Death Takes a Holiday (2 page)

“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 leader 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.”

I smile sweetly. “Oh, I’m sure you can come up with a few choice words, mostly four letter ones, right?”

He doesn’t take the bait. “If you don’t require something, then please return to your seat. We’ll be landing soon.” He looks away.

Another pang of sadness hits me so hard this time I stop breathing. I don’t know if it’s coming from me or him. Clairempathy, feeling strong emotions from others, is almost as bad as psychokinesis. I close my eyes and force the air in and out. “This has to stop, Will,” I whisper. “It’s affecting our work. This isn’t just about us, it’s about all the people we’re supposed to help. We’ve been lucky before, but if this feud doesn’t end we’ll start hating each other. Not trusting each other. I know you don’t want to, but we have to talk. We
have
to end this. Us. You and me. Please.”

“Will?” Nancy asks. I open my eyes as she steps in front of us, putting her hand on her hip. “Can I ask you about something? In private?”

Will glances at me, then begrudgingly nods at her. Gathering all my pride from the floor I stand up, internally shaking my head. Nancy smiles to herself as I take a step.

“Alexander?” Will says behind me. Everyone’s attention, including the two men supposedly sleeping, diverts to Will. “Tonight. Six o’clock in the billiard room. We
will not
be interrupted,” he says, voice set in granite.

I nod, and then with my head held high, I return to my seat.

Peace. I think we can all use some of that.

TWO

IN ANOTHER BEDROOM

T
HE ENEMY’S WAITING FOR
me when I arrive at five minutes to six. We’ve both changed our clothes since arriving home. I’m in my skinny black jeans and tight V-neck powder pink sweater, and he’s in khakis with a loose green T-shirt. Dressy casual, perfect for a peace accord. I just wanted to look nice.

The
Jaws
pinball machine lights up in the corner as does the Dance Dance Revolution video game we all pitched in to get Nancy for her birthday in June. She and Irie spent hours getting the steps right. As far as I know Nancy hasn’t set foot on it since Irie’s death. I offered to be her partner before total war broke out, but she refused. Then, when she caught Oliver and me on it, items started vanishing from my room.

Will stands by the pool table with two cues in one hand and beer in another. Another bottle rests on the side closest to me. Mine, I guess. He’s expressionless as I step in. I smile nervously as I shut the door behind myself. I pick up the cool bottle of beer, taking a sudsy sip.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I thought we’d play while we talk,” he says as he extends the cue across the table to me. “You play, right?”

I take it. “Yeah. Oliver’s teaching me.” As the words leave my lips, I want to gobble them back up. If this is going to work, the O word must be used sparingly.

Will remains stony as he chugs his beer then sets it down. “Mind if I break?” He takes position and breaks. The balls clatter against each other and one goes in the far side pocket. “Guess I’m solids.” I take another drink of the beer as he shoots another one in. “So, Agent Alexander, you called this meeting. Say your piece.”

“Okay. I want the tension to cease. It’s not healthy for any of us.” He shoots another ball into the pocket. “We’re supposed to be one team, us against them, not us against us. You and I need to set the example. We need to work through our issues, and everyone else will follow suit.” There, I said it. Not so hard when you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes practicing those words in front of the mirror.

He misses the next shot. “Your turn.”

I line up my shot and take it. Ball in the side pocket. I look up at him. “Do you agree?”

Will squares his shoulders. “The only issue I have with you is your reckless disregard for orders. I’m the tactical team leader for a reason, and though you may disagree with my strategy, you must trust I know what I’m doing.”

Ugh. I knew it. This is going to be like pulling blood from a stone. Pointless. “Fine.” I set the cue down on the table. “I don’t want to play this game with you, Will.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m done playing games. We’ve been doing it for months, and I’m sick of it. Sick of the snide comments, the dirty looks, the complete discount for anything I have to say. I’m tired of you punishing me.”

“I’m punishing you?” he scoffs.

“Yes! And we need to talk about it!”

He tosses the cue on the table, sending the balls clattering all over. “
I
am not punishing
you
.”