To Catch a Vampire (11 page)

I turn my head just as the man walks into the room. I recognize him from the photos on the mantle, though he’s aged about ten years from the last one. He’s about my age and cute.
Really
cute. Brown hair spiked up in front, strong jaw, straight nose, blue eyes with long lashes framing them, nice long lips, medium build. The all-American quarterback. And he was one; the pictures on the mantle show it. Today he’s dressed in blue jeans and white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

The man steps into the house but stops when he sees me. His left eyebrow cocks with the left side of his mouth. “Um, hello.”

“Hi,” I say back. “Your mom’s in the other room finishing up my potion.”

“Oh.” The man eyes me up and down with curiosity. I wish I wasn’t sitting, my thighs double in size. “It must be important. She doesn’t make potions for just anyone.”

“I’ll be out in a minute, Joe,” Anna calls from the kitchen.

“Okay,” he shouts back.

“It’s for a federal investigation,” I say.

“Wait,
you’re
a F.R.E.A.K.? A genuine F.R.E.A.K.?” he asks as if I’ve just told him Hulk Hogan was really a woman.

It’s the team’s name. The Federal Response to Extra-Sensory and Kindred Supernaturals, or F.R.E.A.K.S. I really hate the name, but what can you do? It’s been around practically since the Declaration of Independence was signed.

“I’m a F.R.E.A.K.,” I say.

“I don’t believe it,” Joe says, astonished.

“Gee, thanks.” Why is it so hard to believe a five-foot-three woman can’t take on bad guys? I’m getting a little sick of that misconception.

“No, it’s not that,” he backpedals. “I’m sure you can kick my ass. No, I just haven’t met one of you in years.”

“We are an elusive bunch.”

“How long you been a member?”

“Couple months. I’m the rookie.”

Joe walks around to the couch, sitting next to me. He drapes his arm around the back of the sofa. “You live at the mansion?”

“Yeah.”

“I went there once. It’s beautiful. Isolated, but beautiful.”

“Helps with camaraderie, I guess.”

“I’m living proof of that.” He chuckles. “Man, I’m jealous. I’ve wanted to join since I was a kid, but they won’t take me.”

“Why not?”

“I think my parents said something.”

I wonder what
my
mom would have said if I told her what I was doing for a living. Nana would chain me to the bed, which is why she thinks I’m working at a daycare center. Mom would probably want to join too. She’d be the first to grab a stake and flamethrower. That woman was as impulsive as they come.

“Your parents are very smart people,” I say.

“I think
overprotective
is a better word.”

“Nothing wrong with that. And they’re justified in this case.”

“Your parents aren’t the same way? Your boyfriend, maybe?” Joe asks.

“Um,” I laugh, “I have none of the above.”

He clears his throat. “So, what are you working on?” Joe asks.

“Missing people. Vamps. The usual.”

“Do you need any help? Backup?”

“I have a feeling your mother would put a curse on me if I got you involved.”

“She wouldn’t have to find out,” he says with a smile that I’m sure melts the hearts of all the women at the local bar. Too bad for him I’ve had my immunity built up by a master grinner.

“We don’t really need a witch, I don’t think,” I say. “But thank you.”

“What about a summoner?”

“A summoner?”

Joe closes those nice eyes and furrows his brow as he concentrates. He holds out his hand. At first there’s nothing, but in the blink of an eye a sunflower appears in his fingers. He opens his eyes, smiling again.

“Wow,” I say, really impressed.

He hands me the flower. “For you.”

“Thank you,” I chuckle. “Where did it come from?”

“No idea,” he laughs.

“So you’re the one responsible for all my missing left socks?”

“You’ve caught me,” he says, holding up his hands. “What about you? I showed you mine.”

I do the levitating coffee table trick again. “Ta da!”

“And I thought I was something.”

“Oh, you are,” I say, chuckling nervously. I meet his eyes but look away when my cheeks flare up. I’m blushing again, darn it. Me and my libido. Perhaps it’s all the use I’m making of my “power,” because I swear I did not used to be this slutty-minded.

Mercifully, the kitchen door swings open and Anna walks in holding three glass vials filled with a murky brown liquid. “Here you go,” she says. I stand up after picking up my purse and smoothing my pants. Joe does the same. “Just have them drink it and whatever magical memory loss they have should reverse in a minute.”

“Can I mix it in with a drink?”

“You better. It tastes like death otherwise.”

“Okay. Thank you,” I say taking the bottles.

Anna eyes the sunflower in my other hand then at her son. A small smile crosses her face but quickly disappears. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.
Anything
.”

“I will.”

“Joe, why don’t you walk Beatrice to her car?”

“With pleasure,” he says with a smile.

