Mind Over Monsters Page 3

  I pry my eyes from the house and over to George. He’s grinning from ear to ear, just like an artist when he looks at a piece he’s extremely proud of. I can’t help but smile too. Maybe this won’t be all that bad. Private jet, mansion to live in, and my own chef. Maybe I haven’t made an epic mistake, as I’ve convinced myself I have over the last two months. Maybe everything will actually be all right.

  Yeah. Right.

  THREE

  THE F.R.E.A.K.S. SHOW

  I follow George up the stone steps, my heels clacking on the granite. I decided to be Professional Bea today with a black suit, dark purple dress shirt, and boring shoes. The deep brown double doors open as we reach them as if by magic. Could be, for all I know. Or maybe they heard us coming.

  A man with a standard brown Federal crew cut, olive skin, hawk-like features, and blue pinstripe suit appears on the other side of the door, walking toward us. “Welcome back, Dr. Black,” the man says. “Op went out without a hitch. The hostile was taken out.”

  “Good. Agent Paul Chandler, may I introduce you to Beatrice Alexander, our newest addition.”

  Agent Chandler and I shake hands, mine firmer than normal. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says in a voice as firm as my handshake.

  “How are you feeling, Paul?” George asks. “You look better.”

  “Completely recovered now, sir. Thank you.”

  “Is the team in the living room?” George asks.

  “They’re not back from the airfield yet. Should be about five more minutes.”

  “Okay,” George says, “then Paul, why don’t you show Beatrice to her room? Third floor, end of the hallway, across from Will’s.”

  “My pleasure.” After picking up my mismatched suitcases, he starts toward the door, and George and I follow.

  Holy smokes! The entranceway alone is as big as Nana’s house, with a huge, sweeping staircase like the ones in old Southern mansions like Twelve Oaks and Tara in Gone with the Wind. The entire room, staircase and all, is off-white with redwood trim along the walls. I can’t be sure, but I think the floor is made of polished marble. Massive oil paintings of cherubs and naked people frolicking hang on the walls in gold frames. I’d bet one of those could pay the rent on my old apartment for a year. It’s quiet in here, like a museum with that same smell too: old but not unpleasant. I’m petrified to touch anything. It’d be just my luck to break a ten-thousand-

  dollar vase on my first day.

  The stairs only sweep up one floor into a hallway with redwood walls and the same style of paintings on the walls. I follow halfway down the hall past only two doors—these rooms must be enormous!—before we come to an opening with a cramped, badly lit staircase. The steps are so shallow that twice I almost trip and fall. The not-so-gallant Agent Chandler ignores me and continues up to the third floor. The stairs lead to an identical opulent hallway, right down to the style of paintings. When we reach my room at the end of the hall, past Romantic-era paintings of fields and the ocean, Agent Chandler sets down the bags, pulling a key out of his vest. He unlocks the door and we step in.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I am standing in my dream room. The walls are a powder pink with white lace curtains in the large bay windows. The window seat looks out onto a large pond and willow trees. The space itself is massive. It has to be roughly the size of two normal living rooms. And it has everything! A huge plasma TV with TiVo hooked up. A pink silk couch right out of the nineteenth century. A mahogany desk with a brand-new Apple laptop. A small refrigerator. A walk-in closet with shoe rack. And the pièce de résistance: a king-sized bed with matching canopy. My jaw literally drops.

  As I take stock of the room with my hanging jaw, walking around the boxes filled with my old life, Agent Chandler walks past my bed into a dark room. As I open the computer to check it out, he turns on the light. “This is your bathroom. Your room can be redecorated if you so choose.”

  “No … no, this is perfect,” I say, running my fingers over the keys. A brand-new computer. It is definitely a day of firsts.

  Agent Chandler places the key on the dresser. “I’ll let you start unpacking. If you need anything, just dial zero on your phone.”

  “Got it. Thank you.” Agent Chandler nods and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  The second the door clicks, I find the remote and start flipping channels. TCM. I truly am at home now. After gawking around a bit more, I dive headfirst onto the bed, squealing like a little girl who’s just got a new Barbie. The bed is cotton-candy soft. I lay on my back looking up at the canopy with a huge grin on my face. This is way better than I expected. Finally, my dream of being a princess has come true, complete with castle! Now all I have to do is find Prince Charming, slay a couple dragons, and live happily ever after.

