Death Takes a Holiday

by Jennifer Harlow

  Midnight Ink

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Death Takes a Holiday: A F.R.E.A.K.S. Squad Investigation © 2013 by Jennifer Harlow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

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

  First e-book edition © 2013

  E-book ISBN: 9780738730547

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Carlos Lara Lopez

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightink.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Ryan, Liam, and Trevor:

  Thanks for helping to make me

  the tough broad I am today.

  Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger

  than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered …

  —Charles Dickens

  He’s obviously had Nana’s baked ziti.

  —Beatrice Alexander

  ONE

  IN LOVE AND WAR

  I SO HATE RUNNING. Especially when I have to do it or die.

  People who run for fun are mental. There are very few times humans should run, like when they’re being chased through the Everglades by a basilisk. Only reason I am right now. And the longer I run, the more I begin to think death is preferable.

  Panting harder than a geek at the Playboy mansion, my legs pump through the wooded area surrounding the swamp. The thick, wet mud covering my jeans and sneakers adds unneeded resistance, and I am no Flo-Jo to begin with. That huge snake is gaining. I probably shouldn’t have shot at it. It might have ignored me while it feasted on that alligator, but what was I supposed to do when I happened across a forty-foot snake with horned fangs and it flicked its tongue at me? Fire and run. Exactly.

  I race through a thicket of ferns before jumping across a small ravine. I land in more mud, my hands and feet enveloped. Without missing a beat, I leap up and continue my sprint. The thick trees I just passed rumble and shake as the basilisk charges through. She’s gaining. And mad. I hope she doesn’t know I was the one who smashed her eggs yesterday. I see an orange marker, the first one I put up. Almost there. Legs and lungs, don’t fail me now.

  My legs don’t listen. My foot catches on a stray root, and I tumble to the ground. A shooting pain vibrates through my left arm as I brace my fall. My knees hit at the same time, and hard fabric rips against my skin, stinging worse than a dozen bees. Acknowledging the pain wastes a second I don’t have. As I stand and turn, I see the basilisk clear the ravine about fifty yards away, gliding. Jesus, she’s like an anaconda on steroids. She moves upright, locomotion provided by her hindquarters. If a person meets a basilisk’s eyes, their brain hemorrhages within seconds and they drop dead—that is, if the venomous bite doesn’t get them first. This one has a white marking on its head but is otherwise brown. It’s one of those mythical creatures that are sadly not a myth. Like vampires. And werewolves. And people like me.

  I fill my mind with the image of the skinny, dying tree the snake is about to pass, yanking on it with all my might. It’s heavy. Heavier than I’d normally attempt. My temples throb as the trunk cracks louder than lightning, falling right on the snake. Timber. The snake hisses in pain but recovers within a second, bucking side to side to unpin herself. Her tail smacks the nearby trees, splitting one in half. Fascinating to watch, but it’s time to recommence the running. I vault over other fallen trees and smack branches out of my way, really wishing I had my machete, Bette, with me. The rumbling and quaking start again far too soon, but I don’t dare look back.

  “Bea?” Carl says over my earpiece. “Give me your status.”

  “Running. For. Life,” I pant. “Almost there.”

  I finally see the grassy clearing through the trees. I pump my legs for all they’re worth, trying to ignore not only my throbbing head but the hissing behind me. The trees part. I keep running. I don’t stop until I’m behind the two FBI agents toting flamethrowers. Agents Rushmore and Chandler, both in their thirties with brown and black crew cuts, respectively, don’t even acknowledge me as I pass. Their eyes, along with those of the other two men strategically waiting around the meadow, stay on the tree line. Carl, all five-six of him, holds a tranquilizer gun as big as he is off to the right. On the other side Agent Wolfe, another FBI agent, holds the same gun. No sign of Will.

  No sooner than I take my second much needed lungful of air does the basilisk slither out of the trees, fangs as tall as a man exposed. Cue the fireworks. Carl and Agent Wolfe shoot the darts into the belly of the beast. The snake whips toward Carl as his dart hits, then changes direction as Agent Wolfe’s makes contact. As those gunners reload, the fire brigade pulls their triggers. Two jets of fire blast from the guns, engulfing the snake. It shrieks in pain so loud that I have to cover my ears, its brown scales popping with blisters while other parts char black. Carl and Agent Wolfe shoot again as the fountain of fire continues. The basilisk hisses, turning to retreat.

  “Alexander!” Agent Chandler shouts.

  I know. I grip the snake’s head with my mind and keep hold. The throbbing intensifies as the ton of snake attempts to wrestle out of my invisible grasp. Psychokinesis, mind over matter, I’m told ya gotta love it. I only have to grasp her for a few seconds as two more darts finally knock the behemoth out. Her body slumps half in, half out of the forest and the ground shakes as I allow her head to fall with the rest of her. I wipe the blood streaming from my nose.

