felt everything must have been turned upside down. Even someone who had seen a lot of death would see that.
One thing I didn’t see as I looked around the crowd was much in the way of brown skin. In fact, I was pretty much the brownest person there and I’m not all that dark. I’m an olive-skinned gal, and in the summer I darken to a nice light mahogany. In California, that does not generally entitle me to a brown designation.
Everyone comes to California from everywhere. We’re a popular destination worldwide. We’ve got everything: mountains, oceans, valleys, agriculture, show business, computer geeks and hippies. Not everybody stays. Generally about a hundred thousand or so more people leave than put down roots, but that still leaves a pretty diverse group. As a result, I don’t often see a really homogeneous crowd like the one I was looking at right now. This group was white and nothing but white. When I stick out as looking ethnic, you know the crowd is vanilla. I shrugged it off. I hadn’t studied the demographics of Elmville. Maybe I was seeing a reflection of what the town was like.
I’d stopped listening to the minister and was somewhat startled to realize he’d stopped speaking. The crowd had started moving. Person after person made their way to the graveside to toss in a single flower, say a few words to Bossard’s parents and grandmother and then walk down to where the cars lined the road. I decided to circle back to the Buick and then follow the crowd, at a discreet distance of course, back to the Bossard home.
There have been moments when my continued well-being depended on catching a movement from the corner of my eye and reacting quickly. As I crossed the cemetery, the breeze picked up and something swirled in the corner of my vision. I whirled into a defensive crouch. Well, not quite a crouch. My skirt was kind of straight and that pretty much took crouching out of the stance equation, but I lowered my center of gravity enough that I’d be able to take on anything that came from any direction.
Then I felt like an idiot. A young woman who was crying stood behind a tree down the hill a short distance. The breeze had blown a few strands of her jet-black hair into the wind. I straightened back up. I doubted I needed to take on hair. The woman whose head it was attached to didn’t seem like much of a threat at first either. Her face was soft and unlined and she seemed as afraid of being seen as anything else. I pretended I hadn’t seen her and that my sudden change in stance was due to having my heel sink into the soft ground of the cemetery, which was not a total stretch of the imagination. I’d been walking on my toes already to keep my shoes from sinking down with each step.
I kept walking now, keeping my gaze steady and forward. I let my other senses reach out toward the woman and nearly stumbled.
Whoever she was, she wasn’t an ordinary bystander. There was definite power there. It wasn’t the kind of sensation I got when I was near Paul or Alex though. I didn’t think she was a werewolf or any other kind of supernatural being. She had magic in her, but she was fully human. Whatever she was, she was powerful and she was full of hate.
I FOLLOWED THE LINE OF CARS TO NEIL BOSSARD’S PARENTS’ house. I knew where it was already. I’d been there once before, after all. It was where I’d delivered the package that I’d found on the hood of the Buick, address neatly printed in block letters. The house looked pretty much as I remembered it. It was a nice house in a nice area, kind of like my parents’ place. Two stories, big well-tended yard, rose bushes along the clapboard siding, a driveway leading to a detached garage. The backyard was fenced. I’d lay odds there was a pool back there. My aunt Kitty would have called it neocolonial. I felt a little suffocated just looking at it and I drove past. I still didn’t need my car being noticed again.
I cut over a few blocks south
One thing I didn’t see as I looked around the crowd was much in the way of brown skin. In fact, I was pretty much the brownest person there and I’m not all that dark. I’m an olive-skinned gal, and in the summer I darken to a nice light mahogany. In California, that does not generally entitle me to a brown designation.
Everyone comes to California from everywhere. We’re a popular destination worldwide. We’ve got everything: mountains, oceans, valleys, agriculture, show business, computer geeks and hippies. Not everybody stays. Generally about a hundred thousand or so more people leave than put down roots, but that still leaves a pretty diverse group. As a result, I don’t often see a really homogeneous crowd like the one I was looking at right now. This group was white and nothing but white. When I stick out as looking ethnic, you know the crowd is vanilla. I shrugged it off. I hadn’t studied the demographics of Elmville. Maybe I was seeing a reflection of what the town was like.
I’d stopped listening to the minister and was somewhat startled to realize he’d stopped speaking. The crowd had started moving. Person after person made their way to the graveside to toss in a single flower, say a few words to Bossard’s parents and grandmother and then walk down to where the cars lined the road. I decided to circle back to the Buick and then follow the crowd, at a discreet distance of course, back to the Bossard home.
There have been moments when my continued well-being depended on catching a movement from the corner of my eye and reacting quickly. As I crossed the cemetery, the breeze picked up and something swirled in the corner of my vision. I whirled into a defensive crouch. Well, not quite a crouch. My skirt was kind of straight and that pretty much took crouching out of the stance equation, but I lowered my center of gravity enough that I’d be able to take on anything that came from any direction.
Then I felt like an idiot. A young woman who was crying stood behind a tree down the hill a short distance. The breeze had blown a few strands of her jet-black hair into the wind. I straightened back up. I doubted I needed to take on hair. The woman whose head it was attached to didn’t seem like much of a threat at first either. Her face was soft and unlined and she seemed as afraid of being seen as anything else. I pretended I hadn’t seen her and that my sudden change in stance was due to having my heel sink into the soft ground of the cemetery, which was not a total stretch of the imagination. I’d been walking on my toes already to keep my shoes from sinking down with each step.
I kept walking now, keeping my gaze steady and forward. I let my other senses reach out toward the woman and nearly stumbled.
Whoever she was, she wasn’t an ordinary bystander. There was definite power there. It wasn’t the kind of sensation I got when I was near Paul or Alex though. I didn’t think she was a werewolf or any other kind of supernatural being. She had magic in her, but she was fully human. Whatever she was, she was powerful and she was full of hate.
I FOLLOWED THE LINE OF CARS TO NEIL BOSSARD’S PARENTS’ house. I knew where it was already. I’d been there once before, after all. It was where I’d delivered the package that I’d found on the hood of the Buick, address neatly printed in block letters. The house looked pretty much as I remembered it. It was a nice house in a nice area, kind of like my parents’ place. Two stories, big well-tended yard, rose bushes along the clapboard siding, a driveway leading to a detached garage. The backyard was fenced. I’d lay odds there was a pool back there. My aunt Kitty would have called it neocolonial. I felt a little suffocated just looking at it and I drove past. I still didn’t need my car being noticed again.
I cut over a few blocks south
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