The Sin Eater (A F.R.E.A.K.S. Squad Investigation Book 5)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also By

  Dedication

  Quote

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ackowledgments

  About the Author

  The

  Sin Eater

  A F.R.E.A.K.S.

  Squad Investigation #5

  Jennifer Harlow

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Dowis

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Also By

  Join My Mailing List For Book News Here

  THE GALILEE FALLS TRILOGY

  Justice

  Galilee Rising

  Fall of Heroes

  Nemesis-A Sydney Rye Kindle World Novella

  THE F.R.E.A.K.S. SQUAD SERIES

  Mind Over Monsters

  To Catch a Vampire

  Death Takes A Holiday

  High Moon

  The Sin Eater

  THE MIDNIGHT MAGIC MYSTERY SERIES

  What’s A Witch To Do?

  Werewolf Sings The Blues

  Witch Upon A Star

  AN IRIS BALLARD THRILLER

  Beautiful Maids All in a Row

  Verity Hart Vs. The Vampyres: A Steampunk Adventure

  This book is dedicated to you.

  Yes, you.

  The ones reading this right now.

  The ones who take a chance on my stories.

  Who leave reviews. Who tell your friends.

  You rock.

  I truly adore you.

  From the bottom of my heart…thank you.

  Thank you.

  “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”

  –Plato

  “Yeah, but I’ll bet the dark side’s better.

  I hear they even have cookies.”

  –Beatrice Alexander

  Chapter One

  I Dreamed A Dream

  “Welcome to the world, William Price, Jr. You are…so loved.”

  He’s perfect. Our son is simply perfect. The most beautiful child ever to grace this earth. He has his father’s eyes, an intense emerald green practically piecing my soul as he stares up at me, his mother, in wonder. The same way I gaze down at him. Our boy also has Will’s strong jaw, which he’ll be thankful for as he grows into his teens. He’s going to be a looker, just like his father. Ruggedly handsome with broad shoulders perfect for resting your head on. But judging from our son’s smile and cheer, his curiosity at the wonders of the world, he’s inherited nothing of his father’s hard personality and constant grumpiness. His father’s good looks and my personality. Our son inherited the best of us both. Our little blessing. Everything I’ve ever wanted in this or any world.

  “Thank you.”

  It takes mental fortitude, but I manage to unglue my eyes from the Ninth Wonder of the World to the source of the voice. Oh, if our son grows half as handsome as his father the boy will have a charmed life. He’ll have a charmed life regardless with us as his parents. Two people who love one another, what more could a child need?

  “Thank me for what?” I ask as the man I love sits beside me on the bed.

  Will wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling us against his warm body. I rest my head on his broad shoulder. My favorite spot in the world.

  “This. You. Him.” Will kisses my temple. “For my life. I love you, Bea. I love you so much. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  “Trixie…”

  “I love you too,” I say, never taking my eyes off my son.

  “Trixie…”

  No. No. Don’t…

  I can’t help it. I peer up. Oliver, once the most breathtaking man I’ve ever encountered, looms beside my bed with his once angelic face torn to pieces. Claw marks run all the way down to the bone and still bleed. “It’s time to wake up, Trixie.”

  “No,” I whimper as I return my gaze to my baby. But he’s gone. My arms are as empty as my soul.

  “You deserve nothing less,” Will says.

  I turn to Will, but instead of my lover, I find the wolf. The snarling, rabid wolf who stole my life with blood and saliva dripping from his snout. There isn’t time to scream before those teeth descend toward my jugular. When I snap awake I can still feel those fangs in my neck. The agony. It hurts even to gasp.

  “Jesus. Jesus,” I pant. “Goddamn it.”

  Goddamn it.

  I hate that dream. Hate it. I thought last time would be the last time. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had it. The damn day’s ruined before it’s even begun. All damn day I’m going to sense the empty space in my arms my baby should be. Smell that newborn scent. Crave the sensation of Will’s arms enveloping me. His kisses. It’s damn near impossible to keep the thoughts and misery at bay after I dream of him. Of them. What could have been. It’s hard enough on the best of days, forget with them haunting me at night. Yeah, I’m done with today already. I wouldn’t even get out of my childhood bed except I have to pee. I linger as long as I can because it takes too much energy just to get mobile, and that’s when I have to drive to do so. Today isn’t one of those few and far between days.

  Somehow I borrow from my empty reserves and force myself upright before making the long trek all the way to the bathroom. And…my drive’s gone. Nana’s left for the day already so I can avoid her concerned eyes at least until she returns from her shift at the library. She’s doubled her volunteer hours since I moved back to San Diego three months ago. I don’t blame her. Each morning, okay afternoon, since it’s past noon, when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I want to cringe myself. I wasn’t a beauty queen before, but with my limp mousy brown hair I barely bother to brush, pasty skin, and dark circles under my amber eyes, I resemble a corpse now. And I’ve fought corpses better looking than I am right now. I have the scars to prove it too. If I removed my clothes I could double for Frankenstein’s monster. Two zombie bites, one vampire bite, a scar running the length of my elbow on the left, and another from the wrist to elbow on the right. At least my new bangs cover the scar on my forehead. But without question my heart and soul are the worst. They’re torn to shreds anew every damn day when I think about him. About what I lost. “Fuck you, dreams.”

