DEATH SUITS HER_A Supernatural Reverse Harem Romance Adventure Read online

  “You’re making this worse than it needs to be,” Jessup says.

  Vic’s head cants, the top of his gown opening to reveal cuts in the shape of a ‘Y’ that snake down his deflated pecs. The kind of pattern that’s left after a medical examiner yanks an organ-tree out over a breastbone.

  “I’ve got a family for chrissakes!” Vic spits.

  “Shame you killed them twelve hours ago,” I say, with anger flowing through my body and into my voice.

  Dominic steps up.

  “Then, four hours ago, you sucked down a bottle of Klonopin,” he says.

  “And seventeen minutes ago, you entered our domain,” Brody adds.

  Vic’s eyes blaze, he knows the jig is up.

  “You’re not sending me down!” he barks. “I’m going to fulfill my pleasures up here where I deserve to be.”

  “He’s fully ambulatory, Jess,” Hines warns. “Time’s up!”

  In a flash of movement, Vic torques his body and runs headfirst into a wall. He plows through sheetrock with a maniac’s speed and strength.

  Jessup takes off in pursuit, galloping like a halfback, shoulder down, gun out, trying to get a clear shot.

  Vic skitters through wall after wall in the low-ceilinged building.

  Terrified tenants shriek.

  Jessup aims at Vic who stumbles into the building’s brick outer wall, nowhere to run as he wheels around. His reddened eyes widen as Jessup bores down on him like a freight train.

  Jessup tackles Vic and slams him through the brick wall with a tremendous crash.

  I think about jumping down to help, but I’d be more in the way at the moment than not.

  Instead, I lean off the edge, train my weapon toward the general vicinity of the dust and debris, and wait for my moment.

  Outside the apartment building, Jessup and Vic plummet two stories in a hail of masonry and twisted rebar, smashing into an alley.

  Jessup wheels around and pulls his sidearm on the abomination that was Vic Jacobs until a short time ago.

  The orange hue of dawn creeps into the alley, illuminating Vic, who presses a busted bottle to the neck of a homeless man. He draws a tiny drop of blood.

  “I’ll take him with me if you don’t drop the fucking gun!” Vic screams.

  Jessup keeps his pistol pointed at Vic’s head.

  I try to get a clear shot but can’t. The homeless man doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage.

  “Careful, Vic,” Jessup begins, “I’ve got enough holy rounds in this sucker to go psycho on your soul.”

  Vic brings the bottle over his head, ready to plunge the sharp end into the innocent bystander’s head.

  “Go to Hell, motherfucker!” he shouts.

  I still can’t get a clean shot. The homeless person is directly in my line of sight.

  Technically, we’re allowed collateral damage, but I’m not okay with that in any way shape or form. We’re here to protect them. If we fail at that, then what good are we, really?

  “You first,” Jessup says.

  Vic’s eyes widen as Jessup fires directly at the hostage with holy rounds that will pierce right through him and into Vic.

  Jessup is less hesitant about what happens to those in close proximity to our battles. He believes that saving multiple lives is worth having to let a few along the way become casualties of war.

  He’s the only one in the group with that philosophy. It’s part of why he’s the team leader now. He’s never failed a mission, unlike me, because he’s always been willing to do whatever it takes to defeat the enemy even if it means innocent people dying.

  I don’t agree, but it’s hard to contend with his success rate.

  Vic jerks his human shield to the right and avoids the blast, but it’s a mistake.

  I’ve got line of sight now.

  I fire a single shot from above, sending brimstone down on the motherfucker.

  Right as the holy round is about to plummet into him, though, Vic looks up. That shouldn’t be possible. How can he know that I’ve fired so quickly? How could anyone respond that fast? Something’s off. A recently deceased human turned demon shouldn’t know how we operate.

  Vic swings the innocent homeless person around to block my shot.

  The round continues streaking, almost in slow motion, on a beeline for him. Right as it’s about to pierce through the bystander, the round splits apart into two separate flechettes, pointed steel projectiles with vaned tails for stable flight, that bend around his head and slam into Vic’s face, ripping it to shreds.

  His body reels back, and bursts of dark light erupt from his eye sockets!

  Vic’s body twitches and then crumbles into pixelated cubes that sizzle on the asphalt like burnt animal flesh.

  2

  The Innocent

  A side door swings open and slams into the side of the building to reveal Dominic and Brody.

  They’ve made their way back through the apartment building and out into the alley.

  “Right on time,” Jessup jokes.

  “Looks like you didn’t need us,” Dominic replies.

  Jessup looks up to me.

  Dominic and Brody follow his eyes.

  Their gaze lands on me.

  “It was all Samya,” Jessup explains. “She got him.”

  I appreciate the acknowledgement but I’m not in this for accolades.

  Jessup knows that.

  He knows I want revenge and justice for what these fuckers have done to the ones I love, for what they did to Michael.

  From Jessup’s perspective, however, he wants me to aim for more than the satisfaction of vengeance.

  It’s his opinion that I can be more, that I can do more than our former leader, Michael the archangel did, but he’s never been specific about what exactly he has in mind.

  He’s always a bit cryptic like that.

