Beauty is the Beast: Beasts Among Us - Book 1

by Jennifer Zamboni

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  FULL MOON

  Chapter 1: Co-Workers

  Chapter 2: Death

  Chapter 3: House Guest

  Chapter 4: Bubble Baths, Books, & Dinner

  LAST QUARTER

  Chapter 5: Interviews

  Chapter 6: Parasols & Sparring

  Chapter 7: Treats & Freaks

  Chapter 8: Late Night Mission

  NEW MOON

  Chapter 9: Farm Prep

  Chapter 10: An Invitation

  Chapter 11: Freak Out

  Chapter 12: The Replacement

  Chapter 13: Vampires

  FIRST QUARTER

  Chapter 14: Family Dinner

  Chapter 15: Club North

  Chapter 16: Mourning

  Chapter 17: Journalism

  FULL MOON

  Chapter 18: Wolf in Charge

  Chapter 19: Customer Appreciation Day

  Chapter 20: Secrets

  Chapter 21: Hair Show

  Chapter 22: The Festival

  Last Quarter

  Chapter 23: Drinking with Werewolves

  Chapter 24: Life or Death

  Chapter 25: Fight Night

  Chapter 26: It's a Date

  NEW MOON

  Chapter 27: The Killer is Who?!

  Epilogue: A Full Moon Later

  Acknowledgments

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Cover by: Mirella Santana

  www.mirellasantana.com.br

  Stock material used under rights from © Neostock- model Natalia & depositphotos

  Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Zamboni

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B07HZ5SR2Y

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-04284-7

  To my parents who read to me every night.

  &

  To the librarians at Newmarket Public Library who were so wonderful to this little bookworm.

  “What the—” I bolted upwards in my bed, rubbing the dent in my forehead and glancing around for my assailant.

  The shrieking of my cell phone beckoned my attention to the floor on the opposite side of my queen-sized bed.

  “Freaking house,” I growled.

  My phone had been plugged in on my bedside table, and just because I slept through—I checked the time and disabled my alarm—“15 minutes!” I yelped, dashing around my room throwing on black, slim fitted jeans and a grey square neck tee, slapping makeup on my face, and throwing my wildly curly hair into a french braid ending with a bun.

  Out in the sunlit hall, I ran into a slim, petite woman with sleek blonde hair, Lacey-Marie.

  “You look … different,” I said.

  “Good morning to you too. It’s fake and bake!” She spun in a slow circle. “Check it out, I don’t look dead anymore.”

  She stopped spinning, thrust out one hip, and planted her hand on it. “You overslept.”

  “Yeah, that’s not all that uncommon for me after a full moon.” I huffed and brushed past her.

  “I was thinking we could buy a spray tan booth.” She stopped me.

  “Um—” I glanced down at my caramel-colored arm.

  “Not for us, for the salon. I mean, of course I’ll use it too, but it would be great to get paid to own it.”

  She did look good, especially compared to her normal corpse pallor, but she smelled like chemicals to my nose.

  “You know you want the money.”

  I grumbled at that. “And we’re supposed to use all our free time spraying people with smelly goop? Have you not noticed how busy we’ve been?”

  “Oh, come on,” Lacey pleaded, clasping her hands and thrusting out her lower lip.

  Percy wandered down the hall, sticking one last bobby pin in her carefully designed updo.

  “Tell her a spray tan booth is a good investment for the salon.” Lacey turned her attention to our generously shaped thirty-something mediterranean friend, housemate, and business partner.

  “Gretchen is right. We might experiment with a booth sometime in the future, though. Perhaps even hire a tech to run it.”

  Percy, always our peacekeeper, found us some middle ground.

  “Come on, Gretchen,” Lacey pleaded with me again. “Please?”

  “Yeah, all right. Money, good. Fake and bake, good,” I assented to make her happy.

  I still didn’t like the idea of adding yet another odor to the salon. I know, I was more sensitive than most, but I didn’t think I’d ever be a fan.

