snake. He found the mother coiled up with three babies that had yet to squirm away. Had yet to slay their first victims. Jesse trembled as he took sight of the now defenseless creature and blew a hole right through her.
“Die, you bitch!” Jesse screamed as the rattler fell limp.
Jesse rushed back toward Shane but tripped on an embedded object at the mouth of the spring. He fell at Shane’s feet. “Goddamnit!” Jesse shouted, looking back to see the rusty metal he had dislodged. “What the hell?”
His mind briefly diverted from Shane’s suffering to the dislodged obstruction. He scraped wet pine needles away and clawed with his fingertips, using one finger to outline a smooth metal surface. Jesse darted his eyes back and forth looking for a stick, as he feared that the forest floor might be alive, slithering. The mountain soughed as the wind whistled through the pines. Jesse’s senses had never been so heightened. His trembling fingers picked up a stick. He used the tip to outline a metal shape that slowly became recognizable as he unearthed over a century’s worth of humus to free the rusty relic.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “An old double-barrel shotgun. Son of a bitch! Hey, Shane!”
There was no response, and no response would come. Shane’s chin dug into his chest as his lifeless eyes fixed on the poisoned soil between his legs. Jesse had been seduced by the moment and possessed by his archeological find at precisely the moment that Shane’s life expired.
“Shane!” Jesse shook Shane, snapping his fingers and using his inadequate skills to revive him as he leaned the rusty shotgun against the boulder. “Shane!” There was no response and no pulse. Only a corpse remained that resembled Shane, except that his grotesquely swollen throat made it appear that he had two rotting heads stacked atop his torso.
“I’ll go get help!”
Jesse knew that it was too late to help Shane, but couldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. He needed to do something, to take action, so he had to move—had to get help. If not for Shane, then for himself. In the midst of 100,000 acres of Rabun County’s undeveloped wilderness, Jesse stood in a state of shock and tried to remember where he was, why he was there, and how he got there. He shook his head as he forced the cobwebs out and looked back through the pine thicket and back to the brambles.
“That’s right,” Jesse said, as if Shane could still hear him. “That’s the way.”
He took off toward the brambles and stopped after thirty yards to look back at the cathedral’s lone landmark. The enormous granite boulder was now adorned with a man leaning against its side, motionless, as if sleeping. Shane Samuel Dixon didn’t appear dead, only slumbering peacefully at the spot where Joshua Dixon’s brother had died so cruelly in 1898 along with his wife and children. Now, Joshua’s great-great grandson lay with them.
Jesse forged ahead. “I gotta get back...I gotta get help,” Jesse said aloud, alone. Shane was no longer there to respond, but Jesse’s inner voice was.
Sure you do , the voice said, but can you find the way?
Chapter 7
Blake stood outside The Olive Twist on Washington Street. He would have preferred a pub or sports bar, just for old times sake, but there was always the outside possibility that someone would recognize him, want to buy him a drink and tell him what a shame it was what had happened. He knew it wouldn’t be likely since he wasn’t topical in Athens anymore, but with glossy black hair and a six-foot, four-inch muscular frame, he might rekindle a memory. That’s not what he wanted. He needed to unwind, alone, and to think. The Olive Twist was a more relaxed, upscale bar, and it would do nicely.
A green canopy channeled visitors into the bar. Blake pulled open the smoked glass door and walked in. He removed his sunglasses and surveyed the room. The lights were dimmed, and the darkness contrasted starkly with the
“Die, you bitch!” Jesse screamed as the rattler fell limp.
Jesse rushed back toward Shane but tripped on an embedded object at the mouth of the spring. He fell at Shane’s feet. “Goddamnit!” Jesse shouted, looking back to see the rusty metal he had dislodged. “What the hell?”
His mind briefly diverted from Shane’s suffering to the dislodged obstruction. He scraped wet pine needles away and clawed with his fingertips, using one finger to outline a smooth metal surface. Jesse darted his eyes back and forth looking for a stick, as he feared that the forest floor might be alive, slithering. The mountain soughed as the wind whistled through the pines. Jesse’s senses had never been so heightened. His trembling fingers picked up a stick. He used the tip to outline a metal shape that slowly became recognizable as he unearthed over a century’s worth of humus to free the rusty relic.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “An old double-barrel shotgun. Son of a bitch! Hey, Shane!”
There was no response, and no response would come. Shane’s chin dug into his chest as his lifeless eyes fixed on the poisoned soil between his legs. Jesse had been seduced by the moment and possessed by his archeological find at precisely the moment that Shane’s life expired.
“Shane!” Jesse shook Shane, snapping his fingers and using his inadequate skills to revive him as he leaned the rusty shotgun against the boulder. “Shane!” There was no response and no pulse. Only a corpse remained that resembled Shane, except that his grotesquely swollen throat made it appear that he had two rotting heads stacked atop his torso.
“I’ll go get help!”
Jesse knew that it was too late to help Shane, but couldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. He needed to do something, to take action, so he had to move—had to get help. If not for Shane, then for himself. In the midst of 100,000 acres of Rabun County’s undeveloped wilderness, Jesse stood in a state of shock and tried to remember where he was, why he was there, and how he got there. He shook his head as he forced the cobwebs out and looked back through the pine thicket and back to the brambles.
“That’s right,” Jesse said, as if Shane could still hear him. “That’s the way.”
He took off toward the brambles and stopped after thirty yards to look back at the cathedral’s lone landmark. The enormous granite boulder was now adorned with a man leaning against its side, motionless, as if sleeping. Shane Samuel Dixon didn’t appear dead, only slumbering peacefully at the spot where Joshua Dixon’s brother had died so cruelly in 1898 along with his wife and children. Now, Joshua’s great-great grandson lay with them.
Jesse forged ahead. “I gotta get back...I gotta get help,” Jesse said aloud, alone. Shane was no longer there to respond, but Jesse’s inner voice was.
Sure you do , the voice said, but can you find the way?
Chapter 7
Blake stood outside The Olive Twist on Washington Street. He would have preferred a pub or sports bar, just for old times sake, but there was always the outside possibility that someone would recognize him, want to buy him a drink and tell him what a shame it was what had happened. He knew it wouldn’t be likely since he wasn’t topical in Athens anymore, but with glossy black hair and a six-foot, four-inch muscular frame, he might rekindle a memory. That’s not what he wanted. He needed to unwind, alone, and to think. The Olive Twist was a more relaxed, upscale bar, and it would do nicely.
A green canopy channeled visitors into the bar. Blake pulled open the smoked glass door and walked in. He removed his sunglasses and surveyed the room. The lights were dimmed, and the darkness contrasted starkly with the
Similar Books
![[Fae Scandals 1]Prince of Submission](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/545402/thumbs/152x264/fae-scandals-1prince-of-submission.jpg)
