Finally, she got her head back to the subject of the bird. A bird that had been replaced by another bird or two, during all that thinking. The bird, she knew, had to be there, in her thoughts. Logic suggested it would be. All she had to do was find a way in. Or, more accurately, to understand how to get in. And once she was in, she suspected, she could get in over and over and over again.
As far as she knew, no one, but no one, could do what she could do, although Tammy always suspected the Librarian might have similar gifts. Gifts that rivaled hers, or exceeded them.
Focus, Tammy!
More static. Now a break in the static. Now more static. Ugh, this wasn't going according to plan. The static looked like snow. The same kind of snow she would sometimes see on the TV when there was a bad connection. Maybe she was wrong, maybe she wasn't able to slip into the mind of a bird...
The static wavered, then disappeared-and was replaced with something peaceful, calm, excited, eager, hungry, curious, adventurous, hungry, hungry, hungry...
There. A small movement in the grass.
Movement, movement, movement.
Hunger, excitement, eagerness, patience.
Patience, patience.
Now! Now! Now!
Flight, soaring, attack, pounce, snip, scoop, swallow.
Triumph, eagerness, and now flight. Beautiful, easy, effortless flight.
Tammy opened her eyes, blinked hard. Her last image was of telephone wires, and then endless sky, and the Earth far below...
She grinned, then gagged. After all, she'd experienced the sensation of finding a roly-poly bug, snipping it in half, and then swallowing each half. And loving every minute of it.
"So very gross," she said, wiping her mouth.
Of course, it was also incredibly, wonderfully, insanely awesome.
She was just about to find another bird-she liked the way they thought, she liked how each movement was clean and calculated and pure and eager-when she caught wind of another thought.
A thought that was pure evil.
Chapter Nineteen
We were on Main Street in Huntington Beach.
One of my detective friends lived in an apartment above this very street. My detective friend probably enjoyed living above mere mortals, like a feudal lord. My detective friend tended to think highly of himself. My detective friend also had a heart of gold. My detective friend would probably agree with all of the above.
"Say, doesn't Knighthorse live around here?" asked Allison, who, I was certain, was crushing on the man. She tended to crush on all the men in my life.
"Not true," she snapped.
"Not even a little?" I asked.
"Okay, maybe a little."
My kids were at home, taking care of themselves, which is why I had my ringer on high and my phone in my hand. Three months ago, Allison had been the one to tell me that someone had abducted Anthony from middle school. No mother-supernatural or not-could deal with another call-or text-like that. Ever. Again.
Which was why my ex-guardian angel, Ishmael, stood watch nearby. True, Tammy's own guardian angel was on the job, but he seemed to have a far more hands-off approach than I was comfortable with. Anthony's own guardian angel had long since abandoned his post-thanks to my son's brief foray into immortality all those years ago, back in the hospital, back when I had temporarily turned him into a vampire to save his life. Now, with Ishmael standing guard over them, I could rest easy.
Or try to.
What the fallen angel was capable of doing, I wasn't entirely sure. I suspected he possessed great strength. I also suspected he couldn't be killed, like ever, in any way, shape or form, silver or no silver. Stake or no stake. Ishmael, after all, was a spiritual being who could summon a physical body. And from what I understood, spiritual beings couldn't die.
But some of us get reabsorbed, I thought, as we found an outdoor seat at Chi Chi, along the busy, busy sidewalk.
"Reabsorbed sounds so... gross," said Allison.
"Well, that's how I see it," I said.
"But that's not how it was actually phrased," she said, having earlier relived my experience again with God. "Return home, I believe, were the words used."
"Return home, reabsorbed, winking out of existence. It all feels the same. It all feels like crap."
The patio was jam-packed. Luckily, a hum of conversation in the air mostly drowned out our words. Our very strange words.
"It's not crap, Sam. It may not be heaven, but it's also something else. I suspect it's total and complete bliss, with access to all that is and ever will be. I suspect it's peace and joy magnified thousands and thousands of times. Millions of times. Sam, you would be going home to God."