  I wrinkled my nose at the smell wafting from my friend.

  Lacey sniffed her shoulder. “I did it this morning before you guys got up. Do I smell funky?”

  “You smell like something that crawled into a hole and died, as always. Let’s get some breakfast.”

  “Gee, you’re such a good friend. I detect grumpiness. I’m going to prescribe a dose of non-cranky tea and a big breakfast. There will be no biting the clientele. We want their money and their repeat business." Lacey shoved me forcibly enough to make me grumble. Normally a shove from a woman of her petite stature wouldn’t have affected me in the least, but Lacey is a special girl.

  “You love me. And I’m not grumpy, but you can feed me anyway. Or rather, Percy can feed me. I don’t think I’d eat anything you’d attempted to cook. It would run squealing from the table.” I shoved back, making her stagger to the side. I do have a slight size advantage.

  She shoved back once more before Percy broke us up.

  “Ladies, we haven’t even started the day yet."

  “Right, which means we don't have to be professional and shit yet. How about it? Wanna give bottle tan a whirl, Percy? I bought a bunch of different shades.” Lacey wasn’t giving up.

  I didn’t think Bahama Mama was exactly the right color match for Percy’s olive skin.

  “No thanks, dear. My hair’s done for the day. And really, who knows what that stuff will do when it comes in contact with hairspray?”

  “She’s already gorgeous. We wouldn’t be getting business otherwise.” I yawned and stretched.

  “What time is it?” Lacey-Marie glanced around for a clock.

  “We’ve got plenty of time. A good breakfast is in order for both of you. You’re so skinny.” Percy prodded Lacey's waifish ribcage.

  Lacey looked down at herself and pouted. "It's not my fault I never grew any boobs. I never got a chance to fill out."

  "You look good," I said. "Your makeup is fantastic today. What are you hiding under all that goop?"

  "You'll never find out," she promised. "I'd still rather have your boobs. And your butt. And your waist."

  "Seriously?" I rolled my eyes. I'm just a product of my muddled heritage. I used to work hard to keep fit, but now it came naturally.

  Lacey glared at me.

  “Sounds good, Percy. I’m in the mood for eggs,” I said, deliberately changing the subject.

  “Eggs for you and me then, and a red smoothie for you, Lacey?” asked Percy.

  “Red’s my favorite color,” said Lacey.

  “Pink’s your favorite color,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, I know, but not when it comes to smoothies. You’re so argumentative this morning.” Lacey rolled her eyes at me.

  “So are you,” I pointed out.

  “No, I’m not."

  “Girls! Kitchen, now!” Percy came between us, and placed a palm on the smalls of each of our backs, pushing us toward the door.

  My stomach growled loudly, telling me we’d spent way too long staring at Lacey-Marie.

  We felt the house pulsate once, twi
ce, as if rejecting the idea of a new piece of technology. Percy’s mansion was old and living. I’m not saying it had character; I’m saying the house was alive. Mostly it just moves rooms around, but it is most definitely sentient. Like now. I had intended to follow the others to the kitchen and ended up in the pantry instead.

  “Really? I’m starving.”

  Oh, pantry, there is technically food here, I thought then proceeded to the kitchen to join the others, used to the house’s quirks after years of living with them.

  I scarfed down my food so I’d have extra time to get ready for work.

  Olympian’s Salon was inside the enormous house we all shared and Percy owned. Lacey and I moved in not long after we started booth renting from her.

  The big old fashioned vanity that served as my station only needed a cursory inspection. I usually cleaned up at night, but something always sneaked past my attention. A bobby pin here, a brush there. My combs needed attention, so I picked up my sanitation jar, dumped the soapy smelling mess in one of the shampoo bowls, and rinsed my combs thoroughly. I refilled my jar with clean solution and placed my now damp combs in a drawer.

  Percy entered through the salon’s back door, depositing a steaming mug of herbal tea into my hands that smelled strongly of lavender and lemon.