  Just as I’m contemplating rolling myself up in the covers like a Swiss Cake Roll, there is a knock on the door. The roll will have to wait. I scoot off the bed and onto my feet.

  “Coming!” I open the door. A man stands in the hallway. A cute man. A very cute man.

  Enter Prince Charming.

  His large biceps and legs are perfectly toned under his semi-tight black shirt and blue jeans. This man spends a lot of time at the gym. He’s over six feet tall with a ruggedly handsome face, almost emerald green eyes, thin lips, and a thick head of soft, dark brown hair cut so it flops on his forehead a little. I’d place him at mid-thirties with a few wrinkles around his eyes and a slightly crooked Roman nose. Bet he has a nice butt too. The sexy boy-next-door. Can we say “crush at first sight”?

  When he sees me, his lips open a little, almost as if he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. We stand there looking at each other in surprise for an uncomfortable moment. Not that I mind staring at him, but we can’t stay like this. What can I say? Marry me? I’ve never been this wildly attracted to a man this fast. Or ever. If my mouth isn’t put to good use, I’m liable to smash my lips against his. Say something, Bea! I finally open my mouth. “Yes?”

  His jaw snaps shut like he’s just remembered that I’m here, his cheeks turning red. I can’t help but grin. It isn’t every day I make a handsome man forget how to speak. And blush too. Actually, this is the first time ever. I’ve had extremely limited experience with men. I mean, when you’re trying to keep a huge part of yourself a secret, it’s hard to let people in. Nobody wants to date a monster. The one guy I really gave it a try with, my ex Steven, I didn’t even like that much. I kept him at arm’s length like everyone else, and when he asked me to move in with him, I broke it off. I don’t get close to people, especially men. One orgasm and I could blow up their head.

  Not that avoiding relationships was that big a problem. I am in no way supermodel material. I’m cute, that old standby that means I’d never win a beauty contest, but small children don’t flee from me. This is me: twenty-six, dull brown eyes, a small, slightly upturned nose, wavy medium-brown hair a little past shoulder length, tan skin—no self-respecting San Diegan is pale—and now only twenty pounds overweight but still curvy. I would have lost more, but after a long day of getting my butt whupped during training, all I wanted was McDonald’s and a hot fudge sundae. So the way this man is looking at me is an entirely new experience for me. I may not have much actual relationship experience, but I have a very active imagination, which has taken a turn to the racy right now. My cheeks flame up as brightly as his.

  “Um,” the man says, wiping his hand on his jeans. He extends it to me. “Will Price.”

  I meet those stunning eyes and shake his hand. “Beatrice Alexander, nice to meet you.”

  He releases my hand first, snapping his away as if I’m radioactive. He shakes his head. “Um, I’m—I’m supposed to fetch you. Everyone’s in the living room.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  After locking the door behind me, we walk down the hallway almost side by side, arms just an inch from each other. I can feel his heat from here. His arm accidentally brushes mine and he jerks it a
way. “Sorry.” When we reach the evil staircase, he stops to let me go first. Handsome and a gentleman. If he cooks, I’ve found the perfect man. Glad I wore my slimming black slacks in case he’s tempted to look at my booty. My temperature rises at the thought.

  “So, what do you do here?” I ask at the stairs.

  “Same as you.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “So you’re … ”

  “Yeah,” he says uncomfortably. “One of the F.R.E.A.K.S.”

  I won’t press it. I still hate to talk about my curs—I mean my gift—and I can feel the nervousness coming from him. “So, you’re Will from across the hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it just us on the third floor?” Because that means we can make as much noise as we want at the height of passion. Oh yes, my imagination is very active right about now.

  “No, Carl’s one down from you. Some nights one or two of the agents spend the night, but they don’t live here. You’ll get a tour later.”

  “Oh, okay.” We walk a few seconds in silence. I can’t stand silence. “So, how long have you been with the team?” I ask for lack of something better.