  I go through the morning ritual on autopilot, brushing my teeth and hair before popping a Lexapro. I don’t know why I still do that last one. The drugs haven’t helped one iota. Pretty sure there’s not a pill that combats the level of guilt and desolation that stems from shooting your werewolf fiancée with a shotgun and watching him die a foot in front of you. I’ve been watching a lot of Intervention, maybe crack and meth would do the job. Of course I don’t even have a pot connect. I do however have a great liquor store, Benadryl is over the counter, and my second week home I bought every video game system on the market. The combination of those three wonderful inventions makes every long, grueling, s
hitty day of my existence almost bearable.

  Almost.

  The house phone rings when I step into the living room. Thank God I was so immersed in Mass Effect 2 yesterday I only had one drink so no hangover because my passive aggressive grandmother left all the blinds up. As if the peach walls with turquoise accents weren’t bright enough. Twenty-seven and back living with my grandmother. That’s enough to drive a girl to the bottle. It’s not as if I can’t afford a place of my own—being a member of a secret monster hunting organization proved quite lucrative—but at first I was too physically weak let alone emotionally to care for myself. Then after I just didn’t know where to go. Thank God Nana welcomed me back with open arms. Of course I all but shoved those arms away my first week and haven’t apologized since. She cooks but I barely eat. She cleans up my messes and only gets a curt thanks. She tries to get me to open up, and I literally just walk away. I know she’s at her breaking point. Not only can I sense her emotions with my minor empath skills but the dreaded “What are your plans?” question now leaves her lips every other day. Apparently the answer “romance a space dinosaur” isn’t enough for her anymore. Her worry comes from the best of places, I know that, but I truly don’t have an answer. I’m not ready to leave purgatory yet. I can’t. I’m not strong enough. Hell, I don’t think I ever will be again.

  The machine picks up as I start the coffee. “Beatrice, this is George again.” My heart seizes in my chest when I hear his voice. Oh, not today. Please, I can’t handle this today. “This is the third time I’ve phoned. It is imperative I speak to you. Your suspension is up and we need to discuss what happens next. If I don’t hear from you soon…please call, Beatrice. I do hope you’re well. Bye.”

  I’ve already begun adding the Kahlua to my mug. My suspension’s up. I knew that was on the horizon, but…I sigh. Why couldn’t it have been six months? They should have just fired my ass. Or sent me to The Facility in Montana. I tortured then released a confessed murderer. Worse, my actions set in motion a horrific chain of events that left one of my best friends centimeters from death. It made me…I chug the Kahlua outright. I should have been shipped off to preternatural prison. Because it was me. It was all me. It was all my fault. If I’d trusted my fellow agents. If I’d listened to reason. But I was stupid. My fiancée was held hostage by a rapist werewolf. Nothing mattered but getting him back. Nothing. But I lost him anyway. And Oliver…the memory of Will’s powerful jaws biting Oliver’s neck. The claw marks ravaging his perfect face. I can all but feel the warm blood pouring out of his jugular onto my hands. All because he wanted to help me. I’ve become Lady Macbeth, staring at my blood stained hands, driven to madness by them.

  I haven’t seen or heard from Oliver since that night. I didn’t even say good-bye. I couldn’t look at him at first. Part of me hated him for his weakness. He’s a five-hundred-year-old vampire, he can’t subdue one werewolf? They hated each other. Maybe a small sliver of him wanted to force my hand. Force me to blow my fiancée’s brains out. But those thoughts came in the darkest days when I hated everything and everyone. Another sin added to my tab. Thinking the worst of a man who almost died helping clean up my mess. He must hate me. I hate me. We weren’t on the best of terms before that night. I chose Will. I pushed my friend away even though I swore I never would. And he still…I don’t blame him for not wanting to see or talk to me. But I miss him so damn much. Laughing with him. Our hours long conversations and verbal sparring. Going to the movies and making witty comments about how terrible they are. He’s alive, but he’s as far away from me as Will right now. Maybe forever. I lost them both that night. And I deserve nothing less.

  Hurry the fuck up, coffee. I just stare at that blinking red light on the answering machine. It’s as if every blink whispers, “Call me. Call me.” If I’m fired I wish he’d just say it. But I don’t think that’s the way the wind’s blowing. The only F.R.E.A.K. I’ve had contact with is Nancy when we’re gaming together online. Most of the time she doesn’t say anything non-game related after I told her I’d block her if she did, but once or twice she’s mentioned they’ve kept my room exactly as I left it, and George stopped recruiting when a married werewolf couple from the Eastern Pack joined. If that’s true, and if by some miracle they do want me back, I don’t know what to do. Quit is winning by a mile. Hell, it shouldn’t even be a damn race. Then why the hell is it so hard to tell George that? Probably the same reason it’s almost impossible to leave the house most days. Depression and guilt devour all my energy and drive. I barely have enough of either today to pad back to my bedroom and switch on the PlayStation.

