The sound of a closing door pulls me out of the night sky. Oh, wonderful. A shirtless Oliver, sporting only his red boxers, glides toward me. I scoff and roll my eyes. He places his towel on the chair nearest to me.
“I thought I would join you,” he says, slipping into the pool.
“Oh, you did, did you?” I say with another scoff.
“Yes, wife,” he says. “I did.”
Oh, crud. We’re in public. I should be happy to see my half-naked husband. I muster a smile. “Great.”
He swims toward me, pale arms gliding in the illuminated water, then past me with grin Number Two until he reaches the edge, where he stands. “We really must purchase you a bikini.”
“When pigs fly, pookie.”
“Come to me.” He beckons with his finger.
I swim to the edge. Immediately he grabs my hand, pulling me into him. I fall into his chest, and at the same time he slams my back into the edge. He presses his entire body onto mine so I’m wedged between concrete and a hot vamp. “What are you doing?”
He answers by lowering his head to my neck. My whole body tenses. The last time his mouth was that close to my neck, I was literally scarred for life. But my skin is met by lips, not fangs. I try to jump away, but can’t. He kisses my neck, twice, then a third time. The tension becomes tingles from toes to eyes. I can’t feel the cold water as my skin warms. My body, hussy it is, betrays me by pressing closer to his. His hard chest pushes into my breasts. My eyes close so there’s nothing but those warm lips, and his body on mine. I think my brain shuts off, especially the reason part. I feel nothing but … yum. My toes curl. A rush of warmth cascades down my body despite the cold water. I’ve imagined this, those lips on me. I run my fingers through his soft hair, tugging on it to bring his lips in tighter. His mouth moves to the other side with more soft kisses. It’s been a long, long time since someone’s kissed any part of me. Pol Pot could be kissing me this way, and I’d react. Right? That’s what I thought.
Oliver whispers something, but I’m in fairyland, so all I can muster is “Huh?”
The kisses stop. “I said we are being watched,” he whispers after another kiss.
I wrap my arms around his neck. “Oh.”
He pulls his mouth away. “It is not safe for you to wander around the house alone at night,” he whispers.
With his mouth nowhere near me, I can think again. Crud, there’s someone watching us. “Is that why you followed me?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
The door opens behind us. He leans in, kissing my nose. I giggle like a little girl. “You’re so silly.”
“I do hope I am not interrupting anything,” Marianna says.
I release Oliver, spinning around. Marianna saunters toward us, fake smile on her face. Her eyes give her away. They’re zeroed in on me. Oliver backs away. “We were just … swimming.”
“Is that what they are calling it nowadays?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Um, I think I’ve had enough swimming for one night,” I say. I walk toward the steps and grab my towel. As quick as I can, I wrap it around my wet body—but not fast enough, judging from the amused smile. I’m going to owe Nana a nickel: what a bitch. “Baby, are you coming?”
Oliver glances at me, then Marianna, then back to me. “Of course, my darling.”
Ha. Take that. I hand him his towel as he climbs out, unabashedly drinking his form in with my eyes. After he wraps the towel around his waist, I take his hand, entwining my fingers in his. I pull him toward the house, giving the unmistakably evil eye to Marianna as I pass. She scoffs.
“I will be up for the rest of the night Oliver, if you get bored,” she calls as we step inside. Lord, give me the strength not to stake her.
When we get back to our room I slam the door, hopefully waking up the termites so they can eat this house down around her. “I’m taking a shower,” I mutter.
“It is not wise to anger Marianna,” Oliver says picking up his clothes from the floor. “She has killed people for less than a cruel look.” He puts back on his pants, and when I walk back out from the bathroom, he’s buttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I have delivered you safely to the room, and now I shall give you privacy. I know you are exhausted.”
“You’re going to talk to her, aren’t you?”
“We are on precarious enough footing as it is. Any further trouble, and I fear we will not be able to keep our heads above water. I will attempt to smooth things over with her.”