  He thinks others should just know what he means when he only says a few words.

  I tend to disagree. I want clarity.

  Still, I appreciate that he’s given credit where credit is due.

  With the team’s eyes still trained on me, I hook in a small stake to the side of the apartment building, attach my carabiner, and rappel down to the alley.

  My feet smash into the ground, stirring up dust.

  I march over to the scene of the crime and look down at Vic’s shattered face.

  He’s barely recognizable at this point.

  Dominic retrieves a palm-sized, funky-looking and oddly-shaped containment grenade from a pouch on his Kevlar vest.

  Close up, the grenade appears to be made of glittering and translucent material.

  Sirens wail in the distance as I take and place the grenade on the ground.

  In less than a second, every pixelated piece of Vic Jacobs gets sucked inside it in a plume of golden mist.

  Once the deed is done, I peer in closer than I should.

  On the inside of the grenade, there’s movement. Vic’s soul is trapped like a firefly in a bottle.

  On Jessup’s command, the rest of the team disappears down the alley and heads for our ride.

  I turn and face the homeless person who had been held hostage.

  I shoot him the most intimidating glare I can muster.

  I’m not usually the type to try and fluster someone, but it’s my turn to clean up.

  I prefer to simply take action and get it done.

  This person doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment, though. He’s only caught up in a war he knows nothing about and is probably about to wet himself.

  Besides, he has warm eyes and doesn’t scare when I step toward him.

  I need to calm him down, so he can sleep at night…at some point.

  “Wh—who are you?” he stutters.

  “The ones who watch,” I say.

  “Watch what?” he asks.

  “Do you really wanna know?”

  “U-uh, I-I’m not sure,” he answers. “Should anyone know?”

  I smirk and s
tep in close, making sure to let my sidearm that splintered Vic’s face dangle in front of my waist.

  “You don’t,” I reply. “Now disappear, and if you ever hear anyone ask about this, slip out of the room and don’t chime in. If you ever get asked directly, say nothing. Say you were out of it, hungover. Anything you want. But don’t tell them anything else. We’re here to protect you. That’s all that matters. Am I coming across clearly, or do I need to rant and do this the hard way?”

  “I-I think I’ve got it,” he says and starts to shuffle in the opposite direction.

  As he shuffles away, though, I notice his torn boots that have holes in them.

  There’s that feeling again. I never know when it’s going to hit.

  The guilt, the empathy for all the innocents who know so little and still get caught in the maelstrom.

  They deserve better.

  I’m not supposed to do this, but I can’t help myself. I stop him and pull out a wad of petty cash that was originally meant to buy intel on Vic.

  We didn’t need it, as it turned out, but HQ doesn’t need to know that.

  As far as they’re concerned, I’ll be filing a report that multiple sources were difficult and demanded more than the usual.

  I slip the cash into the left breast pocket of his tattered camouflage fatigues.

  This close to him, I can tell that the fatigues are old and worn.

  On his inner wrist, I spot a tattoo. It’s an image of three wolves to the top right of a crest with a skull on the bottom left and a Marine Corps emblem in the center. He’s a veteran.

  “Thank you,” he says. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to,” I say. “And I’ll do more. If I can. When I have time. I’m sorry, but I have to go right now. You live around here?”

  He chuckles.

  “I live wherever I can find some peace,” he answers. “There’s too much war in the world. Peace is all I’ve ever wanted. Got a name?”

  “I’m Samya,” I say. “It’s best if I don’t know your name, though. The less involved you are, the safer you are.”

  “I go by—” he begins to answer.

  I cut him off.

  “Thanks,” I say. “But don’t tell me, please. Do you think you can stay within a five-block radius? I’ll find you later if that’s okay.”

  He nods and saunters off.

  I chase after my team.

  They’re hustling down the alley through a soot-stained fog-bank, so I pick up my pace faster than I should.

  The Order trained us not to spend unnecessary energy, but I don’t want to have to explain why I was delayed. The last thing I need is a lecture from Jessup.

  The standing protocol is that we leave no witnesses in our fight against death unless they provide the potential for ongoing source intel or assistance.

  We’re supposed to end them or erase their memories, depending on the situation.

  In my opinion, however, FUCK THAT!

  The world should know about the danger that lurks beneath. They should be prepared, but I’m not in charge, not anymore, so I don’t get to make those decisions.

  I handle my part of the battle and let the fancy folk make policy.

  This is always the hard part, and now I’m going to have to come up with some excuse as to why I didn’t wipe the bystander’s memory like I’m some kind of G-man disappearing into the night and covering up a conspiracy.

  The truth is that I am part of covering up something pretty big, but it’s not a conspiracy.

  It’s more like a threat that if exposed would cause worldwide panic and collapse society.

  It’s not my prerogative to decide what’s known to the public and what’s not.

  Perhaps I should follow the rules and just obey every order I’m given.

  I failed as a leader once, and the ones we answer to now know that.

  Perhaps I should have wiped the homeless man’s memory.

  That’s the problem with free will. You never know how a choice is going to turn out.

  Hindsight’s not only twenty-twenty. It’s a bitch as well.

