Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

Morgan fought the desire to get up and run, instead pressing forward into his hand. As he took the chance to feel her soft curves, she retrieved the USB key from her pocket. Palming it, she turned towards him, trying to glaze her eyes in a parody of drunken lust. She could hear the band winding up their song, the chorus on its third repetition. She bent her head, her lips meeting his and as he closed his eyes, she felt behind her for the USB port.

  The man’s thick tongue plundered Morgan’s mouth, all sense of his job forgotten as he groped her breast with one hand and with the other pulled her firmly onto his stiffening crotch. Just one more second, Morgan thought, her body desperate to pull away as she tried to dock the USB key. She felt the click and she leaned away from the man, smiling coquettishly. He said something in Hungarian, no doubt some version of “let’s go somewhere more private later,” his hand never leaving her breast. Everything in Morgan screamed at her to use her Krav Maga close combat skills and get out of there, but she had to stay and make sure that the video was delivered.

  She smiled again, nodding as if in agreement, glancing over his shoulder at the screen. Nothing had changed and the band played on, with the video of militant propaganda still playing in the background. Had something gone wrong?

  “What are you doing here?” The voice was rough and heavily accented. Morgan felt a hand on her arm pull her away from the technician’s lap. She found herself staring into the dark eyes of Hollo Berényi, his black hair shining, like an oil slick hiding the lifeless depths beneath.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I’m on holiday,” Morgan said. “And I wanted to meet the band.” She smiled at Berényi, forcing flirtation into her gaze, fully aware of what this man was capable of. “Are you part of the band?”

  Morgan’s senses were in overdrive. As Berényi’s eyes assessed her, she could feel his men drawing in closer behind, their interest sparked by her lewd behavior with the technician. She needed to get out of there, but so far, there was no change on the screen. Had the USB stick not been pushed in far enough?

  “I’ve seen you before,” Berényi said, suspicion growing in his eyes and an edge of menace creeping into his voice. “What are you really doing here?”

  The crowd started chanting as the band led them in another popular song, the chorus some kind of repetitive rant. But then the sound faltered, tailing off into silence as the giant screens flickered from the nationalist symbols to the view of a cavern lit by candlelight.

  Berényi noticed the change of mood and turned from Morgan towards the screen, his eyes widening as he saw the táltos cutting a piece of the Holy Right, and the face of László Vay rapt with wonder as he knelt to receive the dark Mass.

  Morgan took her chance to slip towards the barrier, but as she moved away, Berényi spun and caught her arm.

  “You,” he hissed. “Jew bitch.”

  He barked something in Hungarian and two of his men rushed forward to hold her as Morgan struggled to escape. She slipped from one grip, defending herself, but the other man caught her from behind. One meaty hand covered her mouth to quiet her, and her heart raced as she knew it was only a matter of time until Berényi would deal with her himself. She was pulled tight against the hard body of one of the guards, waiting for the order. She gathered her strength, focusing on the weak points of the man behind, her mind recalling her training in the Israeli Defense Force.

  The technician was frantically tapping at the computer, clearly unable to gain control of the screens again. He spotted the USB stick and pulled it from the side but the video kept on playing, a loop clearly focused on the Holy Right and Vay drinking the tainted wine. From her pinioned position, Morgan could see disgust dawning on the face of the crowd as Hungary’s golden boy showed his true colors. The press were filming and Morgan had no doubt that this was going out on national television, that the radio waves would be alive with gossip, and social media would be spreading the word. Some in the crowd held up their phones, recording the images and in this age of connectivity, there would be nowhere to hide from this scandal. Vay’s disappearance would be taken as a response to public shame, and he would be forgotten.

  Berényi spun from the technician’s desk, and Morgan could see indecision in his eyes. Should he go on stage now and take control for his party? Or should he disappear before he was tainted with the same disgrace? He walked toward her, and she could see in his eyes that he would make her pay for this outrage. He nodded at the men and they started pulling her backwards towards the curtained area behind the stage. It had to be now.

  Morgan bit the man’s hand, tearing at his flesh as she bent forward hard, shifting her centre of gravity so that the man was pulled over her. At the same time, she stomped back with her boot, raking the side of his calf. That opened up enough space for her arm to swing back and hit him once, twice, in the groin, all in a matter of a second. He grunted and let her go, clearly not expecting such resistance. Morgan spun away, arms raised in the open palm Krav Maga stance. She saw the other men pull batons from their waist pouches, flicking them to full length. Morgan knew that she couldn’t hold off this many, but she was determined not to go easily.

  The men advanced and then, suddenly, Berényi barked an order and they stopped. Morgan looked around to see two news crews filming them from the crowd, now focused on the drama unfolding around her. It was as if the real world had suddenly flooded into Hollo Berényi’s consciousness. He knew that there were too many witnesses to what he wanted to do and he wasn’t going down like his boss.