  He glances at me then drops his eyes to the carpet. “Six years.”

  “Wow. Do you like it?”

  Will doesn’t answer, instead quickening his pace down the giant staircase. I’ll take that as a “no.” We enter the living room, where everyone has assembled. So this is them. The F.R.E.A.K.S. My new family.

  All eleven sets of eyes are on me, looking me up and down. Appraising me. I just give a weak smile and gaze down to the ground. A shy girl’s best defense. George saunters over to me, putting his arm around my shoulder. “Everyone, let me introduce you to Beatrice Alexander. Beatrice, everyone.”

  “Bea is fine, if you want,” I say quietly.

  A very tall, thin woman about my age with dark brown skin and long, straight light brown hair stands from the pale blue couch and walks over to me. She is supermodel gorgeous with plump lips, high cheekbones, a straight nose, wide almond eyes the color of night, and even a beauty mark on her cheek. “Hi, Bea,” the Beyoncé look-alike says, shaking my hand, “I’m Irie Dempsey. Pyrokinetic. You need a fire, I can start one—” she snaps her fingers and a burst of flame ignites from them—“just like that.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The teenager who sat beside Irie stands up. She’s a few inches taller than I am with blue-black hair cut to her shoulders, Bettie Page bangs, porcelain skin with too much make-up, and thick black frames covering her eyes. Her lips are bright red, her light brown eyes have too much eyeliner, she has a spider nose ring, and her petite frame is encased in black capris and an Edward Scissorhands hoodie. A Goth kewpie doll. “Hi, I’m Nancy Lake,” she says with a burst of energy. “Teleportation. Locked rooms are, like, my thing. I can get through anything up to, like, fifty feet from where I am,” she boasts. “Did you really lift up a whole car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ohmigod! That must have been, like, so cool! Can you, like, do it again? I’d totally love to see that!”

  “I don’t think I can. Sorry.”

  Her red lips move into a pout. “Oh, that sucks.”

  A short man in his late thirties rescues me from the awkward moment by stepping forward. He has ultra-short, spiky dark brown hair and square glasses and clears his throat as he walks over to me, extending his gloved hand. My savior is baby-faced and pudgy with dark blue eyes, nicely pressed preppy clothes, and black leather gloves. “Carl Petrovsky, psychometry.” That’s why he has the gloves. If psychometrics touch an object with their bare skin, they sometimes have visions about its history. If they touch a person, they see his past as if they were living in his head, experiencing everything firsthand. Our hands barely brush before he pulls away.

  I have a little of the same thing, apparently. I never thought it was anything, but at The Building they tested me for other skills. I ranked semi-high on the clairempathy chart. It means I can sense people’s emotions if I’m around them and their emotion is intense enough. I always thought it was something everyone could do. I could tell when to hit up Nana for money because I’d know when she was in a good mood. We worked on it a little during training. Now if someone’s feeling something strongly, I can sense it. I’m just doubly lucky, I guess.

  Finally, the African American man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting in the back corner stands from his chair. He’s in his late fifties or early sixties wearing dark sunglasses. The white cane he has in his right hand sweeps the area in front of him before he takes a step. He makes his way to me just as quickly as a person with perfect vision. The man stops right in front of me, holding out his hand. “Andrew DuChamp,” he says with a Southern accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I shake his hand.

  “Andrew’s our resident medium,” Irie says. “Ghosts love him, don’t they, Andrew?”

  “A little too much, I’m afraid. Pierce followed me to South Carolina.”

  “You really need to tell him to leave you alone,” Carl says. “I’m getting sick of being woken up in the middle of the night having to listen to a one-sided conversation.”

  “Pierce is one of the house ghosts,” Irie explains. “He used to live here a hundred years ago. Don’t worry though; he leaves everyone but Andrew alone.”

  “Good to know.”

