See the Devil's Shadow: Uncommon Senses No. 5

By Terry A. Burgess

Sheila Myhra just wants to know why.
Why no one had ever prepared her for the responsibility of possessing incredible powers.
Why no one had ever told her how to use those powers to battle her renegade father and his pet Demon, Malphas.
So when a legendary lost explorer, a painted buffalo hide, a haunted antique desk, a cursed spear, a vengeful woman, earthquakes, a warrant for her arrest, and picking out wedding invitations all start vying for Sheila's attention, she seriously considers throwing in the towel.
Sheila longs for the normal life she led before she was drawn into the dark world of Demons, power-hungry humans, and her own incredible legacy. And when the Spear of Longinus the fabled Roman spear that pierced Jesus' side on the cross leads her father to a secret Christian society double-cross, Sheila's wish may come true sooner than she wants.
As Sheila and Driver's blessed day draws near, so do those that wish to see Sheila exposed and eliminated. Calling in favors from old and new friends alike, it will still take all of Sheila's power, cunning, and determination just to survive her wedding day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477127612

Terry A. Burgess

Terry Burgess lives in Fort Worth, Texas with his wife, Elisabeth, and their two cats, Beast and Wally. He enjoys xeriscape gardening, reading, and watching movies. Smell the Devil's Breath is his fourth novel in a planned series of five books featuring Sheila Myhra. Visit Terry on facebook for updates on his upcoming books.

Book preview

See the Devil’s

Shadow

Uncommon Senses No. 5

Untitled-1.jpg

TERRY A. BURGESS

Copyright © 2012 by Terry A. Burgess.

Author photo by Natalia Ferrante.

Library of Congress Control Number:                Pending

ISBN:                 Hardcover                          978-1-4771-2760-5

ISBN:                 Softcover                           978-1-4771-2759-9

ISBN:                 Ebook                               978-1-4771-2761-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

105386

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Author’s Notes:

About The Spear Of Destiny:

Acknowledgements:

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to the six brave men

who gave their lives for our Freedom on 29 March 2011:

Staff Sgt. Bryan A. Burgess, 29, of Cleburne, Texas.

Pfc. Dustin J. Feldhaus, 20, of Glendale, Arizona

Sergeant 1st Class Ofren Arrechaga, 28, of Hialeah, Florida

Staff Sgt. Frank E. Adamski, 26, of Moosup, Connecticut

Specialist Jameson L. Lindskog, 23, of Pleasanton, California

Pfc. Jeremy P. Faulkner, 23, of Griffin, Georgia

All gave some, some gave all.

We will never forget.

Other books in the Uncommon Senses series:

#1 Touch the Devil’s Tail

#2 Taste the Devil’s Blood

#3 Hear the Devil’s Cry

#4 Smell the Devil’s Breath

Praise for Touch the Devil’s Tail:

I enjoyed the book so much I read it twice and now my daughter wants to read it.

Dennia Marsh, Daingerfield, TX

Burgess’s cut-to-the-bone style of writing pulls the reader forward like a team of runaway horses.

Mom and Pop Books, Amazon.com

Stuck in bed with a cold, I picked up Touch the Devil’s Tail. I was so absorbed in the story that I didn’t want to put it down, not even to blow my nose!

Debi Barber, Fort Worth, TX

Brilliant!

Doris Burgess, Clyde, TX

From the first sentence of the prologue, I was hooked by this fascinating book! The author has obviously been gifted with an ability to weave and wind his way through a story, leaving his reader running as fast as possible to keep up and panting for every morsel.

Cindy Dodson, Midland, TX

This book has great suspense and action! Touch the Devil’s Tail is one good read… I can’t put it down!

Bryan, Fort Campbell, KY

Left me wanting more!

Judy Morris, Abilene, TX

I read the fist chapter of Touch the Devil’s Tail last night. Wow! Very engaging! I could relate to highway 34 and the Fort Worth area. I am in the Canton area. I am a fan of Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and Virginia Andrews, and your style is just as alluring and draws your readers in immediately.

Malana, Canton, TX

Sharing A Soldier’s Prayer

Praise for Taste the Devil’s Blood:

Wickedly good.

Shandra Dalke, Fort Worth, TX

Praise for Smell the Devil’s Breath:

A hold-on-to-your-seat rollercoaster of a ride!