They both escort me to the door. Joe steps out first. I turn back to Anna. “Thanks again for all your help and … everything.”

“Just remember what I told you.”

“I will.”

“See you later,” she says with a wink before closing the door.

Okay, that was weird.

Joe and I walk down the path toward my car side by side. “So, how long are you in town for?” Joe asks.

“I don’t know, until we catch the bad guys, I guess. Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you might not know where the best places in town to eat are. You can’t leave Texas without trying our barbecue.” He opens the gate and steps aside like the perfect gentleman to let me pass.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I do believe I am,” he responds with a smile. He’s got a great smile. Sweet yet mischievous. I’m a sucker for that kind of smile.

Okay, if this happened three months ago, I’d be laughing nervously and trying to keep my knees from turning to Jell-O. A hot, former football player with a killer smile even
talking
to me would get this response. I was kind of easy to overlook. But it’s not three months ago. I have one too many crushes, and I sure as heck don’t need another, even if he has an awesome mom. And I’m working. Vamps killing people = no time for flirting with cute summoners. Wait, who am I kidding?

I raise an eyebrow. “And why would you do that? Are you asking me out just so I’ll put in a good word with George?” I ask.

“Would I do such a thing?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

“Maybe,” he responds with a sly smile.

“Huh. Then
maybe
I’ll have dinner with you,” I say flirtatiously.

“Then
maybe
I should get your telephone number.”

“Maybe it’s 810-555-7823.”

“Maybe?”

I shrug. “Maybe.” I open the car door and sit down. He rests his arm on the top of the door looking down at me with that sly grin before shutting the door for me. Beaming, I shake my head and start the engine. He stands there, cell in hand, watching as I drive away.

Maybe we’ll meet again. Heck, maybe I’ll be stuck here for two weeks and will take him up on the offer. It’s just dinner; I’m not marrying the guy or anything.

Well, maybe.

Eight

Better Left Forgotten

Even at mid-day, when
everyone should be in the prison that is work, the roads to Arlington are clogged. Must be an accident. Stop, go. Stop, go. I like to think of myself as a patient person. I used to stand by with a grin as one of my students carefully put together a collage of their ideal vacation, picture by picture. But my patience is not limitless. I lost the bulk of it outside Dallas city limits. Not even Carrie Underwood or Reba McEntire improved my mood.

Two hours for a drive that should have taken one. I had to call Rochelle, victim number three’s girlfriend, to push back our appointment. She gave me attitude but relented. We’re meeting at a Starbucks near her work. I picked a coffee shop so I can easily slip the potion in. I doubt these people would be willing to take it voluntarily, even if I am an FBI agent.

In between the laments about pickup trucks and whiskey, my mind wanders. First to today. I made it all the way to Dallas without screaming at the cars in front of me thanks to thoughts of Anna and Joe. Stupid stuff like, I hope I look as good as her when I’m her age. And how she managed to survive all those years in the vamp world. If her experience was anything like mine last night, she’d have to walk around in a suit of armor. And how did she and this Asher live? Did she make him blood pudding while he slept in his coffin down in the basement? I just can’t wrap my head around the logistics.

Then my mind wandered to Joe and—strangely—high school. His type never gave me the time of day. I was invisible, purposely so guys like him and the girls he hung out with would leave me alone. It’s strange that men like that take notice now. He’s cute, though. And I’ll bet he’s fun. If I get starved for human companionship, I’ll take him up on his offer. I can just imagine what Oliver would think. He’ll either come up with some cockamamie excuse at the last moment to keep me away, or he’ll stalk me on the date. Or he wouldn’t care at all. He’d pretend to care but take the opportunity for some alone time with Marianna. This train of thought just winds me up tighter than a rattlesnake about to strike, so I push the jerk out of my head.

After I get out of Dallas—alive, to my great credit—my thoughts wander to Will as they usually do several times a day. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Right at this moment. Is he running through the woods chasing deer? Is he sitting down to a big lunch of ham, bacon, and other meats with all the other werewolves? Is he wandering around moping that I’m not there with him? Okay, what I’m really thinking is: is he thinking about me? Is he flirting with the female werewolves there? Lord, there’s that high school thing again, analyzing every look and every pause in the conversation. And I do. April’s spent hours listening and theorizing about a man she’s never met. I’m so pathetic. Once, during a particularly boring meeting, I found myself drawing hearts with our initials in my notebook. Irie almost caught me, but I scribbled them out in time.

