He suspected the later, but was willing to suspend his natural suspicions of the beings’ motivations for the sake of being allowed to live in the normal world.
He also suspected the normal world was the source of their power.
Magical power in the unseen world came in different flavors. Mostly dark. The powers he had used in his time in the bad places had ranged from dark black to icy black to blacker than Satan’s bunghole black.
But, as he had learned on his flight from the bad places, not all magical power was colored black.
And what the wizards and witches and warlocks of the upper levels of the unseen world used was neither dark nor light.
In a burst of imagination they called it gray power.
It didn’t have the purity of light power that Hilario could collect from human children. But neither did it have the corrosive addiction of the dark power.
Gray power was stronger that individual dark powers. But there was less of it. So a number of dark power users could overpower a wizard or witch who used only gray power.
Hilario suspected that some witches and wizards supplemented their gray power with dark power. But then, such questions were not polite. And could possibly be deadly. Asking a wizard if he had been using dark power could get one blasted back to the bad places. Probably with a healthy dose of dark power.
He himself only had limited abilities to use gray power. His coven masters weren’t very interested in teaching him. And the flavor of gray power was too akin to dark power. It would be a simple path from using gray power to sipping at the cup of darkness, again.
And before he knew it, he’d back in the bad places plucking eyeballs for lousy pay again.
No, it was better to hoard the precious light energy he was able to collect. It was barely enough to sustain him. But it was better than sucking at the firehose of darkness.
At least he could look at himself in the mirror and not see the monster he had been.
Not anymore.
18
The van rattled and coughed up the night draped hill at the edge of the city. Hilario cranked the window down a bit farther as exhaust fumes leaked around the engine cover. Cold night air washed over his hot, grease-painted face. His stomach rumbled, complaining about the hours that had passed since his last meal. Even though the cloyingly sweet taste of the store-bought birthday cake still clung to the back of his tongue.
He had a love/hate opinion of doing birthday parties in the more rundown parts of town like he’d done earlier this evening. On the one hand, the parents or semi-related family members often ingested substances that impaired their judgement and caused no end of squabbling.
And the cake was either dry grocery store cake with greasy, overly sweet frosting, or it was made by someone’s Nana who dripped cigarette ashes on it as she frosted it lopsidedly.
On the other hand, the children were often joyously happy to see him. He was something special. A novelty in their sometimes difficult lives.
And their joyous energy lifted him up and made him happy, too.
The city had its own layers of bad places. Places of sorrow and despair.
He tried to help where he could.
Though it was often difficult to figure out a way to help without making things worse.
He glanced at the rearview mirror. His growing cargo of passengers sat either glum-faced or angry. Or unconscious.
Detective Marco was the angry one, of course. He stared at the back of the Sapphire Witch’s head. His fingers twitched and plucked at his dark gray overcoat. Near his holstered gun.
Hilario tried to sympathize. No doubt the detective was used to being in control. Used to people being fearful of his authority. The demotion of status and the upset of his worldview had to be aggravating.
Though if the detective tried to regain control through his weapon, the outcome would not be to his liking.
If Rachel hadn’t put such a strong shield on the man, Hilario could have smoothed some of his anger away. Made him less of a powder keg.
Of course, if he’d paid closer attention to Rachel, he might have discovered she was a talent.
Did the Sapphire Witch know?
Rachel was still curled up in the far corner of the van, next to the back doors. As far away as she could get from the Sapphire Witch. Her eyes were closed, but her face was screwed up in concentration.
Was she trying to shield herself from the Sapphire Witch?
Or was she doing something else?
Maybe wishing the ghost of her ex-husband away?
Larry’s ghost sat next to Marco. His hands fluttered over each other, his expression jittery as he stared at the unconscious man lying on the floor.
Larry’s delivery driver, Rodney. A skinny toothpick of a man with black hair and a pencil thin mustache above his lip. Wearing only pajama bottoms with fluffy pink bunnies on them.
The man who, according to the Sapphire Witch, knew who murdered Larry. Along with the Stung Sparrow and all the people in it at the time.
A multi-murderer. How many people needed to be murdered before it became a mass murder?
Though what might be called mass murder in the normal world might be called a fine morning in the bad places.
And then there was the occupant of the passenger seat. The stone faced gem witch, Sapphire. Her of the steam punk outfit, complete with brass rimmed goggles. Which had come first, steam punk, or the Sapphire Witch? How much of the normal world’s media and entertainment were influenced by the unseen world? Did artists pick up vibrations from the unseen world like
