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and brandishing his knife and bow. “Brother, take care…”
    That was enough for me. I visualized the energetic shields around me hardening the layers of energy that ward off Dark Forces. Jolene whispered a warding spell beside me. The two Powers, Male and Female, entwined to create a fierce fortress around us.
    “What is it, Marius?” she said.
    I tuned in. Nothing.
    I sat back and picked up my Bushmills. “Let them come. Right now, I’m enjoying my drink. And you.”
    She was still as a graven marble image. “I love your confidence. But sometimes I fear for you, my love.”
    “Fear’s an old friend.”
    “It can be useful. Even more so if you transcend it.” She sighed. “You’re such a male…”
    “It’s part of my charm.”
    She tilted her glass to me. “Yes, sweet. Truly said.”
    The dark feeling had passed, so we enjoyed our drinks.
    And while I enjoyed my woman and my coffee, part of me stayed with my watchful protective spirits who prowled around me in the unseen world.
    We were safe.
    For now.

Chapter 6
    Dillon Tracy is a half-Iranian, half-Irish madman cursed with Persian fire and Irish moodiness, given to drink and violence, and more than mildly obsessed with weapons. He ran a completely illegal firearms business out of his home and covered the proceeds with a part-time job as a spray-painter in an auto body shop. He’s my go-to guy for weapons and accessories, and he’s the best man—in this world—to watch my back when things got iffy.
    He’s a boon companion and my go-to guy for long meandering conversations over drinks and cigars as well.
    Dillon is long-faced, with furrowed wrinkles running from his eyes down to the corners of his mouth; tall and lanky with jet black hair worn long, an olive complexion that made his racial background a mystery to the uninformed, surprisingly mild eyes for a man with his history of violence and a deep voice all out of proportion to his lanky frame.
    We’d met when he came to me as a client, looking to rid himself of a Viet Nam Special Forces veteran who’d passed on and attached to Dillon when he was a Special Forces operator in Iraq, drawn by the fear and anger that had been the dead man’s last emotional resonance when he passed over. After that clearing, which had been a long one, Dillon and I became friends.
    He’s a great sounding board, and beloved by Coyote and Badger in the Spirit Realms—powerful and cunning warrior allies. He was grounded in the Middle World, and Creator knows that sometime I needed that just as badly as an armed friend at my back, and more to the point, he was completely comfortable believing in and working with the other realities that intersect with ours.
    So when I needed a gunfighter—or a good laugh—his was the door I turned up on.
    He tipped his second bottle of Harp’s lager at me. “Shooting zombies? You don’t need special bullets for that?”
    “Just plain old Remington Golden Sabers,” I said.
    “Good round. I thought you’d need a silver bullet and a blessing.”
    “That’s vampires and werewolves.”
    He twisted his mouth in eloquent distaste. “Don’t like fucking with them.”
    “Me, neither. I try not to if I don’t have to.”
    “Word.”
    He chugged down his beer. “Want another?”
    “I’m good,” I said.
    “What you got going, Marius?” Dillon said. “You going to need me?”
    I laughed at the barely concealed eagerness in his voice. “What makes you think I need you, bro?”
    “I know you. I’m down. What’s up?”
    This love of the fight was a trait that I loved and endeared him to his spirit guides, warrior spirits all.
    “If you’re not busy, I’d like you to watch my back while I do some work.”
    “Is this the kind of back-watching I need holy water for, or will a Glock do?”
    “Both.”
    His grin widened as though a winch pulled on his mouth. He tossed the bottle up, spinning, caught it on the descent.
    “That’s the kind of Work I live for,” he