If only they knew of his existence. Drug deals, trysts, swaps, espionage, are all transparent to him. He’s drawn to the scene, moves in and the jig is up. He’s impossible to detect. I can’t say for sure that he can become invisible or that he’s been trained as an expert in concealment. Maybe it’s just a highly developed genetic ability to blend. It’s possible that he has some sort of chameleon nature because people don’t seem to notice he’s there, a silent witness to all those bloopers. He may be that person you see sitting at the bus stop, on the park bench, or staring into space at the table in the outdoor restaurant. Or maybe he’s the passenger looking absently out the window of the bus as it drives away. He wears no costume, or none that anyone can remember. Costumes for superheroes seem to make them conspicuous, which he obviously doesn’t want. It would be hard for him to do his job if he had to wear a costume proclaiming The Observer is here. A flashy suit of colorful leotards. “And what,” she asked softly, hoping that her supplicating behavior would diffuse the danger she was in, “may this insignificant witch do for her Lord?” He snorted most inelegantly, “Insignificant? Oh, my dear Moira, I think not.” Surprise had her eyes lifting to his face, and she saw there such raw lust that she nearly came from his gaze alone. Hidden behind it, though, she recognized a sliver of respect. Her spine straightened in a semblance of its usual confidence, and she looked fully upon the god whose eye she had apparently caught. “No?” An eyebrow rose and his head ducked down. “Definitely not,” he growled low in his throat, and Moira’s body tingled in anticipation. Breathlessly, Moira braved, “What am I then, my Lord?” He crowded in on her, forcing Moira to back away until her thighs ran up against the back of a low couch. Strong arms straddled her slender form, and he leaned in until all she could see were his magical golden eyes. His lips brushed up against hers.
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