  The reporters called out to him, wanting a statement, but he spun away, walking quickly behind the stage followed by his men. The technician ran out after them, followed by the tenacious media, and soon Morgan was left alone at the side of the stage. The band members left sheepishly and the crowd began to disperse, the energy of the day sucked dry by the revelations of the video feed. There was an air of anti-climax, as the tension dissipated into gossip and the planned riot was forgotten. Morgan knew that the danger was over, at least for today.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Morgan sat on the steps of the synagogue, watching as a team from the local community swept up the broken glass and picked up the piles of rubbish. The Eröszak party was in disarray and the relic returned to the Basilica, so a tentative calm had descended on the city. A woman sang softly as she worked, a melody that Morgan recognized as a tune her father used to hum. It was a song of hope and resurrection that Jews had sung as they recovered from disaster in their long history. There was great pride in the woman’s cleaning, an attitude of prayer in her work, as if God saw her service.

  Zoltan came out from the doors behind her, his body stiff and arm in a sling.

  “Many Hungarian Jews have fled the country, but these people won’t leave,” he said. “This is their home and mine, despite its dangers. And I will stay to help them, because it’s not over, Morgan. It will never be over while the mob is only one degree away from violence.”

  Morgan knew that his words were true, for she had seen it for herself in the eyes of the people at Memento Park as well as all over the world on her travels.

  “You know where I stand, Zoltan,” she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Your people are my people and that is my truth, regardless of what others might say. I wasn’t born Jewish, but a part of my heart lies in Jerusalem, and now a part lies here.”

  Zoltan looked at her, and she saw past the scars to the man within. One day he would die in defense of justice. She knew that, and he probably did too, but his loyalty was to the downtrodden, to those who could not defend themselves. Morgan felt a spark of recognition, as she knew that there was a part of her that felt the same, but the ARKANE team was fast becoming her family, and she needed to get back to join them.

  She stood up, brushing the dust from her jeans. Zoltan held out his hand to shake hers.

  “You always have a place here, Morgan. And if you ever need me, I’ll come.”

  She ignored his hand, leaning forward to kiss
his scarred cheek. His fingertips briefly touched her back, and as she hugged him, she felt his stiffness relent and he embraced her in return. At last, she pulled away, smiling.

  “I’ll see you again, Zoltan. I’m sure of it.”

  Morgan walked out of the Dohany Street synagogue and into the waiting taxi, heading back to the airport and ARKANE.

  #

  As the car sped along, Morgan sat quietly for a moment, staring out at the same streets that she had passed so early this morning. Could it really have only been one day? It seemed that so much had happened.

  She sighed, finally turning her ARKANE cellphone back on, ready to return to her real world. There were several text messages from Martin Klein, the genius head archivist. The first text contained her updated flight information, but the second made her heart race. There’s a strange package waiting for you. The writing is faded and the sender is noted as Leon Sierra. But how could that be, she wondered. It was her father’s name and he had died several years ago, blown apart by a suicide bomber in Beersheba. Morgan was suddenly keen to get back and find out what was in the impossible package.

  THE END

  #

  Thanks for joining Morgan in Budapest!

  Enjoyed the story? Here’s what you can do next.

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  Have you read Morgan’s other adventures with ARKANE ?

  Available in print, ebook and audio formats.

  Pentecost

  Prophecy

  Exodus

  If you like darker crime novels, join Detective Jamie Brooke in:

  Desecration: Death isn’t always the end

  For short stories, with an edge of horror, try:

  A Thousand Fiendish Angels

  Author’s Note

  This novella is a work of fiction, but the inspiration for it comes from actual events and real places.

  I visited Budapest in November 2012 and was deeply affected by the horrific layers of history that the city has endured. The Dohany Street Synagogue and the House of Terror were devastating, and once I saw the Holy Hand of St Istvan in the Basilica, I knew what the crux of my story would be. I wanted to give a taste of the grand city in the book but also evoke visions of a day that seemed all too possible given the political situation. Here are some of my sources if you want to investigate further.

  Rise of right-wing nationalism in Hungary

  We like to think that the horrors of World War II couldn’t happen again, that we are too educated to succumb to ultra-nationalism or the persecution of minorities, that those things happen in other countries, to other people. But that belief is fiction.

  In December 2012, Hungary’s far-right Jobbik party called for lists of prominent Jews to be drawn up to “protect national security” http://bit.ly/14zRbCL . Anti-Semitic violence is growing in Eastern Europe http://reut.rs/SARA1x and in the wake of the European financial crisis and austerity measures, far right-wing parties are gaining popularity. European genocide happened as recently as the Bosnian War in the 1990s, so we can’t believe that such violence remains in the past or just in ‘other’ areas of the world. With this novella, I wanted to highlight the disturbing political situation, as well as the dark history of Budapest, whose people who have suffered so much.

