Fatal Sight (Harbingers Of Death Book 2) by LeAnn Mason (book club reads .TXT) 📕

could quell my supernatural abilities and forget this mess, ditch this pin on the map of my journey.

Moving on was a fact of my life, and I’d done it countless times. If I had to pick up and go yet again, it wouldn’t be a big deal, except… except these people, these harbingers were more like me than anyone I’d encountered before.

Like a slap in the face, I realized that I desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, to be wanted. Not only was my self-reliant shell cracking, the nerves exposed, but that hope was drowning. After losing Jessica, they’d never accept me.

That hurt more than it should have. It had only been a couple of months, a handful of weeks, but I’d had glimpses of what life could be.

Cole was watchful and protective like a big brother.

Ember was aloof but sage, piping up to deliver pieces of advice for whatever lesson I was entrenched in.

Raven, though a raving bitch, was very alert and cunning. She’d played more than a few pranks and initiation hazes on me, the only things about my presence that seemed to bring her joy. Was that what it was like to have a sister?

And Seke… Seke was like the smolderingly hot guy at work. The one you eye-fucked constantly, just imagining what kind of moves gave him that groove. Tension around that man, that god, was intense and only getting hotter.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he returned the sentiment, but nothing had come of the little touches, the innuendos, the full-body pinning. That one kiss had been cut short and never repeated... leaving me wanting. I needed relief. Well, other than self-served. I was doing fine there, but damn it, a banshee needed more!

Shit, now I was all hot and bothered again. Maybe a shower was in order before a nap would even be possible. Besides, my hair was greasy, my face dry, and my body chaffed from the scratchy prison duds. Once I was clean and dry, I’d fill my face holes with all the little metal piercings that I’d removed prior to our latest prison stint. The piercings were a security blanket I apparently still needed. It made me feel like I was the badass their look telegraphed. Like I could handle anything.

I steered my way across my bedroom to grab some comfy clothes to sleep in: a tank top and cotton boxers. Seeing the small wooden box carved with Celtic knots, I snapped it up, bringing it with me to the washroom.

Shower. Sleep. Then,celebration of life.

Were we allowed to be drunk for that?

5

I had never attended a celebration of life before. But celebration was not a word I’d put on the brochure.

When Mom went, dad was pissed… and got pissed until we moved on. Then, when Dad was killed, well, it just left me. Without knowing the details surrounding his death, I’d flown the coop and been on the move since, not settling still long enough to have time to grieve.

That’s what the lessons taught me: When something goes wrong, don’t linger. Get out as fast as you can.

I couldn’t peace-out in the midst of a memorial without the somber crowd standing around the carefully arranged altar—shrine?—going berserk. I’d also had to stay and say my piece like everyone else in the most awkward, albeit shortest speech ever. Otherwise, I would have been tackled by a raven, who’d love an excuse to peck my eyes out, and dragged back before the makeshift altar by a ruthless hellhound and fiery phoenix.

So, I stood there patiently and respectfully until we were dismissed. Okay, maybe not patiently. I suffered. With my heart full of guilt and a sense of alienation weighing me down, by the time we hit that last, long silence, the need to ditch was like an itch in the seat of my pants.

The silence hadn’t been complete. It was punctuated by sniffles from Ember and a faint, pained, canine whine that I was pretty sure Cole wasn’t even aware he was making. I didn’t belong there, wasn’t worthy of standing before the photo of the gorgeous siren smiling out from behind the glass with lush red lips and a mischievous twinkle in her unfairly thick-lashed eyes — the epitome of perfection. And what was I but an unwanted, defective banshee who’d last seen said siren drowning under a sea of orange, being pulled under by dozens of groping hands?

When Seke decided to close the service with an old recording of Jessica’s siren song, well, the options were to take my leave with dignity or seal my own death by jumping the god on the spot in front of his hateful, trained fighters like a bitch in heat. That siren’s melodies were potent shit. Listening to Jessica’s music was like taking a shot of lust potion straight to the vein.

Bowing my head to show reverence, I peaced the fuck out, no one stopping me from leaving. They didn’t want me there either.

Now, I was cowering in the bunker’s silent library, trying to pretend like Seke hadn’t said he would find me once they’d all finished saying their goodbyes.

The thought of him tracking me down here, where we would be alone, was doing nothing to simmer down the heat still coursing gently in my veins. The cold shower’s effects had long since worn off, reminding me of the cycle of heat I’d perpetually been in around the god, including minutes ago at Jessica’s Celebration of Life.

My eyes lost their focus on the page of the old tome nestled in my lap as I revisited that moment of inappropriate attraction.

Seke had moved forward, adjusting the arm on an old record player, the needle scratching before settling into a new melody. The cooing soprano was similar to the song I’d heard Jessica belt out before she got mobbed. While he’d stared down at the spinning record, a lock of hair had dripped over his arresting hazel eyes, and his full