  Saving the universe with a team of misfits is a hell of a lot easier in video games than in real life. Of course that second shot of booze I had gets one of my team mates killed, but I do beat the game a few hours later. Now onto killing cops and prostitutes in Grand Theft Auto.

  I’m so immersed in my bank robbery I must not hear Nana return home until she knocks on my door. As always, she enters before I can invite her in.

  My grandmother’s aged well. A few wrinkles on her tan face, silver hair freshly cut into a bob, like me medium height and weight, though I’ve gained ten pounds in limbo, and the same slightly upturned nose. Her face remains neutral, but as always her brown eyes deceive her. I should be used to her constant air of worry and helplessness, but it hasn’t happened yet. “There’s a message on the machine for you. Dr. Black called again.”

  “I know,” I say, shooting a cop.

  “Did you call him back?”

  “Not yet. Damn it!” Bank heist failed. I’m dead.

  “You have to call him, Bea,” she chides.

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon! God, get off my back!”

  My grandmother simply stares at me, mouth slightly gaping open as if she doesn’t recognize me at this moment. I sense her melancholy and hint of anger too. I never used to talk back, even when I was a teenager. I always was a late bloomer.

  She shakes her head and leaving without another word. Crap. That’s the second time this week I’ve snapped at her. I shake my head too. She means well, but I just cannot deal with her questions and oppressive worry. I guess I should feel guilty but can’t muster another drop. Okay, maybe there’s a drop or two in there.

  Without the distraction I complete the bank heist and storming the drug kingpin’s home. There’s an idea. Maybe I should become a criminal. Rob a bank. I do have a unique skill that would make it easy as pie. I probably wouldn’t even need a gun. My telekinesis could finally improve my life, not hinder it for once. Maybe I’ve been going about life all wrong. I wanted to save people. I did save people. Dozens are alive because of me. They’re eating dinner, laughing with family, falling in love. And here I am. Scarred, depressed, twenty-seven, and living with my grandmother. Life is so fucking unfair. Fuck being good. Fuck love. Fuck selflessness. Fuck it all.

  I beat another four levels unmolested. Maybe Nana’s gone next door to Mrs. Ramirez’s to vent. She’s been spending more time there than here. Though I barely leave my room I’ve taken over the house. I’ve sucked it into a black hole. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here” should be carved above the front door. Only one brave soul dares enter. My best friend just strolls into my bedroom without knocking. Damn it, I was so immersed in my game I didn’t hear the front door. Again. Yeah, law enforcement agent of the year here. April Diego is a knockout: tall, curvy, full lips, hell she’s often mistaken for Eva Mendes. Right now I want to knockout the knockout for barging in here and ruining my game.

  “What the hell—”

  “You haven’t been answering my calls,” she says, hands on her hips.

  “I’ve—”

  “Save it. You haven’t been answering my calls and now I hear you’ve been mean to Nana Alexander?”

  I pause the game and set down the controller. “You two have been talking about me behind my back?”

  “Damn straight we have been! You look like crap!
You never leave the house. You aren’t talking to us. What would you do in our shoes?”

  “Have a little compassion? Respect my life choices?”

  “Maybe we would if you were choosing life!” She walks over and shuts off the TV.

  “Hey!”

  “Well, tonight you are. You are going to take a shower, let me do your hair and make-up, then put on your nicest dress, and come out with me, Yo, Marina, and Kenny for his bachelor party. His commitment ceremony to Scott is next week. We’re going to Cougar’s to watch the male strippers and eat the best chicken wings in San Diego. And you are coming.”

  “No. I’m not.” I switch back on the TV.

  April immediately shuts it off again. “Oh, yes you are!”

  On. “Nope.”

  Off. “Yep.”

  On. “I’m not going.”

  Off. “I have three young children, Bea, I can do this all night!”

  “I don’t want to go!”

  “Yeah, but you need to,” she states with absolute certainty. “You missed Carlos’ birthday. You have barely left this room in three months. Your grandmother’s reached the end of her rope, Bea. She will kick you out, you know. Maybe she should. Is that what you want? She’s about given up on you. Is that what you want? To break your grandmother’s heart like you’re breaking mine?” My jaw sets at this emotional blackmail tactic. My obvious displeasure doesn’t stop her from walking over to the bed, sitting on the edge. “One night. That’s all I ask. Come out with me tonight and tomorrow you can spend all day in here hiding away from the world. But you gotta give us tonight.”

  Maybe this will buy me some time. I just have to pretend I’m trying, right? That I care. I can sit there drinking and watching male strippers for a few hours then feign a headache. Two hours for two weeks of no questions or looks or oppressive emotions. God, I just so don’t want to, yet I find myself saying, “You’re buying.”