Mind Over Monsters Page 4

  “I’d like that,” I say with a smile. “Have you been here long?”

  “Close to eight years. George found me after I burnt down my high school.” She shares this bit of information as nonchalantly as someone ordering take-out.

  My eyes bug out of my head. “You burnt down your high school?”

  “It was an accident. I stayed late for band practice and these pricks tried to rape me. I lost my temper. That’s my tip about me—don’t piss me off unless you want a trip to the burn unit.”

  “I will try to remember that.”

  We both go back for more clothes. “What happened to the boys?” I ask carefully, trying to avoid the burn unit.

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Guess.”

  I glance at her sideways. “You mean you … ”

  She meets me square in the eyes. “Here’s another tip: forget the past. Every person in this house at some point in their lives has done something that makes them wake up in the middle of the night with an attack of conscience. There are no angels here, only seriously screwed up people looking for a little acceptance. If you don’t judge, neither will we. Besides, most of the time it wasn’t our fault. We didn’t know what we were doing or didn’t have control. I’m sure you have a story too. Care to share?”

  Thankfully, Nancy walks out of the bathroom in my sweater. It’s about three sizes too big but still looks better on her than it ever did on me. “I so have to borrow this!”

  “Okay.”

  “Cool!” Nancy skips back over to us and picks up more clothes.

  “Take our Nancy here. Nancy, tell Bea what you did before you were recruited.”

  “I helped my parents rob banks,” she says as cheerful as a chipmunk. “We robbed banks from Michigan all the way to Kentucky. Then they got caught and I went into foster care. Tres nightmare, but the robbing was totally fun. I’d just port in, turn off the alarm, port into the vault, and port out with the money. It was, like, so cool!”

  “Only you would think grand larceny is cool,” Irie says, closing the top drawer.

  “Shut up! I loved moving around. It was so exciting.”

  “I moved around a lot when I was a kid too,” I say.

  “Really? Why?” Nancy asks.

  “My mom had a restless spirit, or that’s what she called it. She thought there was too much world to see to stay in one place.”

  “But I thought you were from San Diego,” Irie says.

  “I moved there when I was eight.”

  “Why?” Nancy asks.

  “My mom … died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Irie says, shooting icicles at Nancy.

  “It’s okay. I went to live with my Nana after that.”

  Nana. A homesickness pang hits so hard I have to draw breath. For some reason I see her as I did the first time we met. Brian and I were at the police station, sitting on a wood bench with itchy blankets wrapped around us when she walked in. Five hours earlier, Brian had found Mom with her head in our gas oven. He hadn’t spoken a word since. An officer, a woman in her early twenties, told me what happened. I was so numb, I couldn’t even cry. It was just too much for my eight-year-old mind to process. I’d just seen her that morning, lying in her dark bedroom under the covers staring off into space. I kissed her cheek and went to school. Didn’t even say “I love you” like I normally did. I really regret that.

  I knew who Nana was the moment she walked in. It was the eyes, the same ones that looked out of my face and Brian’s. There was something in her brown eyes that night, something I couldn’t understand at my young age. She looked haunted. It seems Death surrounds some people, waiting to take everything from them as He did her: husband, parents, two daughters. Bastard.

  That look would appear in her eyes when she was deep in thought. It was there the night I almost killed Brian. It was what made me throw up the pills when I tried to kill myself afterward. Much as I yearned to escape myself, I didn’t want to add my death to her pain.

  Irie clears her throat, bringing me out of my own head, God bless her. “Anyway,” she says. “Next stop in the getting to know us parade is your neighbor across the hall. Will is our de facto leader, much to Oliver’s chagrin.”

  “They so don’t get along,” Nancy adds, holding my Ann Taylor silk shirt up to her body.

  “Having two alpha males in close proximity is never a good thing,” Irie says. “But George insists we follow Will when we’re in the field. He was a detective for the Washington, DC, police before he got bit. So he has experience with—”

  “He was bit? By what?”

  Irie scoffs. “He didn’t tell you. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Will’s, like, totally a werewolf,” says Nancy.

  My throat closes up with that last word. Werewolf. Oh my, I have a werewolf living across the hall. The crime scene photos from my studies flash back. People ripped apart by fangs and claws. There was nothing left of the victims but bones and raw meat. The worry must show on my face—I am incapable of a poker face—because Irie smiles to reassure me. “Don’t worry, he’s a puppy dog.”

  “A totally bossy puppy dog,” Nancy says under her breath.

  “When it’s time for him to go furry, we lock him in the basement. But he’s another one to be careful of. Intense anger can bring on the change.”

  “I know. I read up on werewolves at The Building.”

  “You actually read all that stuff?” Irie asks, eyebrow raised. “Wow, I couldn’t get past page five. Anyways, Will and his wife were camping in some park and got attacked. Will managed to kill the fucker but got bit. His wife … ”

  “Don’t ever ask him about her,” Nancy warns me. “He’ll get, like, really pissed.”

  “Well, it is a sore subject,” Irie points out. “She died. He’s still not over it.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I know. George heard about the attack and got to Will early before he, you know, offed himself or hurt anyone else. He’s kind of in denial about the whole furry thing, I think. Not that I blame him. I had guard duty a couple of times. What that guy goes through once a month … ” She fake-shudders. “He’s a good guy and all—”

  “Bossy!” Nancy says, picking up more clothes.

  Irie glares. “Yes, a little bossy, and really hard to talk to. Basically, if it doesn’t have to do with an op—sorry, an operation—he won’t talk to you. But there isn’t anyone here I trust more with my life.”

  Nancy nods in agreement.

