The Seer's Lover (The Seven Archangels Series) by Kat de Falla Page A
Authors: Kat de Falla
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house, Lucas pulled back to slow the horse. Multiple rows of palm trees set back from the road surrounded the property. He dismounted far enough away not to be seen, then crept closer. The element of surprise provided his only advantage.
All the lights were off. He tiptoed around the place. Beside the bedroom window, he saw a pile of something. Stogey bolted ahead to check it out, and started whining. Lucas rushed over to quiet him. “Shh, Stogey, what is it?” Harley—not moving. Whip marks covering his back exposed bits of muscle and bone. They killed him for snooping around their bungalow. Stogey lay next to Harley and licked his face. The dog looked back and forth from Lucas to Harley.
“Harley, why did you have to follow them?” Lucas stroked his fur. “That little piece of shit, I’ll go kick his demon ass myself.” He headed for the bungalow, planning to bust inside.
The door stood ajar. A dark, sticky substance covered the handle.
He flashed back to the day he opened the door to his own bedroom and found his girlfriend, Becca hanging from a fan. He buried the memory, edged the door open and flipped on the light. His instinct proved correct…he’d smelled death.
Blood glistened in pools on the floor and splattered the walls. Bits of flesh and organs mixed with still moist pieces of clothing. Pink cotton turned to revolting crimson and lavender chiffon to matted black. Marla was dead.
Becca’s memory and Marla’s reality pierced him like a hunter’s arrow that missed the heart but hit the victim, leaving the prey to wander and bleed out over time. His failures coated his inadequacies in cruel repetition. Again, he’d been too late, merely a witness to the cold path of evil. Lucas reminded himself to breathe, which let in the odor of rank hygiene and disembowelment.
He turned out the light, pulled the door shut, and puked in the grass. He slumped into the soft dirt and let his face fall into his hands, wondering how many murders would be on his conscience before he ended up sitting in the institution beside his dad. Stogey stayed beside him, licking his hand.
He didn’t know how much time passed before he got up. Sunk in his own wretched failure and unable to muster the warrior blood which ran pure through his veins, Lucas buried Harley then made an anonymous call to the cops.
****
S eriously, I must be nuts.
Her full body wetsuit squeaking with every step, she lugged her surf board to the beach to join the rest of her class. They’d completed their morning of classroom training with Bob the instructor and were supposed to continue here on the beach with on shore practice.
She’d packed string bikinis and the wetsuit that she’d worn in mini-triathlons in frigid Midwest lakes. Not really apropos for the eighty degree coastal waters of Costa Rica, but better than losing her top.
Her class consisted of the couple from her resort and a third man whose chest rippled with muscles which seemed to divert the blood flow from his head. “You scared, Cali-not-from-California? Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable without that wetsuit on?” Mr. Muscles, whom she’d nicknamed “Icky McIcks” waggled his eyebrows at her and laughed. Giving McIcks a shot of her wearing a bikini in the surf where a boob could pop out at any time was so not going to happen. She’d sweat and be a dork even with the temperature at a sticky ninety-two.
“Yeah sweetheart, the surf’s a bathtub eighty-two. Don’t you want to strip down a bit?” The smell of pot oozed from Bob’s pores.
The woman from her resort, Erin, had on a short wetsuit and the men wore swim trunks. Calise knew she looked idiotic. Maybe I should wear a helmet . “I’m good.” She flashed Bob a little “no-thanks-let’s-get-this-show-on-the-road” thumbs up.
Erin leaned over. “I appreciate your attempt at being conservative around my husband after what happened yesterday, but you may have gone a little overboard.”
“What do
All the lights were off. He tiptoed around the place. Beside the bedroom window, he saw a pile of something. Stogey bolted ahead to check it out, and started whining. Lucas rushed over to quiet him. “Shh, Stogey, what is it?” Harley—not moving. Whip marks covering his back exposed bits of muscle and bone. They killed him for snooping around their bungalow. Stogey lay next to Harley and licked his face. The dog looked back and forth from Lucas to Harley.
“Harley, why did you have to follow them?” Lucas stroked his fur. “That little piece of shit, I’ll go kick his demon ass myself.” He headed for the bungalow, planning to bust inside.
The door stood ajar. A dark, sticky substance covered the handle.
He flashed back to the day he opened the door to his own bedroom and found his girlfriend, Becca hanging from a fan. He buried the memory, edged the door open and flipped on the light. His instinct proved correct…he’d smelled death.
Blood glistened in pools on the floor and splattered the walls. Bits of flesh and organs mixed with still moist pieces of clothing. Pink cotton turned to revolting crimson and lavender chiffon to matted black. Marla was dead.
Becca’s memory and Marla’s reality pierced him like a hunter’s arrow that missed the heart but hit the victim, leaving the prey to wander and bleed out over time. His failures coated his inadequacies in cruel repetition. Again, he’d been too late, merely a witness to the cold path of evil. Lucas reminded himself to breathe, which let in the odor of rank hygiene and disembowelment.
He turned out the light, pulled the door shut, and puked in the grass. He slumped into the soft dirt and let his face fall into his hands, wondering how many murders would be on his conscience before he ended up sitting in the institution beside his dad. Stogey stayed beside him, licking his hand.
He didn’t know how much time passed before he got up. Sunk in his own wretched failure and unable to muster the warrior blood which ran pure through his veins, Lucas buried Harley then made an anonymous call to the cops.
****
S eriously, I must be nuts.
Her full body wetsuit squeaking with every step, she lugged her surf board to the beach to join the rest of her class. They’d completed their morning of classroom training with Bob the instructor and were supposed to continue here on the beach with on shore practice.
She’d packed string bikinis and the wetsuit that she’d worn in mini-triathlons in frigid Midwest lakes. Not really apropos for the eighty degree coastal waters of Costa Rica, but better than losing her top.
Her class consisted of the couple from her resort and a third man whose chest rippled with muscles which seemed to divert the blood flow from his head. “You scared, Cali-not-from-California? Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable without that wetsuit on?” Mr. Muscles, whom she’d nicknamed “Icky McIcks” waggled his eyebrows at her and laughed. Giving McIcks a shot of her wearing a bikini in the surf where a boob could pop out at any time was so not going to happen. She’d sweat and be a dork even with the temperature at a sticky ninety-two.
“Yeah sweetheart, the surf’s a bathtub eighty-two. Don’t you want to strip down a bit?” The smell of pot oozed from Bob’s pores.
The woman from her resort, Erin, had on a short wetsuit and the men wore swim trunks. Calise knew she looked idiotic. Maybe I should wear a helmet . “I’m good.” She flashed Bob a little “no-thanks-let’s-get-this-show-on-the-road” thumbs up.
Erin leaned over. “I appreciate your attempt at being conservative around my husband after what happened yesterday, but you may have gone a little overboard.”
“What do
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