I Married the Third Horseman (Paranormal Romance and Divorce) by Michael Angel Page A

single, incontrovertible fact: a quartet of the
friggin’ universe’s most powerful beings were after me.
    Not only did I refuse to pull over to do the
shiver, shimmy, and shake, I didn’t even stop for lunch. My stomach
had pulled a debutante’s diva-act and decided to go into seclusion
without leaving so much as a forwarding number.
    I drove for the rest of the day along the
state highways. These weren’t the ruler-straight five-laners that
most people think of when they cross this part of the country. No,
these were one-and-two lane squiggles of asphalt that wandered the
empty ranges of red candy-striped rock and pale green bushes
between Utah and Arizona.
    In the early afternoon, I had to stop and
refuel my hungry Germanic princess of a car. I did so at one of the
southern swings of the highway that took me within spitting
distance of the Arizona border. A chill wind blew up. Dust clung to
my cheek, and I wiped it away with a shudder.
    As soon as I got the pump nozzle set in the
tank, I went over to the ramshackle hut of a convenience store and
looked for the women’s bathroom. The cheap yellow cast of the light
– all fifteen generous watts, if that – made me look like I’d just
escaped from a burn center.
    That said, I completely gutted their bathroom
of paper towels and liquid hand soap. I scrubbed off the coating of
bacon grease on my face and forearms with the stubborn will of a
second-year film student. By the time I came out, my skin glowed,
as clean as I could possibly get it.
    A television screen had been duct-taped into
submission at the edge of the checkout counter. I’d come out in
time for the local news report. Apparently, a ‘freak sandstorm’ had
blown through the southwest corner of the state, knocking out power
to St. Christopher’s and causing a fire at a local eatery.
    Some quick clips of the Pork n’
Flapjack’s gutted remains. An even quicker clip of the
interview with the local fire chief. The man scratched his head,
his puzzlement evident as he spoke about the ‘big mystery’ as to
how so much of the structure had been consumed by the flames. Even
the ash.
    A shiver ran down my arm. “Quit it,” I said
to myself, though the bored cashier perked up a bit and gave me a
strange look.
    As I walked back out to my car, I sighed.
Figured that I’d need to get used to that.
    I drove onward as the sun turned into an
orange ball of flame. Did my best to ignore it as it began popping
up in my rear-view mirror. Dusk fell, and after the third yawn, I
consulted the GPS again.
    Not much out here. But the road arced through
the very bottom left corner of Colorado, and in the curve of that
bend was a decent-sized town – one with a brace of motels! – called
Puebla de la Guerra. Nice. Sounded quiet and out of the way, which
was just what I needed.
    It was a struggle to keep from dozing off as
I drove. So I sung show tunes and dumb jingles from the commercials
I’d worked on until I pulled into the town’s main street. It was
quiet, almost completely still, but the well-maintained street
lights and lack of iron bars on the motel windows was
encouraging.
    I stopped at a local mini-mart to top off my
tank again. My heart jumped as I spotted one of the daily papers
that carried Dora’s column. And while I still didn’t feel hungry, I
figured that I better have something around to snack on if my
stomach decided to stop pulling a Garbo and come back out into the
public eye.
    So, armed with my suitcase and a handbag
stuffed with a package of blueberry Pop-Tarts, a rolled up
newspaper, and a pair of ancient magic items, I drove across the
street to the closest motel. The clerk barely spared a glance up
from his newspaper to take my cash.
    In case you’re curious, I checked in as Ms. Macguffin . It’s an in-joke for people in my industry.
Trust me, it was appropriate.
    I back flopped onto the motel’s bed with a
creak of well-abused springs and a puff of lemon-scented room
deodorizer. My