Read Online Under His Wings by Naima Simone - Free Book Online Page A

her eyes, dusk had overtaken the day and
shadows stretched across her living room floor and walls. A shiver coursed
through her and, in turn, set off a clamor of aches demanding to be addressed.
Little men with chisels who whistled while they worked drilled the inside of
her skull. Her hip and leg complained just a little less vocally at her lying
in one position for so many hours.
    First meds. Then shower. And finally, bed. The five-hour
nap—give or take an hour—had only succeeded in making her more drained.
    Forty-five minutes later, she emerged from the steamy
bathroom into her bedroom, a towel wrapped around her, the ends tucked between
her breasts. Too exhausted to tangle with the rat’s nest on top of her head,
she’d pinned the heavy mass up for her shower. Even that slight tug on her
scalp had caused her to flinch in pain. As she released the clip and her curls
tumbled to her shoulders, she heaved a breath of relief.
    Tamar crossed the room toward her dresser. She pulled the
top drawer open and removed her favorite pair of cotton sleeping pants dotted
with martini glasses and a black tank top. Within seconds she had dropped the
towel and donned the pajamas, but as she retraced her steps over the hardwood
floor and caught her reflection in the large vanity mirror, reality slammed
into her.
    Resa. Image after image of her friend flashed through her
mind. Resa smiling, bouncing around in her perpetual perky manner. Resa
laughing, grin wide and open. Resa belting out a Broadway tune. Resa…dead,
gone, a victim of a madman. Or beast.
    “Jesus,” Tamar whispered and the tears besieged her, a flood
shattering the dam that had held back her grief and horror. Resa shouldn’t have
died like that—she hadn’t deserved the viciousness and terror of her death.
    Once the sobs welled and flowed, Tamar couldn’t stop them.
How long she stood there, submerged in tears, she didn’t know. It could have
been ten minutes or ten hours. When her sobs eventually abated, leaving a gaping,
empty hole in her chest, exhaustion pilfered every last reserve of strength she
had left.
    Thankfully her body took pity on her emotional state and
shut up. Her tread was smooth as she headed toward the bed. Passing the window,
she cast a cursory glance out toward her backyard.
    And froze.
    God. No.
    She was trapped in a nightmare, transported back to that
deadly night on the street with a monster wrapped in a man’s skin. Only the
monster now prowled her backyard.
    Its massive bulk, as wide as a minivan, crouched on her
grass. Wings that had easily spanned twelve feet folded alongside its body, the
hind hooves stamping out an impatient rhythm before stilling. Its rounded
eagle’s head cocked to the side as if it listened for the slightest movement
that would betray the location of its prey.
    Tamar was that prey.
    She knew it. Somehow he—it—had found her, tracked her to her
home and intended to finish the kill that had eluded it the night before. Her
heart slammed against her chest like a rabbit sighted by a great raptor. Yet
unlike that bunny which scampered for its life, she remained rooted in front of
the window, petrified with fear. If the eagle-horse-hybrid mutant happened to
tilt its head in the opposite direction, it would spot her. And attack.
    That mobilized her into action.
    She didn’t want to die.
    Not like Resa.
    Tamar whirled on her heel and ducked out of the line of
sight. She crab-crawled to the bedside lamp and tugged on the chain, plunging
the room into darkness except for the shaft of moonlight that beamed through
the window like a lighthouse beacon.
    The soundtrack of Resa’s death played in her head. Looping
over and over. The horrible cracking and crunching of bone. The awful wet
smacks she refused to analyze and identify. She straightened, scanning the room
for anything she could wield as a weapon. Her quick inspection skipped over the
fireplace then careened back to the iron poker. She raced over to the