I fired my gun, and the bullet passed through my opponent as if he was smoke. No surprise, of course, this foe was more wraith than flesh and bone. But flesh and bone he was, and filled with the blood of his prey. An Itoril, once long ago if ever, he had escaped the confines of mortality.
Thyme appeared precisely the same as he had on our last meeting some decades ago. Dressed in boots, a dark duster pulled open to one side to show off his wide belt sagging with a heavy iron handgun and a sword, a Stetson perched on his head, he looked as though he stepped right off the range and out of the nineteenth century. His face was the same, too, pale and leathery. His eyes dazzled with wisdom and enough confidence to melt a man.
I lowered my weapon and waited for him to speak.