The Soul Hunter by Melanie Wells Read Free Book Online Page A

in my purse, and then remembered how I was dressed. I looked like a homeless person. My jeans were ripped, my sweater old and pilled, and I had on my favorite ratty pair of thrift shop Converse All Stars. The red canvas ones. From, like, 1977. When Jimmy Carter was president.
    Jesus didn’t mind, I’m sure, but I think the people around me were a little taken aback. My church is pretty casual, but I was stretching even those limits today. I tried to cover up the hole in the knee of my jeans with my purse at first—a fringed leather version of a fig leaf, I guess—then gave up and focused on the service. It was about truth, handily enough, which it turns out is your best defense against evil. Nifty little fact to know. At least I had truth on my side.
    Church ended at ten thirty. Time to face the DPD. I headed home.
    No cruisers were waiting there for me. Detective Jackson had left a message on my machine, however. He wanted me to call when I got in.
    Stalling seemed good. I erased the message and threw my purse on the bar stool, then tossed my swim bag into the bedroomand emptied it out onto the bed. I could see my breath almost, it was so cold in my house. I kicked the on-switch on my space heater, then lit the gas heater in the bathroom, holding my hands over the blue flame for warmth. I hung my wet bathing suit on the shower curtain. It would probably freeze stiff hanging there.
    My house is almost a hundred years old. Built when the only central heat in Texas was the kind that came from the sun. Other than my state-of-the-art oil-filled space heater, the ancient gas wall unit was the only source of heat in this part of the house. Between the two of them, they did a fairly passable job most of the time.
    Striking the match reminded me of my hot water situation. Fighting off a level of rage completely disproportional to the problem at hand, I took my matches into the kitchen and stared at the water heater. I leaned in and listened hard for that annoying knocking sound it makes when it’s doing its job. All I heard was dead, stubborn silence.
    “Light,” I said, as though that would help.
    I held out my hands, rattling the matchbox and waving my fingers at the Whirlpool insignia. “In the name of Jeeeeesus,” I said in my best TV evangelist voice, “I command thee to light. Give thine heat to mine water.”
    I waggled my fingers some more, entertaining myself with the absurdity of it all. Still, if Peter Terry could blow the blasted thing out, why couldn’t God show up just this one teeny-weeny time and cut me a break?
    Whatever His reasons, He wasn’t saying. I was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way. I assumed the position and struck a match. As I reached inside the skin of the beast, I noticed for the first time the drippy rust stains that ran down the sides.
    It is a rule in the universe that one should never look at an appliance too closely. Especially an artifact generations removed from the moment of examination. Layers of sticky filth concealedwhat I suspected was formerly white paint. Or porcelain. Or whatever they made water heaters out of in the Stone Age. Maybe it was like a tree. A ring of filth for each year. I could probably saw it in half and find out how old it was.
    I blew out my match, unfolded myself, and retrieved my giant, industrial-sized bottle of Zep Orange Industrial Degreaser—invented by God, by the way, not Satan. I cracked open a brand new roll of Dawg Blue Mastiff Industrial Strength paper towels. I was armed and dangerous.
    In military terms, what happened next is known as “mission creep”—starting off with one discrete task and allowing it to expand exponentially into an amorphous monster of a project. This is what happens on Saturdays when I run errands. Running out and getting some milk turns into throwing an impromptu dinner party because the produce at the grocery store looks so fabulously fresh, and besides, they have the most wonderful organic, grain-fed beef