The Soul Hunter (Dylan Foster Series #2) by Melanie Wells

By Melanie Wells

Peter Terry Returns A knock at her door. A bloody awl. A homicide weapon in her personal front room. The elusive white guy with the diminish on his again is out searching back, chasing souls. Peter Terry is haunting minds, invading desires, and wrecking lives. As Dylan Foster searches for solutions, she stumbles upon a dismal cult of angel worship. reminiscent of the times of Noah, it really is now blinding and intoxicating youth, best them to their deaths. during this conflict for souls, everything's up for grabs, leaving Dylan greedy for energy because the conflict rages round her. while ultimately she discovers the reality, it really is faraway from the reality she anticipated.

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Example text

I shifted the ax to my left hand and opened the door. David stepped in and flipped on the light, sucking in a quick breath as he got a look at me. “Sweet Moses,” he said, and began to move toward me. I backed up and raised the ax with both hands, stupid and wild with fear. I must have made a strange apparition. My white bathrobe was smeared with blood. My hands were smeared with blood. My wall and light switch were smeared with blood. He stopped and held his hands up. “Dylan. Come on, Sugar Pea.

The bench seat is cracked, patched with duct tape, and lets out a mighty squeak every time I hit a bump in the road. The paint is a nondescript shade that used to be brown, I think. And there is nothing automatic about it. Not the windows, the locks, or the transmission. It’s three-on-the-tree, stiff clutch and all. I love my truck. I have sort of a twisted sense of pride in that truck. I cruised the lot, circling several times before I finally found a spot as far away from the pool as it could possibly be, between a Mercedes convertible and a bright yellow Hummer, the largest street-legal passenger vehicle known to man.

Absolute dead silence. I found some matches, pried off the metal screen that obscured the pilot light (another invention of Satan, I’m certain), and spent half an hour trying unsuccessfully to light that stupid little blue flame. ) The procedure involved a bizarre gymnastic twist in which my left index finger held the gas button down while, with my right hand, I reached up inside the belly of the water heater to a little nib that was impossible to see from any angle. The flame had to be held on that nib for several long, awkward, painful seconds while a weak little stream of gas snaked its way up the tube.

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