“I don’t believe this! After how she treated me?”
“It must be done. This has nothing to do with—”
“You are such an unbelievable jerk! If you gave a damn about me you wouldn’t even think about her, let alone do what we both know you’re going to do! You kiss me, then you go and kiss her? You don’t care about me at all, do you? You pretend you do, and make me believe you do, and then you … and then you don’t … ugh! What kind of husband are you?”
Oh, crud did I just say that? We look at each other, unsure what the other is thinking. Heck, I don’t even know what I’m thinking. It was the kissing; it scrambled my brain. To his credit, a grin doesn’t form. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, looking away. “I’m tired. And this whole thing is just … I’m sorry. You can do whoever you want, I don’t care. No judgments. Um, have fun.” I shut the bathroom door before more stupid words burble out from either of us.
What the heck is wrong with me? It’s not as if Will was the one about to spend the night with that prozzie. I mean, he and I have future children to raise together, but Oliver is just … Oliver. So why the hell are there tears in my eyes?
Seven
The Witches of Winchester Place
When I got out of the shower, he was gone. No note, nothing. So I climbed into bed, shut off the lights, and fell asleep ten minutes later. Who knew anger and embarrassment were such good narcoleptics? I didn’t wake whenever he came in, but he must have, because when I woke up at ten this morning, his casket was locked. He probably stayed up until dawn “reminiscing” with that slut. Well, we’re supposed to be a typical married couple. Going to bed peeved at each other is a common characteristic.
Whatever. Not going to give it a second, okay fifth, thought. I’ve got murders to solve. No time for mixed emotions or flashbacks to those kisses. Those toe-curling kisses. I make appointments with Amanda and Petra, friends of victim number two, and Rochelle, girlfriend of victim number three. All of whom have conspicuous memory loss. Those dang vamps think they’re so slick, but I’m black ice.
Soon after I am driving up I-30 in my poly-blend gray suit and sensible black shoes—which had to be forced on due to last night’s escapades and still kill my poor footsies—on my way to Garland, Texas, to meet a witch. At least I’m traveling in style. I wanted the Aston Martin but thought it too conspicuous for a humble FBI agent. I settled on the black BMW, which I know isn’t much better, but it was the cheapest one in the garage. Rosanne Cash’s “Seven Year Ache” pounds on the stereo. I feel you, girl. Why is it when you’re dying to forget something, the world, especially the radio gods, seem to be against you? Before this song was “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bonnie Raitt. Just my luck. I pull off the freeway just as the Ache ends.
The GPS guides me though the suburb, which is close in ambiance to my own hometown. Strip malls, fast food restaurants, and movie theaters. It’s strange that you’d find a witch in such a normal place. A woman who not only can spot demons, produce love spells, but can also control earth/air/fire/water lives here. Not all witches can control the elements, only a “high priestess” or as I like to think of them, “uber-witches.”
The woman I’m meeting, Anna West, is an uber-witch according to George. He set up the meeting this morning and gave me the CliffsNotes on the woman. Not only is she a powerful witch, but she was a member of our motley crew about thirty years ago. George was in a tizzy about something, not his normal demean
or, so he wouldn’t tell me more than that. I wonder if she knew Oliver. I’d love to find out if he was as pompous a jackass then as he is now.
With a few quick turns, I leave behind the strip malls and enter a much nicer residential area. Sprinklers run on the lawns of ranch-style houses. I turn another corner. As in most neighborhoods now, all the houses look the same: boxy, too close together, two stories, beige. McMansions, I think they’re called. I call them boring. A few more GPS ordered turns put me in a more interesting neighborhood. Ranches here are mixed with two-stories made of stone, adobe, or wood. Some have trees, others just patches of lush grass. A woman in khakis and white tank walks her golden retriever down the sidewalk, ponytail swishing side to side. She eyes me as I pass. As do the sweating gardeners at their posts. I actually get a massive wave of déjà vu as I drive past a park where kids play on equipment. I suppose it’s possible I played here as a child, but there were so many different parks in my childhood that they all blend together. Whatever. I turn on Winchester Place past more houses.
