing through the high price all-in-one suits for a long time looked across with obvious disapproval at the small, attractive woman spouting the obscenities. He was going to lose a lucrative end-of-day sale. Correction. She was going to lose it for them both. His boss was pretty pissed.

‘Like I say. Maybe it’s nothing.’ She looked out of the glass door at the darkened lodge-side area where the lights had just come on, and clutched the edge of the counter behind her with hands like claws. ‘If that murdering cunt fucks up my celebrity ski, I swear I’ll find him before the pigs do and tear his balls off myself.’