Free Forest Moon Rising by P. R. Frost

entered the building. That, and being preoccupied with the cumbersome crutches.
    Dill’s sister had twisted her thick mane of black hair into an intricate knot on her nape. A white streak from each temple drew dramatic lines up and away from her full cheeks, making her face look thinner than it was.
    Her elegantly cut black slacks and blazer over a pale pink blouse disguised her robust curves, bordering on Junoesque. Two-inch heels on her sensible pumps would add to her above normal height, furthering the illusion of slenderness.
    She looked Damiri through and through.
    Except for the pearls, so fine and translucent, they picked up hints of pink from her skin and her blouse. Her strand appeared to be a duplicate of my own. I touched mine through my sweatshirt just to make sure Doreen hadn’t stolen them.
    The hair on my nape rose and my Warrior scar throbbed.
    “Oh,” she said flatly as I scooted and shifted to find a comfortable position with the leg elevated. Her gaze remained fixed on my cheek. She could see the scar. That confirmed her demon ancestry.
    Not all half-breed demons are menaces to normals. A lot of them want to blend in more than they want to highlight their otherness.
    Scrap remained transparent. No hint of pink or red to warn of danger.
    “Just, oh? No hello? No, ‘how’ve you been for the last four years’? Just, oh?”
    So much for family reunions. I noted that she no longer wore a wedding set on her left hand and wondered what had happened to the husband she clung to at Dill’s funeral. I couldn’t even remember his name or what he looked like. Just a vague shadow. But then I’d been so filled with grief, and the beginning of a raging fever, I barely remembered my own name at the time.
    “I ... I expected ... I don’t know. Maybe this was a mistake.” She rose as if to leave.
    “Not yet, Doreen.” I blocked her exit from the booth with a crutch.
    She settled back with her coffee.
    Scrap took a seat on the back of Doreen’s bench. He stuck his tongue out at her, then reclined, crooked his arm to support his head, and settled in to listen intently.
    He faded so transparent and remained so still I had trouble seeing him. Clear evidence that I could forget his presence and we’d compare notes later.
    Doreen offered me no threat.
    Bill came over with my coffee and soy creamer. He helped me twist and leverage the cast onto the seat beside me. I thanked him and took a sip of his excellent brew.
    “Can I get you ladies some biscotti, or pie? Maybe a late breakfast?” Bill hovered a little longer than necessary. A friend showing caution around an unknown.
    “Nothing for me,” Doreen said. She didn’t have to look at her full hips. All Damiri developed weight problems in middle age. Only the most rigorous diet and exercise kept the pounds off.
    When I’d known Dill, he’d still been young and active, maintaining a slender and well-muscled body. A lovely body. And a keen mind.
    I ached with missing him.
    “I’ll have the huckleberry pie.” I loaded another spoonful of sugar into my coffee.
    “You have pursued me, almost to the point of stalking for several months, Doreen. Why?”
    “Donovan says I need to give you these.” She handed me a large manila envelope. “I’m not your enemy, Tess, no matter what impression my parents have given you.”
    “They haven’t done anything hostile, just ignored me; pretended my marriage to Dill never happened.”
    “I loved Dill. We were very close. Circumstances ... I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to know each other when he was alive.”
    I accepted her apology with a nod. Then I peeked inside the envelope. Sure enough there were a couple of faded photos of me and Steve and our sister Cecilia from our teen years. As usual Cecilia managed to give the illusion she stood separate from Steve and me.
    But there was also a picture of me and Dill, arms draped around each other, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. The rough, violently