“You have reached your destination,” the GPS says. She is so polite.
I stop the car in front of the white two-story, the only one with an honest-to-god white picket fence. Lining the fence on either side are holly bushes with those little red berries. The sprinklers douse the golf course–green grass and blooming oak tree. I feel as if I’m on the set of Leave it to Beaver, it’s so wholesome. This is the place I dreamed of as a child. A trailer was a poor substitute.
After putting on my jacket over the white shell top, I step out of the car into once-again soupy air. I walk through the gate and up the gray stone path to the front door. I push the doorbell, and a few seconds later a distorted figure appears on the other side of the hazy glass in the door. It swings open.
Okay, when someone says “witch” what immediately comes to mind is scraggly gray hair, warts, and hook nose. An old hag, basically. Boy, did I get it wrong. Anna West, uber-witch, is hands down one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She’s about five-seven, with a dancer’s figure. Thin, but muscular with curves right where they should be shown off in her black and white striped shirt and blue jeans. If she was in the F.R.E.A.K.S. thirty years ago, then she’s at least in her late forties, early fifties, but she looks better than any twenty year old. Her natural blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her Caribbean blue eyes are large and perfectly spaced above her small nose. Her thin lips must be naturally pink because I don’t think she’s wearing a stitch of makeup. It’s like she’s Grace Kelly redux.
“You must be Beatrice,” she says with a gracious smile.
“Yeah.”
“Well, come in. It’s an inferno out there.”
She steps aside to let me enter. Ha! She’s not perfect. I knew there had to be some flaw somewhere. Her house reeks of burnt sugar, skunk, and rotten eggs.
“Pardon the smell,” she says, closing the door. “Potions always have the most repugnant smell. That’s why I rarely do them.” The telephone rings. No doubt Revlon calling to offer her a multi-million dollar contract. “Will you please excuse me? I have to get that.”
“No problem.”
With another gracious smile, she walks into the room to my left, disappearing from sight. I’m never quite sure what to do in strange people’s homes. I don’t want to stand at the door staring at the steps. Snooping is always a good option.
I stroll into the room Anna walked into, which turns out to be the living room. The entire house must have hardwood floors. The large space is off-white with a grand piano taking up a corner. A fluffy gray couch sits across from the huge plasma TV with bookcases on either side. Magazines lie on the window seat against the bay windows with white gauzy curtains. The black leather recliner with cup holders seems out of place here. Her husband’s, no doubt. My attention is drawn to the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace. It’s the usual fare of old school photos of two boys, vacation shots, a wedding photo, and one of a handsome man with piercing blue eyes, pale skin, and thick dark red hair. It’s not the same man in the wedding photo or of the boys grown up. His face is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
The wedding photo intrigues me too. A young Anna, beauty queen beautiful in her white dress, stands next to a tall, gangly man with muddy brown hair parted on the side, wearing silver glasses and a tux. The same man, but with more in the middle and thinning hair, appears in several other pictures. It’s the background of the wedding photo that stops me. I pick it up. I know that globe off to the side and those books behind them. That’s the library at the mansion in Kansas where I live. Huh.
The door in the corner flips open as Anna walks in, carrying two glasses of lemonade. It swings closed behind her. I put the picture back.
“I thought you might like something to drink,” she says as she approaches. “The potion won’t be ready for another few minutes.”
I step from the fireplace, not looking at her. I always get caught. I should know better. I take the glass. “Thank you, I was just …”
“Snooping?” she asks with a smile.
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay. I do the same thing myself. Just can’t help it.” She picks up the wedding photo. “That’s my husband, Nathan.”
