Like the fact that it appeared she was trying to make up for her lost colors by feeding on Morrison’s. The solid purples and blues were already depleted, far worse than Billy’s or Mel’s. Morrison didn’t know how to build shields to protect himself. I hoped, abruptly and painfully, that I’d get the chance to teach him. Knowing he’d never do it was beside the point.

I extended a hand, all washed with silver-blue, and put it below Barbara’s, over Morrison’s heart, actually within his chest. Cold infused the back of my hand, then feathers as edged as scalpels lacerated the skin. It hurt like tiny paper cuts, more academic in the moment they happened than they would be in a few more seconds. My own shields pushed back against the injuries, healing sparks flying upward like a muffler dragging against asphalt. It tingled and itched, then flared bright in the instant that Barbara drew back in surprise.

That was all I needed. The timing was flawless, like the pit mechanics at a race. Seven-second tire change, though nothing like that much time passed in between Barb’s falter and my sliding shields into place, protecting my boss the only way I knew how. Silver power washed into him, building protective walls around a psychic garden I didn’t dare invade, but which I knew the peripheries of well enough to risk defining. I built points of contact, his complete lack of knowledge about cars tied with the practical safety of the Toyota in the driveway; practical safety bound with compassion that had brought him to tell a mother her daughter had died, when it could easily have been someone else’s job. And that tied to another daughter, six years old, treated with due respect and seriousness, which came around to the frown Morrison had bestowed on me when he ordered me not to belittle myself.

Endless details I hadn’t realized I’d known, from the Frank Lloyd Wright clock on his desk to his father’s seaman’s coat, from our identical heights making it hard for either of us to back down to the guts it took for him to point my magically talented self at problems mundane policework couldn’t explain, helped me to build a shield around my captain that cut off the life force that Barbara drained from him. Everything, his rare smiles and his steadfast belief in right and wrong, his stiff-necked acceptance of my talents and his exhaustive concern for his police force, hammered through me in waves of recognition.

No wonder I loved the man.

I closed my eyes against a blush that burned my cheeks, even in astral form. I could see it with my eyes closed, the physical action having no effect at all on my projected vision: red infusing the cool silver-blue that was my usual aura. I suspected there was strength somewhere in embarrassment, but if there was, I didn’t know how to use it for myself. I thought it might help maintain the shield I’d built, though, as it was intimately bound to Morrison himself.

I lifted my eyes and met Barbara’s gaze square on, totally unsurprised that she could see me. Her mouth pinched, eyes tightening, and her shoulders went back. Not with shock, but preparation. Even knowing that for some reason she was only at half strength, watching the changes in her body language sent the primitive lizard part of my brain running screaming into the dark recesses of my mind. I didn’t know what exactly Morrison’s new lover was, but I was very sure I didn’t want her to hit me.

A very small blossom of rage opened up inside me and I realized that more to the point, I didn’t want her to hit him. I felt my lip curl as I leaned forward, literally bracing myself against whatever onslaught she had prepared.

Time went desperately weird.

It went still all around me, worse than the slowed-down clarity of a fight. It froze, as if I’d be able to see raindrops hanging in the air. Barbara’s breathing stopped, though there was no flatness in her eyes that bespoke death. I couldn’t tell if I did the same, because I wasn’t sure I even breathed when I left my body.

I hadn’t been particularly aware of my body for the last several seconds, though I knew in a clinical sense it was out there standing on Morrison’s front porch. Having now spared it a thought, I could almost feel the memories of the past few moments pouring through it, as if it was catching up on details of a movie it hadn’t been paying attention to. Everything rewound, a blur of silence and images, until I’d reamalgamated with myself and all my memories and awareness were in one place, back there on the porch.

I snapped forward again.

This time it hurt, a concussive smash into—

—the future. The present. For a bewildering instant I wasn’t sure where or when I was anymore. Morrison’s kitchen floor was hard under my knees, my body having joined its spirit, apparently without bothering to travel the distance separating the two. My ears rang with a disrupted song of power, jangling noise fading away even as I noticed it. I felt like there were eddies swirling off my skin, as if I’d become a sticking point in a river and that river had briefly bent to my will.

I still saw with the Sight, but ordinary vision lay beneath it, picking up details that hadn’t been important to my projected self. The lingering scent of meat and tomatoes was in the air, reminding me I hadn’t eaten for hours. The dishes hadn’t been done, a frying pan sitting on the stove. I wondered if they’d come back to Morrison’s for dinner after my little display at the restaurant. Streetlamps colored the walls through big windows, no lights on inside.

My outstretched hand now rested on Morrison’s chest, no longer just beneath the surface of his skin. Barbara’s hand, warm and sweaty, lay on top of mine. My own skin shimmered with the silver-sheened rainbow slick of power, but not translucently. And Barbara was breathing again, time loosing its hold on her. Fury glinted in her eyes as she recognized that time had hiccupped, and she drew breath to spit something at me.

I twisted my right hand up to grab her wrist, and brought my left fist around in a roundhouse blow that caught her squarely in the teeth.

With all due modesty, I really think she’d have gone flying if I hadn’t had a grip on her wrist. As it was, the weight of her body pulled me forward as she recoiled. If I hadn’t had thirty pounds on her, I’d have flopped ignominiously across Morrison’s chest. Some rescue that would’ve been.

Although as far as rescues went, this one pretty much sucked, because Morrison wasn’t waking up. I tensed my stomach muscles and surged to my feet, hauling a dazed Barbara with me. I let go of her wrist and knotted both hands in her shirt before she got her feet under her, and discovered I could actually pick her up far enough that her feet dangled just above Morrison’s chest. There was a certain amount of genuine glee involved in whirling around and slamming her up against a wall so I could yell, “What the hell are you?” into her face. I felt like an action hero.

She got enough focus back to stare at me, which I thought was a good sign. Then she smashed her head forward into the bridge of my nose, which wasn’t nearly as good a sign. I dropped her, yowling with pain, and she slithered down the wall. Women, especially cute petite women, weren’t supposed to head-butt people. Girls like me, who stood almost six feet tall, could head-butt in a fight. That was okay. Little women were supposed to shriek and flail and use their fingernails, not their foreheads.

I bet Phoebe would kick my ass just for thinking that. In something like my defense, instead of kneeing me in the crotch, which is what I would’ve done if I’d been her, Barbara dropped to hands and knees and scrambled around my legs while I swore as violently as I could. It didn’t help my nose any, but it made me feel better enough to turn around and deliver a swift kick to Barbara’s ribs. She lifted up a gratifying few inches and went over on her back to land on Morrison’s shins with an oomf! I wanted to take a minute and fix my nose so tears would stop blinding me, but Barb rolled off Morrison and staggered to her feet, reaching toward the counter for support.