Page 81 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure
"He's going to be insufferable when he wakes up." Andrew shook his head, but there was fondness in his voice. "Can you imagine how arrogant he'll get?"
Hildegard unwrapped the first sandwich—turkey and avocado, bless Andrew for remembering her favorite. "He'll still want platform shoes to get even taller."
Andrew laughed, nearly choking on his coffee. "Don't let him know I told you this, but he has a pair of boots that have two-inch heels hidden in the sole."
"No!" Hildegard gasped with delight at the gossip. "Really?"
"Really. He thought I wouldn't notice that suddenly the top of his head was reaching my nose and not my chin."
"Did you tease him about it?" she asked.
Andrew affected a horrified expression. "Fates forbid. Do you know what his favorite method of retaliation is?"
"What?" She'd heard about the cartoons from hell, but she wanted to hear it directly from Andrew, who knew Tim well.
"He draws excellent caricatures that are so offensive it's impossible to ever think of his victims as anything other than their caricature. If someone offends him or gets on his bad side, he draws one of the poor sap, makes a hundred copies, and attaches them to every exposed surface in the building. Lately, he also discovered that he could do more damage by sending everyone in the office a memo with the drawing."
Hildegard laughed. "Diabolical."
"I actually like the guy," Andrew admitted after a moment. "But in very small doses. He's brutally, unnecessarily, and oftencruelly direct but honest. You always know where you stand with Tim. There's something refreshing about that."
"Even when you're in his line of fire?"
Andrew shrugged. "Better than people who smile to your face and talk shit behind your back. With Tim, at least the shit-talking is right up front where you can see it coming."
"I suppose that's true."
"It's like...You know when you eat anchovies?"
"That's a weird segue, but okay."
"A little bit of anchovy in a Caesar salad? Perfect. Adds depth, complexity, that umami thing everyone talks about. But eat a whole can of anchovies?" Andrew shuddered. "Too much. Too sharp. Leaves a bad taste that lingers for hours."
"So, Tim is an anchovy?"
"Tim is definitely an anchovy. Good in small doses, adds flavor to the mix, but too much and you need to rinse your mouth out." Andrew finished his coffee and tossed the cup in the receptacle. "Nathalie thinks he just needs someone to see past his defenses."
"Of course, she does. Nathalie thinks everyone is nice if only given a chance."
"Right? Sometimes an asshole is just an asshole."
"People can change," she said. "But then not everyone has to fit the mold."
"True." Andrew's gaze returned to Tim. "Julian thinks he might be close to the source."
"I know," Hildegard said. "It's the speed of his transition, for one thing. But also his talent. Genetics are weird. Bridget said that sometimes genes can skip generations and emerge stronger than ever in a remote descendant."
"Makes sense. Tim's probably the descendant of some artistic god who decided to try their luck with humans thousands of years ago. The genes diluted over time until they were barely there, thenbam—full expression in one cranky artist who uses his divine gift to draw unflattering sketches of his coworkers."
"The Fates have a sense of humor," Hildegard said.
Andrew nodded, then glanced at his watch. "I should head home. Nathalie is waiting with dinner for me."
"Then go and give her my regards." She waved her hand at the door. "Thanks for the sandwiches and the coffee."
"My pleasure. It's the least I can do." Andrew walked out the door and closed it behind him.
Hildegard tidied up the remnants of her meal, checked Tim's IV line and his catheter, and adjusted his blankets. All the small tasks that made her feel useful when really all she could do was wait.