Fudge, I am getting sick of this. Why don’t I just ask him out? Oh, right. The same dozen reasons as the last time I considered this option. Such as, I’m not sure he likes me back. Sometimes I think yes, like when we’re sitting in the library and I see him glancing at me over his newspaper. Or when we’re in the field and he tries to give me the least dangerous task. I’ve reamed him a new one for that last one, but inside I light up that he puts my safety above everyone else’s, I can’t help it. But then there are other times when he refuses to go places with me alone. Like when I invited him to the roller rink in town, and he just grunted. Grunted! He’s grumpy around me too. If I challenge his strategy in the field, he won’t look at me all day. The mixed signals are doing my head in. And we live and work together, so if I try and he rejects me, it’ll be awkward city.

He’s also still in love with his dead wife. I think he blames himself for not protecting her during the werewolf attack that killed her and turned him. He was some hotshot detective in D.C. and couldn’t save her. He never talks about her, but I’ve seen a picture. She was the anti-me. Tall, rail thin, olive skin, dark brown hair. And sometimes he plays with his finger as if the ring is still there, no doubt thinking about her. I can barely compete against live women, let alone the pristine memory of a dead one.

And then there’s Oliver. He’s definitely down on the list of the reasons I chicken out, but he’s still on there. I admit I’m attracted to him. Mega attracted, as last night proves. But heck, any woman with eyes would be. And yes, I’ve entertained the thought of getting to know him in the biblical sense more times than I care to admit. But I’m not that kind of woman. I’ve only slept with two men. One I thought I was in love with; the other I’d been seeing for two months, and it seemed like the thing to do. For almost two years. Not his fault. We really didn’t have that much chemistry, and there
was
my issue, which also contributes to the Will problem.

I can’t have an orgasm. I mean, I can
have
one, I’m physically able, but I can’t when there’s another person there. I might kill him. The few times I’ve … double clicked the mouse—and I’ve done it more in the last two months than in the previous two years—my bed levitates or furniture breaks. I could easily give my partner a brain aneurysm. Poor Steven thought there was something wrong with his technique, which was very vanilla but somewhat enjoyable. I even came close a few times, but I have the feeling that having sex with Will or Oliver would be like rich chocolate and leave me covered in their brain matter. That sounded grosser than I meant it to.

Okay, for the sake of boredom and traffic, let’s say I did try it with Oliver and there were no problems, then what? Once or twice and he’d get bored with me, and then there’d be awkwardness. And any and all chance with Will would fly out the window. They don’t get along. Oliver blatantly flirts with me, like, more than usual when Will’s around. And then Will’s grump factor raises seventeen points. But I like things with Oliver the way they are. Despite him annoying me to no end, he’s been there when I needed him. We have good conversations. He likes going to movies with me. I trust him. He’s a good friend. So I’ll never sleep with him.

My GPS tells me for the fifteenth time to turn right. Did I really think she was polite? She’s bossier than a spoiled six year old. I complete the turn right after the dirty SUV I’ve been behind for twenty miles makes it first. I’ve returned to strip mall land again with a TJ Maxx and Taco Bell on every corner. I drive another mile behind the SUV when the GPS tells me I’ve reached my destination on the right. The Starbucks is nestled between a nail salon and a boutique that only sells turquoise outfits with fringe. Yuck.

Taking my now-empty McDonald’s bag, which I procured just outside Garland, and tossing it in the trash, I walk into the coffee house. Wasn’t I just in this place two days ago? They’re all the same with small tables, dark wood booths, strange murals on the walls, and a line out the door. I’d like to get in line but instead snag the last booth in the back. The middle-aged man next to me smiles but returns to typing away on his laptop.

I’m about ten minutes early, so I pull out my cell phone and dial my best friend April’s number. If I don’t call at least once a week, she threatens to jump on the first flight. I don’t know how much longer I can put off having her or Nana visit. They want to see my “apartment” and meet my co-workers who I keep gushing about, especially Will and Oliver. I’ve changed a few details for them, of course. I don’t live in a mansion, but a one-bedroom apartment in Wichita. George is my boss, CEO of a nationwide security company. Oliver, Will, and the rest of us fly around the country setting up daycare centers at each company branch. So yeah, I’ve pretty much lied through my teeth. Hopefully something good came out of Brian’s visit, like I can put them off for a year or so. The line rings.

“Reynaldo’s Salon,” Lynn, the receptionist at April’s work answers.

“Hi, Lynnie, it’s Bea,” I say.

“Hi! How are you?”

“Surviving,” I say with a smile.

“Aren’t we all? I’ll get April for you. She just finished a perm.” I hear the phone get set on the desk, then a few seconds later the clattering of someone picking it up.

“Hey, girl,” April says.

I can picture her now, standing at the counter, one hip out as it always is. She’s gorgeous with light brown skin, full bee-stung lips, almond-shaped eyes the color of dark chocolate, curves in the right places, and thick black hair. I always felt like the Elephant Man next to her. Even after three kids, she has a better figure than me. I’d hate her, except she’s always accepted me. She was the first one outside of my family I told about the psychokinesis, not that I had a choice. I spent the night once and levitated her stuffed panda by accident. She thought it was the coolest thing. We’ve been closer than sisters ever since.

