LYRE
"Ugh," I mutter, stepping deeper into the camper and waving a hand in front of my face. The stench of angelic essence burns my nostrils like bleach mixed with summer wind—concentrated Owen, basically. "Should've brought a gas mask."
The bodies of Archie and Doris lie neatly arranged on the RV's floor, hands crossed over their chests like they're auditioning for the world's most wholesome vampire flick. Not a drop of blood, not a sign of struggle. Just two elderly puppets with their strings cut, wearing placid expressions to make your skin crawl.
I've seen this before. Many, many times.
Owen steps around me, careful not to disturb the scene as he crouches beside the bodies. His own scent mingles with the stink emanating from the corpses.
"Are they your relatives?" I ask dryly, moving toward the tiny kitchen.
"Not mine." His voice carries a careful, measured tone. "But yes. Order. Likely angel-descended."