  George gestures to the men and woman standing by the wall. All the men look the same, mid-thirties, tall, built, wearing stockbroker blue suits complete with guns. The woman is tall and thin, in her forties, with short brown hair and eyes. “And the gentlemen and lady in the back are Special Agents Wolfe,” the man with the natural blond hair and blue eyes nods, “Agent Konrad,” the man next to Wolfe with dark brown hair slicked back nods, “Agent Rushmore,” the severe man with a scar across his eyebrow does nothing, “you know Agent Chandler, and our physician/medical examiner is Dr. Lynette Neill,” George says. “So, that’s the team.”

  “I thought there were more of you.”

  “You’ll have to meet Oliver later,” George says, “he’s … unavailable at the moment.”

  “He’ll find you, I’m sure,” Will says with a hint of disdain. Irie shoots him a look of disapproval before rolling her eyes.

  “Well now,” George says, “I know Beatrice has quite a lot of unpacking to do. Irie, Nancy, why don’t you help?”

  “Cool!” Nancy says right before she grabs my hand and jerks me out of the room. Irie follows behind us. “So, you’re, like, from San Diego! That is so cool! I’ve never been to California, but I’ve always wanted to! Is it true it’s always, like, sunny and warm? Do you go to the beach a lot? Have you ever seen any movie stars? OMG, have you ever seen Johnny Depp? I am, like, totally in love with him. Do you like him? He—”

  “Nancy,” Irie snaps, “take a breath!”

  “What!”

  Irie walks up to us, taking a place on my left. I’m wedged between the two women all the way up the stairs. “So, are you nervous?” Irie asks.

  “A little,” I admit. “This is all so surreal.”

  “Don’t worry,” Irie soothes. “We’ll take care of you. We’re really not that bad. For a bunch of freaks.”

  “Don’t you totally hate that name?” Nancy asks me. “I so do.”

  “Nancy, even if you couldn’t do what you do and weren’t a member, you’d still be a freak.”

  “Shut up!”

  Irie chuckles. “So, here’s the dish,” Irie says. “CliffsNotes version of your brand-new life. Andrew and Carl are sweeties. You ever need to talk, anytime night or day, they are always there. The only thing you need to avoid is touching Carl. No hugs, usually not even handshakes with or without the gloves. It goes back to when he was a kid. He’d touch someone and poof! All their feelings or worse would pour out. He saw molestation, murder, all that shit. They recruited him about ten years ago when he was doing his second stint in a loony bin. I don’t think the guy has ever had a girlfriend.” />
  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Nancy asks me.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Me neither, but there is this boy in town that is totally—”

  “Nancy! Shut it! I’m trying to talk here.”

  “What?” Nancy whines. “I was just asking a question. I am allowed to—”

  “Not now. Christ, you are so rude!”

  “Don’t blow a freaking gasket. We don’t want to, like, replace the wallpaper again.”

  “Then stop acting like a two-year-old on crack.”

  When we reach my room, I start fumbling in my pockets for the key. Nancy rolls her eyes and then disappears right before my eyes. Like a wuss, I gasp and jump back. It’s as if she was never there. I look at Irie, who rolls her eyes. “She does that a lot,” Irie says. “Doesn’t know the meaning of privacy.”

  The lock clicks and the door swings open. Nancy stands on the other side with a smile on her face and a hand on her tiny hip. “Cool, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say as I pass her. Okay, that was a little spooky.

  The girls immediately go over to my boxes and suitcases. They each pick one up and throw it on the bed. “As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted … ” Irie glares at Nancy, who sticks her tongue out. “Just don’t touch Carl. That’s the way he likes it. So that’s Carl. As for our Nancy here, as you may have guessed: she is a pain in the ass.”

  “You’re one to talk! At least the house doesn’t almost, like, burn down whenever I have PMS!” Nancy pulls out my black cashmere sweater and holds it up. “Ohmigod! I, like, love this! Can I try it on?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “If only,” Irie mumbles. In a blink, Nancy disappears. Weird, definitely weird. Irie pulls out clothes from the box and takes them to the dresser. I walk over to the other box and start unpacking. I’m not sure if these will fit me anymore. I lost twenty pounds, thank you very much, and the Marines at The Building weren’t big on the shopping field trips. Irie holds up my jean skirt. “We have to take you shopping.”