  "Thanks," I said, then lit some lavender-scented candles, sat down in my chair, and sipped while I waited for opening.

  Percy knows me well. The more mellow I start the day, the better things go.

  “No problem. I left a full thermos on the table.” Percy pointed at the silver monstrosity that carried the massive quantity of tea that I consumed daily. It stood on the little table we kept our drinks and a bowl of trail mix on for our personal use.

  “Thanks,” I repeated, sliding down in my chair so my neck and head were supported against the back, which still smelled faintly of customers and long-washed-away product.

  Lacey joined us, chomping peppermint gum and reeking of cigarettes.

  I wrinkled my nose at the scent, being a non-smoker.

  “I know, I know. I’m just walking by.” She turned around and dug in her own station, coming up with a bottle of sweet pea-scented body spray. A couple of squirts went directly onto her clothing, then a squirt into the air over her head.

  “Happy?” she asked.

  “Ecstatic.”

  The bell over the front door rang as one of our stylists, Penny, and her brand new boyfriend, Scott, dashed in.

  "Made it in time today!" The petite brunette removed her jacket and fluffed her hair.

  “Ready to open, ladies?” Percy didn’t wait for our answer, just flipped over the ‘Open’ sign on the front door.

  Penny gave her boyfriend a quick kiss. "Thanks for the ride, babe. See you tonight!"

  "No problem. See you later. Bye, Gretchen," said Scott with a wave.

  I waved in return as he headed out the door. I'd introduced Penny to Scott, who was the bass player in the band I was a member of, several months ago. They had started dating recently and didn’t appear to be all that serious about each other. Or at least Scott wasn’t serious. Penny seemed to be oblivious to his flirtations with other women, or she didn’t care.

  The bell over the double doors rang, bringing with it a rush of cool morning air, warming earth, and exhaust. All four of our heads popped to attention. Client number one. Who was the lucky winner? Me.

  I blew out my candles and followed the others to the front desk. Each of us flipped through our appointment books, mentally preparing ourselves for the day. The monster inside me was already pushing at its cage. Being cooped up wasn’t my thing, but I loved my job.

  The young woman closing the door was Magan Marchessault. She struggled to free herself from one of her coat sleeves, then deposited it, and her purse, onto one of the seats in the waiting area, releasing the scent of paper, laundry detergent, rose water, and nail polish.

  “I’m an absolute mess. I’ve got a meeting at noon with a major client, and I can’t, just can’t, show up looking like this.” Magan pointed to the inch-long roots that were barely noticeable in her light brown hair.

  “Come on over, Magan. I’ll get you fixed up. Just a color today, or do you did you want a trim as well?” I motioned her over to my chair. Whoever had taken the appointment, probably Lacey by the handwriting, hadn’t noted a cut, but that meant absolutely nothing.

  The bell over the door rang again.

  “You have to get a cut, it’s in your eyes. I’m the mother, you don’t get a choice.” Mrs. Cordwell admonished her son, Lunden.

  Great, a walk-in. Lunden was one of my regulars, but I really wished they’d made an appointment.

  “Gretchen, he’s absolutely got to get this mop cut. Please tell me you have time,” she pleaded with me.

  I glanced between Magan in my chair and the eleven-year-old and his perfect looking mother.

  “I’ll try to squeeze you in. Give me half an hour. It’s going to be tight, and I’m not guaranteeing anything.” Hopefully, Magan wouldn’t take me too long to foil today. Her hair wasn’t particularly thick, but she was always in a hurry and liked my complete attention.

  “Fine. It’s got to be done.” Mrs. Cordwell tugged her son’s arm, wandering towards the museum to kill time.

  It’s not a real museum, just old salon and barber shop paraphernalia Percy has collected over the years. Fascinating to us cosmetologist types, a little frightening for the general public, especially the old perming machine that dominated the display in its own glass display cage.