  The four men, guns still at the ready, slowly approach the slumbering giant. Smoke from the burns rises in patches. Strangely the smell isn’t too bad; not pleasant but not nauseating. Carl lightly kicks it.

  “Don’t kick the poisonous snake!” I admonish.

  “Sorry,” he says with a shrug.

  I walk—well, more like limp—toward the group. “I think it’s out.”

  “Are you okay?” Agent Wolfe asks as he scans me up and down. I must look like a mud monster, but these guys have seen me a lot worse. The mosquito bites don’t help. I seem to attract bloodsuckers by the droves.

  “Peachy,” I say.

  “What do we do with it now?” Agent Chandler asks me.

  “How should I know?”

  “This was you
r plan,” he responds a little harsher than I care for. Not that I don’t expect it from him. We haven’t exactly seen eye to eye on anything in months.

  The men stare at me, waiting for me to speak. My head hurts. I’m covered in Florida swampland. I’ve run close to a mile. And half my co-workers hate me. Now I have to dispose of a giant snake. How is this my life?

  But it is.

  Rolling my eyes, I move toward the van parked near the dirt access road. My girl is right where I left her, between the shotguns and Kevlar vests. She’s covered in silver with yellow flowers and her name, Bette, painted on her long blade. My machete shines in the sun like Excalibur. The team just stands there as I stalk back toward them. They part as I raise my girl over my head, bringing her down like an executioner’s axe, blood spewing as Bette slices. Red drops rain over me as I continue chopping through the five feet of flesh. For some reason the guttural shouting that accompanies each swipe makes me feel much better. It’s weird how much this doesn’t bother me. Four lops and the head severs. The river of blood almost reaches my ankles. These shoes are toast. The men leap away. I take a few deep breaths, quelling the anger and fear coursing through me before I look at them. “Burn it.”

  Agents Chandler and Rushmore nod. The rest of us step away as the flames begin, Carl and Agent Wolfe smartly moving the opposite direction from me. I make it a few feet before a not so friendly face springs out of the tree line holding a machine gun. His green eyes glance at the snake, then my blood-soaked form. A scowl forms on his face, a smirk on mine.

  “So glad you could join us, Will,” I say as my smile grows. “We finished without you.”

  The look he gives me is deadlier than any basilisk’s.

  I should be happy. Team Bea won this battle, but as Will walks away and I feel that ever-present anger wafting from him, instead I want to cry. War is hell.

  Especially when it’s not one you want to be fighting.

  Like most wars, the trouble had been brewing for years between the factions, but the shot heard round the world in this case occurred after my fellow F.R.E.A.K.S. member—of Federal Response to Extra-Sensory and Kindred Supernaturals—Oliver and I went undercover to stop a cabal of killer vampires. We did, but an old enemy of Oliver’s found out and tortured him almost to death. It was my fault. I let myself get kidnapped, and he had to save me. Will was there too, but he refused to help me rescue Oliver. A lot of bad blood there through the years. Will eventually stepped up at the last minute, but if I wasn’t there, he would have let Oliver die. And this was the man I have a raging crush on. My illusions were shattered. This was a man I admired, respected, and who I trusted with my life. My Prince Charming. I had no idea what to feel about Will’s tarnished image, so I chose avoidance. Plus there were more pressing matters after Dallas.

  Oliver was wrecked—emotionally, physically, and mentally. Because of me. I barely left his side. I spent most nights playing nurse, but not in the fun way. I got him blood, we watched TV, and we talked. Nothing more. Okay, there may have been one kiss involved, but that’s it. We didn’t even use tongues. And I only kissed him because he had saved my life and he was so wonderful to me and … I don’t really know why I did it. Seemed like a good idea at the time. The next time I saw him, I pretended it had never happened, and he followed suit. Nothing since. Though nobody, least of all Will, believes us.

  When I passed Will in the hallways, it didn’t take a psychic to know he was angry. He’d either pretend I wasn’t there or give me so much space he hugged the wall. Either way he never looked at me. Never spoke to me unless work related. The cold shoulder reached frostbite proportions when Oliver and I were together. We’d walk into the library or kitchen, and within thirty seconds Will would get up and leave. Knife to my heart every time.

  Things came to a head on an investigation in Maine two weeks after Dallas. A boy who could talk to animals was having them create diversions while he robbed convenience stores. It came to our attention when animals escaped from the zoo and began following the boy’s crush around. He was seventeen, and Lord knows even I did stupid stuff at seventeen, but Will’s plan was to go in guns blazing and arrest the kid. Oliver’s tactic was to talk to the boy; put the fear of God in him, but give him a second chance. No one had gotten hurt and the kid promised to give the money he stole back. Heck, the only reason he stole it was to get the girl a plane ticket to France for some band competition. The problem was that Oliver and I did this behind Will’s back. I tried to convince him of the road less scary, but he wouldn’t have listened even if I told him the world was round. He got a little shouty in front of everyone and half the team stuck up for me, the others not so much. Sides were chosen.