Mom and Pop Books, Amazon.com

When we tug on a single thing in nature we find it attached to everything else.

John Muir

Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by the rulers as useful.

Seneca

The price of apathy is to be ruled by evil men.

Plato

The brightest flame casts the darkest shadow.

George RR Martin: A Clash of Kings

Prologue

Central Texas

AD 1536

Winter

The cold, starving, naked man paused. He had been traveling for nineteen days now across this uncharted land. He smelled acrid smoke in the harsh, blowing wind. That meant fire, warmth, and maybe food. From a small rise, he faced into the north wind, scanned the scrub-brush-spotted prairie, and perceived a faint glow behind a copse. As he neared the source of the smoke, he spotted a single burning tree. He looked at the tree, puzzled. The fire was not spreading. He had seen no lightning, nor heard any thunder. Why then was this tree ablaze? Was he delirious? As he approached, he noticed the wind had died down. The gentle warmth from the fire penetrated his skin, thawing his muscles and bones. Thoughts of a similar burning bush filled his mind with wonder. He thanked God for the miracle. He curled up, letting the warmth lull him, and he slept.

He awoke the next morning, very much alive, and noticed the tree still burning, yet not being consumed. The winter chill and the harsh north wind were being kept at bay by the Holy fire. He ventured out, hoping to find edible roots under the frozen ground. A large hare sat in his path. He killed the rabbit with one well-thrown rock. He returned to the tree, once again thanked God for his fortune, and filled his belly with the fresh meat.

The tree continued to burn. The winter wind stayed still. The man ventured farther and farther out.

The next day, he found another man. Dressed in the skins of animals, the stranger had propped himself against a large rock, a shaft of wood protruding from his left shoulder. The two men stared cautiously at each other for a long moment. Sensing no threat, the naked man approached the stranger and examined his angry and swollen wound. He carefully extracted the shaft from the man’s shoulder, placed his hands over the wound and prayed for the savage’s pain to subside. The savage seemed to have settled down so the explorer helped the man back to the burning tree. The wounded man’s eyes grew huge and round, but he settled in and pulled two pieces of dried meat from a leather pouch. They shared the meager meal. The wounded man removed his breeches and presented them to the naked man who gratefully accepted the gift and hastily pulled them over his thin, bare legs.

On the third day the man awoke to find he was all alone. The wounded man was gone, and in his place was a large bird, its neck recently broken. The man cooked and ate half the bird, saving the rest for the wounded man in case he returned.

The man walked to a bubbling stream he had found the previous day and quenched his thirst. When he returned to the burning tree yet one more surprise awaited him.

Wounded man stood before him with six other men and one woman who was mounted atop a solid white pony. They were all dressed in some type of animal skins. A basket of dried meats and fresh roots sat on the ground. Wounded man, who now seemed to be healed and in no pain, led another man to the forefront. The man was older, stooped over, and coughing constantly. They laid the old man near the burning tree. Wounded man and the five others with him solemnly watched the strange white man as he made odd motions over their chief. At one point, the man pressed his mouth to the chief’s forehead. The group ate the remains of the bird and several of the roots as their chief slumbered. The woman never dismounted the horse, and she never took her eyes from the man.

The explorer awoke, sitting upright and all of his senses sharpened. He was alone, covered with wool blankets and an animal skin shirt. He had no recollection of the previous night other than a vision of the woman’s eyes growing brighter, larger, filling his own eyes with a light brighter than any flame. The others were gone. The only trace of their existence was a basket full of roots and a smaller basket of glistening stones that sat near the tree. He noticed with a start that the tree was no longer burning, nor did it appear to have ever burned. He took a stone from the small basket and marveled at the crystal. As he turned it, the sun illuminated a golden thread running through the center of the crystal. He reverently placed the stone back into the basket. A horse whinnied nearby and he approached the animal with one of the roots. The pony greedily consumed the root and nudged the man in appreciation.

The man loaded the horse with the blankets, the two baskets, and then climbed onto the pony’s back. He headed east, into the rising sun. He noted on three different occasions during the day that the sun’s cast gave him two distinct shadows. He attributed the phenomenon to the strange, thin clouds that seemed to precede him on his journey.