  I left them to it and hurried to the back room, pulling up Magan’s client file on the computer and writing myself a quick sticky note of instructions. I selected two bottles of color, developer, a measuring bowl, and a color brush. I measured in natural level 9 color, with a dash of ash, then added a dollop of developer. Magan’s hair tended to pull warm, so ash was needed, no matter what. The result would be an exact match for her already existing blond highlights.

  Just as the strong chemicals wafted up and stung my nostrils, the house kicked the air filtrations system on.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, grabbing a mini whisk and homogenizing the chemicals, then dropping in the brush. I already had a pile of foils on my station, so I was good to go.

  I covered Magan in a large plastic cape that resembled a spray-painted garbage bag, sectioned her out with clips, and got down to business. Once I got into my rhythm, I didn’t even have to think about my foil placements.

  Magan lacked a healthy social life, so we talked mostly about her work.

  I sealed down the last foil with a flourish. “All right, you’ve got about 30 minutes. Feel free to grab a cup of coffee and catch up on the latest gossip. I’m gonna have you process in the waiting area, if that’s okay with you."

  “Sure.” Magan got up, wandered over to one of the comfy chairs, and settled herself in.

  “Come on over, Lundan. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  He dragged his feet, but he made it to my chair under his own steam. I admit, I hurried through his cut. I combed it this way and that, checking for anything crazy uneven. I was booked solid for the day, and I really didn’t have the time.

  I just finished sweeping up when my next client came in. Good timing.

  Lacey and Percy were whipping out the styles as well. It happened when we all took appointments for each other.

  Clippers on, squirt it down, scissor over the top, don’t chop a knuckle, and it was time to rinse my highlight.

  I guzzled tea in between clients, taking deep breaths to keep myself level-headed in the chaos, and kept going. Lacey was doing the same mad rush, only with caffeine. I don’t do well with caffeine. I get irritated easily. Lacey, on the other hand, had no problem with it whatsoever.

  Percy managed to keep us both stocked up while sipping her water. The woman was magical. She was just as busy, but still relaxed, and raking in the tips.

  My last client of the day was Mem Franz, and she arrived
promptly at 6:30. She was one of my favorites, a flamboyant older woman, who was a high school French teacher. She always had the best stories about her kids and she always smelled like fresh laundry.

  “Gretchen, give an old lady a hand. What can you do about this?” She pointed at her dyed blonde hair.

  “I think a good trim should do the trick. It doesn’t look too wild, just a little shaggy,” I suggested, feathering my fingers through her ends.

  “Perfect. Can I get a shampoo first? That’s my favorite part.”

  “Of course.” I ushered her over to the shampoo station with a gentle hand on the back of her shoulder.

  The shampoo was most people’s favorite part. I suppose it’s relaxing. I don’t really have feelings either way about having another person washing my hair, but whatever.

  She laid back, folding her hands over her ample tummy, and closed her eyes with a sigh. She didn’t chatter at me until I had her seated and caped.

  Hers was an easy cut. I just had to follow the same lines I’d cut the month before when I’d taken her waist length hair up to her shoulders and put in some long layers. The extra bounce added youth to her style, which better fitted her personality. At 66 or so, she was showing no signs of slowing down.

  I hated when my older clients started declining. It meant that I was going to lose them. Even if I only saw them once a month or so, they became my friends.

  “I chaperoned a field trip today. It was wonderful to get out of the classroom. Kids should get out more often,” said Mem, sitting perfectly still as I combed and cut.

  “Where’d you take them?”

  “Hiking. Just some local trails. Easy stuff, but they’re going stir crazy, and we’ve got three more months to go.”

  Mem’s husband looked up from the newspaper he was reading, and smiled at her in the mirror, before going back to his article.

  We settled into easy conversation born of a long client/hairdresser relationship. After blow drying her hair, I had her put on the glasses that hung from a beaded chain around her neck.

  “What do you think?” I asked, standing by her side with an arm around her shoulder as she inspected herself in the mirror.

  “Perfect, dear.” She patted my hand and smiled.