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It does and does not at the same time.
Just like how Tammy simultaneously grew up again but didn’t.
Exactly.
I don’t understand that either.
He laughs.Why must humans always understand everything? Can they not simply enjoy things for how they are to be experienced?
Some of us can. Most of us need to know. Also, I’m not sure anyone ‘enjoys’ the dark faerie world.
That is why humans are still stuck in the three-dimensional.
I thought our curiosity is why we’re not still living in caves smashing things with clubs.
Perhaps.He draws in a long, smoldering breath.I should leave you to your duty. That poor woman needs your assistance… perhaps your vengeance.
Ugh. Yeah. Thanks.
In seconds, I’m back to myself, sprawled on the forest floor next to my bundle of clothing. Maybe Clayton, my brother, had the right idea all along. The boy hated clothes. He’d just randomly end up naked all the time, especially out in the woods around our house. Sure, part of that came from how poor we were. We didn’t exactly have the biggest wardrobes. But… he’s a hippie, through and through. And yeah, all of us kinda did that off and on until we got old enough for it to be embarrassing. Except Clayton. As far as I know, he still prefers to ‘wear sunlight’ whenever possible.
As surprisingly relaxing as it is, I don’t have the time to reflect on the benefits of hippie living.
After getting dressed, I extend my dark wings and go back into the air. The great thing about having semi-solid phantasmal angel wings is… I don’t have to take my shirt off to use them. This is America after all. The average person in this country would make far less of a stink over seeing wings than boobs. Also, wings are a bit simpler to convince people they must’ve imagined it. After all, there’s no such thing as angels, right?
Hmm. Wonder if Gemma Fulton has (had?) a guardian angel.
Before I go off on some long philosophical ramble about how could murder, rape, and kidnapping even exist if everyone had a guardian angel, I spot a hint of civilization. Well, one little house surrounded by trees. In the midst of me contemplating if I should stop there and ask for directions or keep going in search of whatever passes for a ‘downtown’ around here, I notice there’s a dark green Jeep Cherokee parked beside the place… and it looks just like the house I saw in the vision.
Holy cow. What are the odds…?
I just flew somewhat randomly into the area without thinking much about directions. Did psychic intuition guide me exactly where I needed to be? One way to find out… I swoop down, weaving back and forth between the treetops until I’m within fifty yards of the house. Then, I stop to a hover and let myself sink to the ground. After putting the wings away, I walk the rest of the distance over to the Jeep.
… and the plate matches.
Wow.
I check my phone, hoping to pinpoint my location, but… no signal. Didn’t really expect one out here anyway, hence me thinking about having to ask for directions instead of checking an app. But… holy crap. I flew straight to Carson’s vacation house. Or cabin. Not sure what to call it. It’s a single-story affair that’s really small for a house, big for a cabin. It’s not made out of logs, nor does it seem terribly rustic. ‘Cabin’ is more of a description of size and location rather than aesthetic.
Sniff.
Mostly smelling forest… and gasoline. No, there’s not an arsonist around. I’m right next to a motor vehicle. To someone like me with supernaturally amped up senses,allcars stink like gas no matter how well maintained they are. Never thought I’d miss anything about being an undead vampire. However, I gotta admit my nose is notably less tuned to the scent of blood now. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. My sense of smellisstill almost doglike, though. I’m able to pick up on scents mortals miss. Suppose I could probably scent-track someone through the woods like a bloodhound, but I’m not desperate enough to crawl around with my face in the weeds just yet.
The cabin looks lived in. There’s at least one light on inside. I don’t hear anything. No obvious signs of violence, damage, or paranormal craziness. Well… this is out in the middle of nowhere, so perhaps I can play a little loose with the law and let myself inside. Can’t call it ‘breaking and entering’ if I teleport through the window, right?
On that inspiration, I walk from the Jeep to the front door of the cabin. It’s got the tiniest of porch awnings, barely six feet square, with a pair of folding chairs on either side of a concrete slab. One chair has ‘Carson’ stitched into the back, the other ‘Erica.’ Ah, the dead wife. Standing there fills me with the most maudlin feeling… almost as if I’ve become Carson and unable to bear the thought of being here without Erica.
The odd sadness dissipates in a few seconds.
My throat still tight, I take a step closer to the place, leaning to peer in the window by the door—but notice a two-inch gap between the door and jamb. Okay, this is not normal.
What the heck is going on?
“Hello?” I call out while pushing the door open more and peering inside.
Casually walking into a place where a serial killer might be hiding should unnerve me, but it doesn’t. Rather than a gun, I’m armed with immortality. Being a supernatural being tends to take the anxiety edge off most mundane situations. Can’t even say I’m unarmed. There’s a faucet nearby, and a stream not too far from here. If I need my ice sword, it’s not too far out of reach. Granted, a magical ice blade is likely overkill for a mortal serial killer.
Can’t help but peer back at the doorway. The named chairs bug me. More to the point, the sense of emotion hanging over them does. If this guy’s a killer, especially a sociopathic one, he wouldn’t feel that way. Admittedly, I don’t know for sure those emotions came from him. It’s merely a hunch. But hey, not too long ago, I virtually eavesdropped on a killing simply by touching a dead man’s laptop, watching a guy drip a lethal dose of organic mercury on an unsuspecting victim, so I’m open to interpretation of weird feelings a bit more than I used to be.