  I’m too personally invested and afraid of making the wrong choice again to take on the responsibility of making the ‘right’ choice.

  Once I’m caught up with the rest of the team, I take a moment to slow down and catch my breath.

  As I do so, my eyes dart up and take in the skyline.

  The tops of French and Spanish Creole architecture stretch out across the cityscape. The two tallest buildings rise like horns on some great beast.

  The place where decisions get made, the Saint Louis Cathedral, is just out of sight and appears farther away than it is. It watches over the city in the same way we do. That’s where The Order is operating out of in this part of the world, keeping tabs on incursions and demonic threats.

  Right in front of us is an amusement park.

  Tourists and residents alike have fun and games on the surface while we confront death in the underbelly.

  It’s in moments like this one that I wonder if I should thank the ones I hate.

  They took everything that mattered to me and gave me purpose, but, if I ever get the chance, I WILL END THEM!

  The enemy also indirectly gave me a reason not to worry about going too far and making sure I made it home safe at night.

  Maybe that will change one day, but I’m afraid of it because it might make me less effective and deadly.

  At this point, I’ll risk biting the bullet to make certain that we win and not them. Judge me, hate me, but don’t underestimate me. I will fight back.

  The team’s footfalls interrupt my thoughts and pull me back into the moment.

  They’re moving to an armor-plated black Suburban with a bumper sticker that says, ‘Angels Watch Over Me.’

  Dawn has broken, and the sun caresses the horizon.

  Once everyone’s inside, I notice Brody glaring at the ‘grenade.’

  He pulls out a hunk of white chalk and begins scrawling.

  He marks an ‘X’ on the bare metal of the Suburban’s metal floor, right next to hundreds of other ‘X’s.’

  This ritual is familiar to me, and I know it by heart.

  I don’t even need to watch to know that next they’ll shout victory in unison and mark the battle physically and emotionally.

  They do this every time.

  I love it, I do, but today, something about the vet who got caught up in our crossfire and almost died weighs on my mind and makes me wonder if I’m really on the right path.

  ‘Am I doing it right?’ is not something a special operator should be thinking about while in combat against the armies of Hell, and we’re always in combat.

  Still, there’s a feeling poking at me that I can’t push away.

  I don’t know what it is yet, but this battle wasn’t just another smash and grab.

  There’s something different about what went down, and I need to know why.

  I’m not sure why it feels so important to me just yet, but there was something about that split second when Vic stared me right in the eye when he shouldn’t have been able to know I was about to blast him to smithereens.

  That odd little moment is getting to me.

  Something’s changed, and I have to know what’s behind it.

  3

  The Rules of War and Love

  On the city streets, the Suburban coasts through wounded sections of town. Abandoned warehouses, empty docks, and graffiti-covered concrete walls litter the landscape.

  Parts of the city are up and coming again. Other parts have been left neglected.

  New Orleans is known for its distinctive French and Spanish Creole heritage, which has resulted in a strong Roman Catholic tradition.

  The city’s architecture, Cajun and French and Spanish Creole cuisine, its history as the birthplace of jazz, Mardi Gras, and cultural heritage has led to nicknames, such as the Crescent City because of the flow of the Mississippi River through and around the ter
ritory, the Big Easy from its history as a relative place of ease for musicians to find work in the early twentieth century, and the City that Care Forgot due to the outwardly easy-going and carefree nature of residents.

  The city is officially named after the Duke of Orleans, who reigned as a Regent for Louis XV.

  The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New Orleans is the second-oldest diocese in the United States. Our Lady of Prompt Succor and Saint Louis, former King of France, are the patron saints of the archdiocese.

  The most well-known church in the New Orleans Archdiocese is the Saint Louis Cathedral that fronts the Spanish Plaza de Armas, Jackson Square, built in 1718. The modest building has suffered destruction from fires several times in the past.

  Most streets in the city span out from a central point.

  The Suburban stalks along Canal Street. We make our way along Rampart Street in the French Quarter. We rush right past the Saint Louis Cathedral. We’re not going there yet. Our current destination is the outpost, aka our fiefdom.

  We pass by large antebellum homes, Creole cottages with large courtyards and intricate iron balconies, more than one European-style Catholic cemetery, and countless French Creole homes that have broad roofs extending over porches, wooden columns, and French doors with small panes of glass.

  We come upon low-rise bungalows with lofts and sloping roofs.

  We pass by ‘shotgun houses,’ which have narrow rectangular shapes.

  We’re close to home base now.

  We turn down a street full of bungalows and slow down.

  When we reach the oldest one on the street, the Suburban rolls to a halt close to the sidewalk, and we wait for the signal.

  Our bungalow has seen better days. It wouldn’t hurt to have a home and garden makeover at some point.

  One, two, three, one, two, three, I count in my head. I hate being out in the open and unmoving like this.

  It makes us an easy target. As far as recent intel reports indicate, the enemy hasn’t found our home base, but I’m not a fan of sitting still for too long.

  Sure, we’re safe at the moment, until we aren’t.

  That’s the advantage of an ambush. In the very spot you think is safest, they can strike first before you even have a chance to take up defenses.