At least in comparison to, say, a three-toed hammer-snout wer-gerbil.
But no one could agree which came first: the normal world, or the unseen world.
The whole debate always seemed rather silly to Hilario. He had once pointed out to a group of banjo-assed tree goblins that, just by the very language everyone used, the answer was already there.
The normal world must have come first because it was, well, normal. And the unseen world must have been sort of side affect of the normal world’s creation. Perhaps the ancient volcanos on the raw normal world globe had farted out the complex layers of the unseen world. Maybe a stray comet had knocked the layers out of alignment from the normal world so the normals couldn’t interact with the unseen world as easily.
Or maybe the brooding gods that sat in grave silence on the cold outer rings of the unseen world had, for whatever godly reasons, decided to cloak the unseen world from that fascinating, yet treacherous globe.
As it turned out, banjo-assed tree goblins didn’t enjoy philosophical debate. They did enjoy beating Hilario severely, and throwing him into a carnivorous hydrangeas bush.
After that he kept his opinions to himself when he was outnumbered. Which was pretty much always.
And the debate over which came first, the normal world, or the unseen world, raged on.
As well as the debate over how much of the unseen world certain normal people could see.
Normal people like the beautiful, yet volcanically tempered, Mrs. Larry.
Hilario hurried down the rose lined walkway. The sweet scent of roses clogged his sinus in the chill night air. Rachel–Mrs. Larry–was almost to his elderly white Econoline van. Would she see the ghost of her dead husband when she put her face to the window?
Larry was, no doubt, still firmly stuck there. And Hilario seemed no closer to prying him out of it.
Mainly because of the big block of cop hurrying after Rachel. Detective Marco trailed a cloud of cheap musky cologne that further clogged Hilario’s sinuses. The heavily muscled detective’s black trench coat flapped behind him and he held his dark gray fedora to his head.
Without the detective’s interference Hilario might have found a way to recover some of Larry Sparrow’s bones from the smoking ruin of Larry’s restaurant, the Stung Sparrow.
Then he could have completed the fire rites and gotten Larry out of the van. Theoretically. And hopefully off to a better plane. It would have been a less terrifying send off for his friend than letting the black angels get him.
Even if he ended up in the same place.
More or less.
“Rachel, stop!” Marco cried.
Hilario’s knees whined about the running. The layers and rolls of flab on his 500 pound frame jounced and jiggled in every different direction. His heart pounded against its flab stuffed cage. The air in his lungs burned.
And the poopy-dickens walkway was less than thirty feet long.
Rachel jumped from the curb. Her dark hair flew behind her.
As much as he hated to use it, he had to.
He unlocked his light energy reserve and lightened his body. He took a small jump and bounced off the concrete walkway. He somersaulted through the air. Over an astonished Detective Marco. Past the end of the walkway.
He twisted and came down with his back to the van. Just as Rachel skidded to a stop in front of him. He held his hands up.
“Rachel. Before you look–” he said.
“You better not have his body in there,” she said.
Oh, much worse than that, actually.
Detective Marco pounded up behind her. He was three times as wide and half again as tall as her. But he kept a careful distance from her, as if she was a loaded weapon. Or a lit stick of dynamite.
“Rachel–” Marco started to say.
Hilario moved to block the van door.
Rachel reached her right hand behind her. Dug under her loose, black shirt.
“Shit!” Marco said.
She swung a small, efficient looking silver pistol up. Which, from Hilario’s point of view, seemed to be aligned dead center right between Detective Marco’s eyes.
Oh dear.
She never took her eyes off Hilario’s.
“Put that away,” Marco said. Though his voice seemed to lack conviction. As if he knew his command would be ignored.
“Rachel, this is unnecessary,” Hilario said.
At least the gun wasn’t pointed at him this time.
Instead of answering, she did something horrible.
Her left hand darted out. Yanked down his sleeve.
Before he could react, her delicate fingers clamped around his wrist like a vise.
On his bare skin.
Waves of emotion crashed over him. Broke through his psychic shields. Sorrow. Rage. Guilt. Images from Rachel’s mind intruded into his. – Larry, years younger, smiling and laughing. – The two of them sitting under the spreading branches of an ancient chestnut tree, looking out over a rolling green valley dotted with rustic stone homes. – Driving a car, Larry behind the wheel, arguing–why not? Because I don’t want it. Please, Larry, I want to have–
Words, images, emotions–blurring together into a raging whirlpool of pain and anger…love.
Her heart laid as bare to him as if she stood there naked.
He slammed his mental shield shut before she could get more than a glimpse inside him. And she had been there. Probing. Questing.
She was a talent.
How could he have missed it?
His body trembled. So much pain. His…Hers.
His voice quavered. “Rachel…”
She let go. Kept the gun pointed at Marco. Her eyes fixed on Hilario’s. He flinched from their fire.
“Get out of my way,” she said.
He moved aside.
She yanked the van door open. A ghostly Larry cowered, hunched down on the seat,