  Thus began the war.

  Those who believe what Will says is gospel include Agents Rushmore, Chandler, and Nancy, our teleporter. She just sides with him because she has a huge crush on Oliver and can’t stand that he and I spend so much together. Teenagers. Really I’m just an easy target for her anger about Irie’s death; I can take it. The others, Carl and Agent Wolfe, tend to side with us. Carl just does it because our approach is usually less threatening and dangerous. Agent Wolfe is using Will as his grief target; Irie was his girlfriend. I was there when it happened, and it was in no way Will’s fault. I even sat Agent Wolfe down telling him this, but he has to blame someone. The only one who refuses to participate in this idiocy is Andrew, our blind medium. He keeps his mouth shut at meetings, does his work, and leaves. Smart man.

  The first full-fledged battle started during a case in Seattle where we were helping a witch clear out a poltergeist. It was supposed to be easy, with us just handling the equipment and me catching the objects the ghost threw. But I went to the bathroom at the wrong time and Agent Rushmore suffered a concussion when the ghost tossed a mirror at him. The others jumped on me for leaving my post while my supporters defended me. The debate went on for ten minutes, scaring even the poltergeist away. The “Beatrice goes to the bathroom” fight ended in a draw, but it was one tense plane ride home.

  Things grew worse after that. Little arguments morphed into screaming matches. My favorite pieces of clothing disappeared from my locked room. The men refused to train with me or each other. On ops, people wouldn’t listen to each other’s opinions about even commonsense issues. Now the two factions can’t be in the same room together even though they’ve worked together for years. Our boss, Dr. George Black, tried to step in. He called Will, Oliver, and me into his office, but the men just sat there like sullen children while I shrunk in my chair from embarrassment. I found myself out of the mansion more and more, Oliver usually accompanying me. We’ve been to the mall or the movies in the past five months more times than I can count.

  Battle seven began yesterday, and I can safely say we won. We usually do. Last week a family out on their fan-boat came across the basilisk and the dad made the mistake of looking into its eyes. He dropped dead on the spot. Three others met the same fate the next day when a posse went after it. We were called in after that.

  After two days riding around on fan-boats run by men missing all but one of their teeth, trekking knee deep in mud and muck with alligators and snakes scurrying around, and enough mosquito bites for people to think I have the chicken pox, we still hadn’t found the basilisk. I suggested research—going through old newspapers to track all the sightings, not just relying on the eyewitness testimony from the last few weeks. Will vetoed the idea out of hand, saying we should concentrate on the places we knew it struck before. Of course I did the research anyway. I blew off the third day in the Glades for an air conditioned library. I narrowed it down to two spots a mile apart. This time the entire mosquito-ravaged, sunburnt team agreed to my plan. It worked, though I had the misfortune to have the “winning” zone, not Will. My snide comment after the kill didn’t help, but I couldn’t stop myself. Me and my big mouth. Now I feel like crud.

  So right now I sit on a jet divided. Again. On the right, the enemy is spaced out in five rows. Their l
eader rests in the front staring out the window deep in thought. I’m parked in the back with the nearest person two rows away. Even on the tiny plane I may as well be in Madagascar. This is standard now—my isolation. Oliver usually sits beside me on the night flights, but he’s below in the cargo right now. As I gaze at Will I feel an actual, physical pang of sadness. I’m tired. I’m so tired of all the drama. Of being the pariah slut of the F.R.E.A.K.S. I swear it’s not going to be the zombies or goblins that kill me, it’ll be a heart attack from all the stress.

  No more.

  Will’s troops eye me as I move down the aisle to the front of the plane. Nancy glances up from her iPad to sneer at me, but Agents Rushmore and Chandler stay deceptively neutral as I pass. With his super-werewolf hearing, Will probably heard me from the moment I stood up, but he doesn’t turn from the window as I lower myself next to him.

  My heart pitter-pats, as it always does when I’m near him. He’s so handsome that even now, after all this, I want to mash my lips against his, run my fingers through his thick brown hair, and … I should not be having these thoughts about the enemy. He’s a big man, almost a foot taller than me and thick. The two times we’ve hugged, the man has enveloped me. He’s muscled but not grotesquely so. Just sculpted. From behind he’s imposing, but his face strips most of the intimidation away. It’s rugged yet boyish with thin lips, strong jaw, and largeish crooked nose from a break in childhood. And his eyes. Green as grass and so kind. Well, they used to be.

  He displays no reaction as I settle in next to him. I don’t say a word for a few moments because, well, I have no idea what to say. I’m sorry? I have nothing to apologize for. I didn’t start this. Kiss me?

  “Yes?” he asks, still staring out the window.

  “I think we should talk,” I say quietly.

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Come on,” I scoff.

  His head whips toward me. “Fine. I have nothing to say to you.”