After a three-day ride, he met others of his kind who had been exploring and searching for him. They marveled at his manner of dress and the basket full of quartz flecked with gold. They listened intently to his tales of the flaming tree and his interaction with the natives.

He was careful to keep silent about the miracle healings of the wounded man and the chief. The Church would consider such actions and stories as heresy.

In the wilderness that would someday become known as Texas, the story of Cabeza de Vaca, the man who healed the Chief by the flaming tree, passed from tribe to tribe, carefully handed down from generation to generation in the oral tradition.

One tribe commissioned three of their best artists to capture the event on a special buffalo hide. The three artists worked three days and nights on the hide. When the hide was declared finished, a special runner was chosen to deliver the gift to the Spanish encampment near the island where Cabeza de Vaca, the healer, was last seen.

The runner never returned. The gift was never acknowledged, and even as the natives were being slaughtered by the very people they revered, the name of Cabeza de Vaca was being whispered, carried on the wind by the last breath of those that lay dying.

475 years later…

The little house sitting on the southeast corner at the intersection of Texas FM 604 and FM 18 was old, tattered and in disrepair. Wooden shingles—some missing—barely hung onto the roof. The ill-fitting front door was sheltered by a dilapidated porch that was held together by nothing more than a dense tangle of bee-infested honeysuckle vine.

Two elderly sisters had lived in the house. They had seemed kind enough, but generally kept to themselves. Neighborhood boys mowed the large corner lot for five dollars, a basket of fresh-picked figs, and a loving pat on the head.

One of the sisters had been wheelchair-bound, for reasons either no one remembered or had long forgotten. Visitors sat in the front parlor on tiny wooden chairs that had not been designed for comfort. A large trunk sat on the floor in the parlor next to the doorway that led to a small bedroom. If a visitor was curious enough to ask, one of the sisters would open the lid of the trunk with an ear-piercing creak from the hinges and the visitor would be rewarded with a quick glimpse of a 1920’s stereoscope, several cards with the twin black-and-white images, and a lump of a blanket that appeared to be made of an animal hide. Then the lid would be closed and the subject would be changed.

The two spinsters had lived on the edge of the little town for as long as anyone could remember, yet not one other single resident would be able to recall ever seeing either of them in a local grocery store, church, or bank. They had raised no livestock and had no garden other than the acre of perfectly-aligned—and prolific—fig trees.

If any of their guests had been questioned, they would assure you that they had been received openly and that tea, coffee, cake, and sometimes fresh-baked cornbread and cheese would be offered. The little house had never been too cold or too hot, too bright or too dim.

The sisters died on the same day exactly one year apart. A non-denominational funeral was held at the Bailey-Howard Funeral Home. The director noted that a certain woman had attended both funerals. She was easy to remember. Petite, with shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair, and bright amber eyes. She didn’t cry, never spoke, and did not sign the guest register.

Three days after the second sister died, a large, brown-paper-wrapped package was delivered to a house on the southeast side of Fort Worth. There was a return address and there was a delivery address, but there was no postage. Had the mailman been questioned, he would have denied any knowledge of the package or of placing it on the large, covered porch of the old house.

Chapter 1

Rome. City of ancient history, heroic battles, and epic love. Sheila Myhra looked out the hotel window at the Tiber river flowing below. The rising sun reflected off the water’s surface as she looked farther east toward the Venice bridge and the glistening dome of The Basilica in Vatican City. It was a beautiful and breathtaking sight. A rogue cold front had settled over the city, confusing locals and tourists alike. The temperature had plunged overnight from the 80’s to the 30’s. Sheila shuddered and closed the curtains tightly against the vista.

Behind her in the main room, her fiancé, Driver, was gathering their things together and placing them in twin duffle bags. She watched him for a few minutes, admiring the way his dark, wavy hair moved back and forth across his forehead as he packed their clothes. He had kindly rejected her offer to help. She had long ago become accustomed to his particular way of packing.

Do you ever consider buying real luggage? she asked in a teasing voice.

These work just fine, thank you, he replied.

He paused long enough to send a brilliant smile her way.

You want that in the bag or are you going to carry it?

He pointed at an encyclopedia-sized, brown-paper-wrapped package laying on the bed.

I’m carrying it, Sheila answered. Then she asked, Are you sure we’re good to go?

