Read I Married the Third Horseman (Paranormal Romance and Divorce) for Free Online

outside the room was
a pair of giant paw prints. Whatever had made those prints, it had
claws. Big ones, like grizzly-bear sized.
    I slammed the door and collapsed in a corner,
crying my eyes out. Trapped, trapped, trapped! I had nowhere
to go, nowhere to run.
    Nowhere? Wait a minute...
    I forced myself to focus by gulping great
gasps of the cold morning air. There was one place I had left to
go. That is, if I hadn’t finally lost all of my marbles.
    Dora’s column, the one that had allowed me to
make what was probably the worst marriage decision in history, had
said: “Dancer of the Sun, proceed with caution. Live, do not be
afraid of love, and return to the beginning when all is lost.”
    Return to the beginning...
    I thought of the morning I first met
Mitchel.
    That was the day I’d read Dora’s column.
    It took me forty minutes of driving around
each and every damned strip mall in Bakersfield in the early
morning to find a newsstand that carried a paper with Dora’s
column. I eventually found a coin-operated machine that no one had
gotten around to vandalizing yet. Even better, it was right outside
a coffee shop.
    I shoved a handful of coins into the machine,
grabbed a very-much-needed caffeine transfusion, and commandeered
an empty table for myself. I took a couple long, unladylike slurps
from my extra-large caramel macchiato (extra shot of caramel, extra
shot of cream, because I sure as hell wasn’t counting calories
today) and spread the paper out on the table’s polished surface. I
rolled the warm, buttery-sweet taste of my drink over my tongue and
swallowed as I read the column.
    It was completely unlike any of Dora’s
missives before. Rather than rambling on for a full page about who
was boffing who in their sacred chakra, it was relatively short,
sweet, and to the point.
    The hair on the back of my neck stood on end
as I read it.
    “Dancer of the Sun,” it began, “you know the
doom which stalks you now. Return to where one lives on the castle
hill. Return to the place where forty dreams live at a time. Enter
the space that none dare speak of by name. The mother of all
riddles will help you. See you on the green.”
    “Oh, shit,” I said, and for emphasis, I
added, “Shit, shit and shit!”
    A businessman in a rumpled suit looked at me
from across the shop with a disapproving frown. I mouthed a ‘sorry’
back at him and his eyes swiveled back to the sports section of his
own paper.
    No, I hadn’t been cursing because of the
creepy-cool nature of the riddle. I’d cursed because it wasn’t a
riddle at all to me. It was as if Dora knew that I was going to
read that column, that she’d sent out a radio signal into my brain
at just the right frequency, using just the right words that I’d
know.
    It did occur to me that I was totally losing
it. That my brain had finally gotten fried between lack of sleep,
stress, and the syrupy sweetness of the caramel. Maybe I’d finally
crossed over into that never-never land where you’d be catching the
former Miss Topanga Canyon yapping away at parking meters and
spotting Elvis’ face on pieces of freshly made French toast. I
pressed my nails into the sides of my temples and forced myself to
inhale the blessedly caffeine-infused fumes of my drink until the
wave of panic subsided.
    Hell of a ‘Dancer of the Sun’ I made.
    That brought a snort of laughter out of me.
I’d ended up married to one of the Horsemen of the friggin’
Apocalypse, and now I was worried about losing it over seeing a
personalized message in an advice column?
    It looked like marriage really had changed my perspective on things.
    I chewed my lip as I read the message again.
Yeah, I was the Dancer of the Sun, and I sure knew the ‘doom’ that
stalked me. Intimately, as a matter of fact. As for returning to
‘where one lives on the castle hill’…that was a bit of trivia I’d
known since I was a kid. The Old English word for that kind of
place is Burbank . And Burbank, California was