Cyrus smashed into a bed of trash bags.
A pistol clicked.
The black man stood over the dumpster, pointing a g*n at him.
“If you’re a shifter, turn back,” the man said.
“Kirk, don’t kill him yet,” the old man said. “We’ve got an interesting one this time.”
“I prefer not to investigate, Dad,” Kirk said. He waved the g*n at Cyrus. “Let’s go, rat.”
Cyrus processed the conversation. Dad? This spirit was the guy’s dad? Jesus.
Reluctantly, Cyrus shifted back into a human, lying on the trash. It stunk like rotting food in the dumpster. Flies circled him.
The black man’s face sharpened into higher definition. He wore a dark blue denim jacket. His eyes were obscured by thick sunglasses.
But the old man was completely gone now. No visual trace of him remained in the air, yet Cyrus sensed him