This time a frown accompanied his pause.

Why? What are you feeling?

His dark brown eyes narrowed, suddenly cautious. His bronzed, muscled arms stopped in the middle of packing. Driver Arcuri, real name Guidatore, placed more faith in Sheila’s feelings than he did in the sun rising tomorrow.

Abe’s still at large. He won’t—he can’t—just let me go, she said quietly.

Driver nodded solemnly. Abraham Isaacs, Sheila’s father, was a threat not only to the two of them, but to all of Christianity as well. Her father’s main goal in life was to destroy religion’s hold over people, and thereby plunge the modern Christian world into chaos and anarchy. He had tried a half-dozen different ways to trick Sheila into using her powers to his own advantage.

From Sheila’s point of view, Abraham had failed.

But Sheila knew that did not necessarily mean Abe was going to give up.

CNN was on the television and a familiar image caught Sheila’s eye. She swept the remote off the bed, aimed it at the TV like a hand gun, turned the TV off, and then she dropped the remote back onto the bed.

Driver nodded at the dark TV as he finished packing. "It’s not over, and the longer you stay here the more likely someone is to put two and two together. I’ve got to get you out of Italy, away from Rome. Away from him."

She turned from the blank screen and looked at Driver. Her heart felt like stone. This was no longer just about Sheila and her powers. Driver had been drug into the middle of her fight and now a ghost from his own past was haunting him. Had actually tried to kill him. Driver had had a bad dream last night, waking her up as he mumbled and thrashed in his sleep. He seemed to be fighting his own Demons.

What about your sister, Hannah? she asked timidly.

What about her? he asked in a deep, low voice.

She’s still out there, too.

Driver wordlessly shoved one of his shirts into the duffle bag with unnecessary roughness and tied off the bag.

Sheila placed her hand on his arm and gently turned him toward her. They stood face-to-face.

We’re in this together. I know you feel like your first duty is to protect me, but I can take care of myself.

She regretted the last statement as soon as she said it.

I didn’t mean it that way, but even you have to admit that I’ve never been stronger.

Exactly! he replied with an abruptness that made her take a step back. That’s exactly why I’m worried.

He took the remote and turned the TV back on. CNN was still showing the fountain in Saint Peter’s Square where the Day of Miracles—as it was now being called—had occurred less than twenty-four hours ago.

"You did that. You." he said in a firm voice.

Sheila stared at the muted TV. A camera was sweeping the crowd of thousands packed into the plaza. Arms were waving, banners were fluttering, and confetti seemed to be falling from everywhere. The image faded and was replaced with a grainy camera shot of a woman’s back. The newscaster mouthed words that had already burned themselves into Sheila’s memory.

In a soft, but firm voice Driver said, Abraham is going to be the least of your worries.

Sheila’s heart of stone plunged into her belly. She knew Driver was right. The TV went off.

They both knew this was all far from being over.

Chapter 2

Sheila Myhra and Driver Arcuri were met in front of their house by two of Driver’s associates and closest friends, TJ, and Cleo. Sheila admired the two men, not only for their dedication to Driver, but also for their unselfish services to her. Both of the men were about Driver’s height, but they were slightly more muscular. TJ had close-cropped black hair and dark eyes while Cleo had an unruly head of sandy-brown hair and brown eyes. Sheila had seen both men in action, fighting not only for their own lives but also to protect her. Sheila knew little about them other than that both men had been trained by the Santa Alianza, a group dedicated to fighting evil in any form. Sheila had witnessed first-hand the way these men fought, and thought again how fortunate she was to have them on her side. The two men were always available when Driver needed them. They never seemed to rest.

After a twelve hour non-stop flight from Rome to DFW, and then an hour-long drive through rush-hour traffic to Fort Worth, the only thing Sheila wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed. She doubted her life would ever be that simple again. Instead of updating her social status online or flinging angry fowls at pigs she was destined to be constantly looking over her shoulder. Which she did now as a car drove past her house. She recognized it as one of her neighbor’s car. She forced herself to relax.

The three men lined up on the porch, leaving Sheila to stand alone on the lower step. Driver turned his back to a pouting Sheila and nodded to TJ, who switched on a handheld device that looked like a prop from a Star Wars movie. The device whined, and then a series of clicks emanated from the tiny speaker. A