Staring at Red, Jamie strokes the horse's neck, fingers brushing through its silky mane.

He wants to reach over and do the same to its owner.

His nostrils flare at the thought, mixed in as it is with everything else. Usually the images, feelings, smells come on fast, overpowering him, and are over in a few minutes. Usually the smell of brimstone isn't faintly seductive.

He stays silent, waiting.