  For more, see the following resources:

  ‘My week with Hungary’s Far Right’ by Brian Whelan: http://bit.ly/12TivWS

  You can watch part of the video documentary here: http://bit.ly/13PmB1u

  Official terror for Hungary’s Roma: http://bit.ly/AAHJLT

  Jewish community in Budapest

  The Gold Train and settlement are true http://bit.ly/177Shl8 but of course the involvement of ARKANE and the return of the painting is fictional.

  You can read more about the Dohany Street Synagogue, the mass grave and the ghetto here:

  http://www.greatsynagogue.hu/

  The Shoes of the Danube memorial: http://bit.ly/8hTopj

  Other Budapest City Landmarks

  All of the landmarks described in the city of Budapest do exist, although the events described in the book are of course fiction.

  You can see some of my photos and other pictures here: http://pinterest.com/jfpenn/budapest/

  The House of Terror is an incredible museum now, with the cells as described and rooms full of secret police memorabilia, as well as stories of those lost. http://www.terrorhaza.hu

  There really is a labyrinth under Castle Hill that was closed to the public in 2011 under strange circumstances. I have taken liberties with the internal geography, as I couldn’t visit, but you can watch a video on their website that gives you a sense of the place: http://www.labirintus.com/en/1003/gallery

  The Memento Park is full of large statues, a memorial to Communism http://www.mementopark.hu/

  About the Author

  Joanna Penn has a Master’s degree in Theology from the University of Oxford, Mansfield College and a Graduate Diploma in Psychology from the University of Auckland, New Zealand.

  She lives in London, England but spent 11 years in Australia and New Zealand. Joanna worked for 13 years as an international business consultant within the IT industry but is now a full-time author-entrepreneur. She is the author of the ARKANE series as well as other standalone books.

  Joanna is a PADI Divemaster and enjoys traveling as often as possible. She is obsessed with religion and psychology and loves to read, drink pinot noir and soak up European culture through art, architecture and food.

  You can sign up for Joanna’s newsletter and find out more about the ARKANE world here:

  www.JFPenn.com/list/

  Connect with Joanna online:

  (e) joanna@JFPenn.com

  (w) www.JFPenn.com

  (t) @thecreativepenn

  (f) http://www.facebook.com/JFPennAuthor

  http://pinterest.com/jfpenn/

  For writers:

  Joanna’s business http://www.TheCreativePenn.com helps people write, publish and market their books through articles, audio, video and online products as well as live workshops. Joanna is available internationally for speaking events aimed at writers, authors and entrepreneurs.

  Connect with Joanna on Twitter:

  @thecreativepenn

  Joanna also has a popular podcast for writers on iTunes:

  The Creative Penn

  DEAD CELEB

  DEAD CELEB SERIES — BOOK ONE

  MICHELE SCOTT

  ©2014 by Michele Scott

  Cover Design:

  BEAUTeBOOK

  Original Photography by César Sánchez Guerrero

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  DEDICATION

  For you Debbie Rosen because you get it!

  CHAPTER ONE

  MY NAME IS EVIE PRESTON and I hang out with dead rock stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I’ve learned quite a bit about those who live on the other side over the past few months. For instance, they aren’t all ghostly and transparent. Oh no. The ones I see are almost always in full- color and 3-D except when they exert, ah … certain energies. Then they go a bit hazy. Oh, and they prefer to be called spirits.

  Yeah, I know … I sound completely insane. Like, “commit me” insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Believe me, the first time I saw Bob Marley in my place (well, technically not my place, but I’ll get to that) in the Hollywood Hills, getting high and singing “Buffalo Soldier,” I thought I was either dreaming, hallucinating, or, yes, completely nuts. Thankfully, it was none of the above. In fact, Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes to hang out with me, along with a handful of oth
er deceased, famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite made the charts, one of whom I’ve recently developed feelings for—more about him later). So, not only do I hang out with dead rock stars, I also think I am in love with one, or at least in lust … which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy. I swear.

  Before I go any further, though, I need to take you back a few months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday. Welcome to Brady, Texas—population 5,500—and, according to the sign on the main road into town, “The Heart of Texas.” Truth be told, the signs were everywhere. Signs, that is, telling me to get the hell out of Brady.

  I was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place. Her house smelled of Tide, home cooking, and mothballs. Betty was comforting me over the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay presentation—my latest attempt at becoming an entrepreneur—which she’d kindly hosted.

  We were drinking apple-cranberry tea, with her Lhasa Apso,

  Princess, curled in a ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of indeterminate breed … possibly part-coyote and part-lab, with a dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, across my feet. I loved how Betty always let me bring Cass in the house. My dog went everywhere with me, but not everyone was as gracious about her presence as Betty.

  “I really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing the warm cup of tea to my lips.

  Betty smiled sympathetically, the fine lines in her eighty- something face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh, honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls today. I am so sorry. I thought there’d be at least ten of us. They all love my snickerdoodles. But you know how some of us old gals are; we forget things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun (or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been in to see my mother that morning for her weekly hair appointment.