“Hey, you got time to talk?”

“For you, I’d keep Madonna waiting. How are you? Where are you? I tried you at home last night. Hot date I hope.”

“I wish. I’m stuck in Dallas working for the next few days.”

“Dallas? Never been,” she says.

“Lucky you. It’s crowded and a thousand degrees outside.”

“You know you should just quit and move back. I miss you.”

“Aw. I miss you too!”

“Well, are the hot twosome there sweating with you at least?” April asks with a snigger.

“Only Oliver. Will’s still on vacation.”

“So you’re all alone with tall, dark, and flirtatious? Is he laying on the charm?”

“I’m almost drowning in it,” I say.

“Tempted?”

“Only to attack him with my curling iron.”

April chuckles. So does the laptop man. How rude. Sure, everyone listens to others conversations, but we pretend not to. It’s called manners.

“I am so not flying to Dallas to bail your butt out of jail,” April says.

“I can handle him without violence.”

“I have no doubt.”

“And guess what else? A cute boy asked me out today,” I say in a sing-song voice.

“Another one?”

“I know, right?”

“Did you change your perfume or something? Well, what’s bachelor number three like?”

“Do you remember Troy O’Donnell, the football player I tutored in English? He’s a lot like him, only cuter and with a cute little Southern accent,” I say.

“Did you say yes?”

“I said maybe. I’m only in town for a few days, and there are … other people to consider.”

“Look, until either of the cuties throws you to the ground, sticks his tongue down your throat, and makes you scream in ecstasy, you’re fair game.”

“How very graphic, April.”

“What? You know it’s true. If the guy calls, say yes. Promise me you’ll say yes. Promise!”

I cross my fingers but say, “I promise.”

A woman walks into the shop who I have no doubt is Rochelle, Antoine Baker’s girl on the side. Barely out of her teens, low rider jeans, tight black tank with red bra showing, black hair in cornrows. She even walks with attitude, hips moving more than a normal woman’s should. Just by looking at her I can tell she’d have no qualms about taking up with a married man. This will not be a fun interview.

“April, my appointment just arrived. I’ll call you later. Bye.” I flip my phone closed and stand up as the girl looks around. “Rochelle?”

Rochelle looks me up and down, not impressed judging from the sneer. “You the FBI?” she asks with a thick Texas accent.

“I’m Special Agent Beatrice Alexander,” I say flashing my badge.

“Uh huh,” she says, taking off her bag and sitting across from me.

Laptop man has finished gathering the things he started collecting the second he saw my badge and walks away, glancing nervously at me. The badge has that effect on some people.

“I’m sorry I was late. Traffic was a nightmare,” I say as I sit down.

“Whatever,” the girl says, glaring at me.

“Can I make it up to you? Buy you a drink?”

“Mocha frap with extra whip.”

“Exactly what I’m having,” I say standing up, this time taking my purse with me. I get in line, occasionally glancing back at Rochelle, who is busy texting. She seems unfazed meeting with the FBI. Most people are either scared or excited; she’s texting.

Lord, I wish Will was here. Okay, I have to stop thinking that. It just makes things worse. But I do wish he was here. I’ve never done an interview alone before. He was always there to get me back on track. Usually the bad cop to my good one. In theory this should be relatively easy once the potion takes effect, but still. This student is nowhere near as good as her master.

I order the drinks and wait with the other impatient people, feeling like an addict in line at the methadone clinic. Almost ten bucks for two drinks. I bet heroin is cheaper. When I get our cups, making sure nobody is watching, I dump the vial into Rochelle’s drink, swishing it around. Hopefully the coffee will mask the taste. She’s still texting when I sit down.

“I—” I say, but she holds up a finger to stop me and continues texting. How charming.

She keeps typing away on the phone for about five seconds, then sets it down. Without a word, she grabs the coffee, taking a sip. My body tenses for a millisecond, ready for lots of double talk about the taste, but she takes another.

“Is it good?” I ask, sipping mine.

“Not enough chocolate,” she says with a sneer.

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. So you wanted to see me? I don’t know why. I told the cops everything I know about twenty times.”

“Occasionally, with time,”—and a magic potion—“people remember more. Little details. Just walk me through the night. What time did Antoine pick you up?”

“He didn’t,” she says after another sip. “My roommate Tamika drove me. ’Toine met us about an hour later after his shift.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know. Around ten?”

“And the woman Antoine was flirting with, was she there before you got there?”

Rochelle takes another sip. “I told the cops I didn’t know nothing about her.”

“Just close your eyes and picture the bar that night. Please.”