Hounded

of shifty eyes. I looked first toward the patrons of the cantina and started to scan people’s auras to make sure they all had human shapes. I saw colors of amusement and arousal sitting next to angst and loneliness, but nothing out of the ordinary.
    › Hey, you know what? I think it’s coming from over there, by Santa and the elves, ‹ Oberon said.
    I turned my head to the stage, where a corpulent Santa with a curly white beard tried to appear avuncular as an elf placed a screaming child on his lap. Santa’s aura told the truth: He was irritated and wanted to be anywhere but here. Perhaps the kid was screaming because he sensed that. Or perhaps he was screaming because kids don’t have years of logic and science blinding them to the true nature of things. Some primal part of him realized that the » elf « handling him was truly a different species.
    Those aren’t elves , I told Oberon, though I could see why he’d make the mistake. They were excessively darling little dudes, and they blended in well with the festive holiday atmosphere. But one look at their auras confirmed that they weren’t locals.
    › Oh, I know. They’re dwarfs pretending to be elves. ‹
    No, they’re not dwarfs either .
    › Okay, okay, they’re » little people. « I’m sorry! Can’t believe I have to be politically correct when you’re the only one who can hear me. ‹
    Oberon, those are gnomes. That’s what you’re smelling . There were five of them, not quite four feet tall in platform shoes, but only one seemed to be paying any attention to Santa and the line of kids waiting to see him. The rest kept their eyes skimming over the passing throng of shoppers, and I figured we should keep moving in case they noticed the Irish lad and his giant dog staring at them. I resumed my walk past San Felipe’s extensive frontage.
    › Gnomes? ‹ Oberon asked. › You mean those white-bearded guys people put in their front yards for me to chew up? ‹
    No, not garden gnomes. Those didn’t show up until after World War II. These are real gnomes from the Old World. They’re quite rare. If you try chewing on them, they’ll chew back .
    Oberon stopped and cocked his head to one side. › You’re telling me those are gnomes pretending to be dwarfs pretending to be elves? Are you trying to play Six Degrees of Bilbo Baggins again? ‹
    I clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder, not wishing to tug on his leash. Come on . Oberon followed and I turned right past San Felipe’s until we were just out of sight of the stage. There I drew closer to the fence separating the sober from the soused and tried to find a space between the bobbing heads through which to view the gnomes unobtrusively. Oberon destroyed that plan.
    » Holy shit! « a random customer breathed, putting down a half-raised pint glass.
    His buddy followed the direction of his gaze and said, » Damn! «
    » That’s a huge fucking dog! « the bright one of the group said.
    The first guy got the attention of another guy at a neighboring table and pointed. » Hey, look at that huge fucking dog! «
    » Holy shit! «
    I sighed. And so it goes .
    › Why do people always say that? ‹ Oberon wondered, drooping his ears and sitting down as he gave breath to his own heavy sigh.
    I’m not sure. People used to say obvious things ironically or as a form of understatement, but in the last few decades they seem to say it with a sense of discovery, and it worries me .
    › Do we have to stay here and listen to them for long? You know I usually like hanging out with random people, but even you have to admit that the drunk ones can get annoying in about three nanoseconds. ‹
    No argument there, buddy. Soon they’ll notice I’m holding your leash and they’ll start asking me questions. I just want to get a half-decent stare at the gnomes .
    I discovered a window between a couple of gossiping sorority girls and examined one of the gnomes as best as I could. His aura told me nothing except his race. Unlike human auras, which broadcast emotions in a full spectrum, gnomish auras are a soft, solid brown, like milk chocolate, save for the white line of magic nearest their skin. But his mere presence, and that of his companions, bespoke something terribly amiss. Gnomes despise humans and have as little to do with us as possible. For five of them to be out in public like this—well, it was unheard-of. They were either extremely upset about something—a point of honor, perhaps—or actively