“You two were married at the mansion?” I ask, taking a sip of the drink. Sweet, just the way I like it.
“Yes. George gave me away.”
“Really? Your husband was in the F.R.E.A.K.S. too?”
“Uh huh. He was there when I was recruited.” She places the photo back in its place. “There is something about those life and death situations that breeds love. I wouldn’t be surprised if the team lost more members to inter-marriage than death. At least I hope so.” She walks over to the couch and sits, twisting her body so she’s still facing me.
“Is that why you left?”
“I got pregnant with my oldest almost right away, and Nathan was homesick. Seemed like a good time to retire.”
“How long were you two in?”
“I was only there about two years. Nathan, four. He was recruited after being struck by lightning four times in one week.”
I join her on the couch. “What can he do?”
“Control electricity. He’s made seven of our televisions explode.”
“Wow.”
“What about you? What’s your ‘gift’?” she asks doing the quotes with her fingers.
Always the show-off, I look at the coffee table in front of us and lift it with my mind. It hovers six inches off the ground before I lower it.
Anna seems impressed. “A psychokinetic. Don’t run into many of you. George must have been thrilled to find you.”
“I guess,” I say, feeling my cheeks go warm. I don’t take compliments well.
“How long have you been a F.R.E.A.K.?”
“Almost three months.”
“What did you do before?”
“I taught fourth grade.”
“You taught elementary school?” she asks, face slack in shock. “That’s a new one. Have you gotten used to it yet?”
“Not really. My first impulse is always to run the other way.”
“Sweetie, that’s just you being smart.”
I so want this woman to adopt me.
Anna folds her slim legs under her body and adjusts herself on the couch, inching closer to me. “It’s worthwhile work, no question. I was reluctant to join at first. Saving people … wasn’t really my bag. It got better, though.”
“How old were you when you joined?”
“Nineteen.”
“Wow. How did they find you?”
“Through a case,” she says, eyes leaving my face for the first time. Sadness hits me—her sadness. Not only am I able to move things with my mind, but I can feel strong emotions from others. If someone’s really nervous, angry, you name it, I know. I feel it. It sucks sometimes. Like now. This nice, beautiful woman should never feel this way.
“Which one?” I ask.
&n
bsp; “Um …” she looks at me again, face neutral, “D.C./Richmond area. Early eighties. Vampires murdered some witches.”
I spent two months reviewing cases when I was in training. That one sounds vaguely familiar. It takes a moment, but I remember. The Lord of D.C. was close to war with the same werewolves Will is with now. It was resolved before too many died, but while the team was there, three vamps slaughtered an entire family of witches in neighboring Goodnight, Virginia. One baddie got away, one’s fate was unknown (parts of the file were blacked out), and the last was presumed dead in a fire set by his companion, a nineteen-year-old … witch. And now I know why the red-headed man from the photo looks familiar.
“I sort of remember the case. It must have been awful.”
“It was.”
“The man in the picture … he was a vampire?”
Another wave of sadness washes over me, so intense I almost gasp. “You ask a lot of questions,” she says, voice hard.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “It’s just … I’m living around vamps for the foreseeable future. Any tips you can give me …” Nice save, Bea.
Her face and body slack. “I’m sorry. It’s … a sensitive subject.”
“No, I’m sorry. I mean, you just met me, and here I am prying. It’s none of my business.”
All of a sudden I want to leave. Just get in my car and go back to Kansas. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t do anything right. For the last two months the longest I’ve spoken to anyone outside the team was when I was interrogating them. I need some real, social human interaction and fast before I forget all the rules of polite society. I can’t meet Anna’s eyes, so I look down at my drink and sip. She’s looking at me though, studying me.
“I was raised by a vampire,” Anna says finally. I look up at her expressionless face. “Asher. The man in the photo. My father, my real father, was an abusive son-of-a-bitch. Asher killed him and took me away when I was nine.”
To Catch a Vampire Page 10