  “So … The real agents try to keep themselves separate from us except in the field. They’re all real serious. I think we scare them a little, so just avoid them like they do us. There, you’re now up to speed. If you have any questions, please put them in writing. We will try to get back to you within three working days.”

  “What about … ” I draw a blank, “the other guy?”

  “Oliver?” Irie asks. “Well, Oliver is—”

  “You so can’t tell her about Oliver!” Nancy interrupts again. “You totally promised him!”

  I look at Irie. “You promised him what?”

  Irie sighs. “Our Oliver has a flair for the dramatic. He wants to ‘reveal himself’—his words, not mine—to you.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Well, that’s our Oliver. I will warn you though: don’t buy into his bullshit. He’s all bark and no bite,” she chuckles at this, “literally.”

  My telephone rings on the nightstand, and Nancy answers it. My phone. Someone really should teach her some manners. “Bea’s room, Nancy speaking.” She listens for a few seconds. “Kay, no prob. Be there in a few.” She hangs up. “Irie, they want us in the conference room for debrief.”

  Irie rolls her eyes. “Great.” She closes my already full dresser drawer and turns to me. “We might be a while; you’re going to have to finish yourself.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

  “Well, that’s what we do around here. It’s like the military; you’re only good as the person next
to you. Don’t want to have that person pissed off at you. Come on, Nance, they’re waiting for us.”

  “I totally hate debriefs,” Nancy whines.

  Irie rolls her eyes again, tugs on Nancy’s—well, my—sweater sleeve, and leaves the room. Nancy stops at the door and turns to me. “Do you like Portal? If you want, you can come by my room later and we can play after your ‘getting to know you’ dinner.”

  “Um, I’d like that.”

  “Cool!” she says with a bright smile. “Okay, well, bye.”

  When the door closes, I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Alone at last. That went better than I thought. All acceptance cost me was a sweater. I walk over to the bed and toss off the empty boxes. I’ll do the rest later. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted, like I’ve been up for three days walking through a hot desert. I stare up at my canopy and yawn. There’s a seriously cute werewolf living across the hall from me. There’s a mysterious man who wants to shock me for some reason. I suddenly have two bickering sisters. It’s a tad too much.

  I’m not sure how long I lay on the bed staring up at the gossamer canopy, just letting the calm I’ve been missing for two months take over. My eyelids begin to droop. Closing them seems like a very good idea. A yawn wracks my whole body. Just a little nap. Then I’ll …

  When I open my eyes again, the room is pitch black. Panic grips my body. Where am I? What … oh, yeah. I wipe the drool from my mouth. Crud. The sun set several hours ago by the looks of it. The clock next to me reads 8:56. Great, I’ve missed my own “getting to know you” dinner. They must think I’m an antisocial snob. Great start, Bea.

  I fumble in the dark for the lamp, clicking it on. I manage to sit up but suddenly my stomach growls like a Rottweiler. I haven’t eaten since the plane. Okay, where is the kitchen? Oh yeah, I missed the tour too. Considering I get lost in my own school, should I venture around the scary mansion? The Rottweiler makes the decision for me.

  The hallway is as quiet as a church during Mardi Gras, as is the rest of the house. I make my way through the dimly lit hallways, finding the big staircase with no problem. There isn’t anyone on the ground level either. Okay, George said the kitchen was on the … left? I walk behind the staircase and am very happy to find the empty kitchen. Stainless steel everything fills the large space. The counters are covered with every appliance ever invented to make food: toasters, blenders, and a few I’ve never seen before. There are two ovens built into the walls, each the size of a dishwasher. You could make a lot of cupcakes in there. I go over to a subzero refrigerator the size of a small car with enough food to feed three football teams. I’m sure more drool slips out of my mouth at this wondrous sight. I pull out ingredients to make a roast beef sandwich and cut myself two pieces of the chocolate cake that reads “WELCOME BEATR.” Gee, they celebrated without me. Well, it is tragic to waste a perfectly good cake, especially one made in my honor. I grab a third piece.

  I leave the kitchen and make it a few steps up the stairs before I notice a light on in one of the rooms that wasn’t on before. Juggling my plates, I go back down the stairs into one of the most fabulous sights I have seen. Even more fabulous than the fridge and my room, and that’s saying something.

  Books. At least a thousand books. Old, new, ancient. Browns, greens, burgundies, whites. Two floors of wall-to-wall books. I can’t tell where one stops and the other begins. It’s like a college library. There’s a railing around the square room and a tall ladder that reaches the ceiling. In the middle of the library are three burgundy hard leather chairs with brass buttons. A couch of the same material sits near the two-story bay windows that look out onto the dimly lit pond. Off to the side are two dark wooden chairs set up on either side of a chessboard. This is the smart people’s room.

  Like most social outcasts who inherited the shy gene, books became my best friend. During recess, you could find me sitting against the wall in the corner with my nose in a new adventure. On date night, when the other kids were performing various tentative sex acts, I’d be locked in my room with the latest Sue Grafton. Most of my paycheck went to Barnes & Noble. I even knew everyone there by name.

  Letting my inner girl come out, I squeal and run to the nearest book-filled wall, putting the plates on the nearest table. Food can wait. I run my fingers over the hundred-year-old bindings, my eyes wide. Jane Austen, John Galsworthy, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë (my favorite!), history books on every period. I pull out one about the French Revolution that looks and smells as if it was written back then. I don’t know how long I’m skimming the book but I’m brought out of France by the distinct feeling that I’m not alone. My back tingles. I glance over my left shoulder at the door.

  A man leans casually yet elegantly on the door frame, arms folded in front of him and a small smile covering his face. Wow. Hello. This is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen outside a movie, maybe even in them as well. His thick, wavy brown hair with blonde highlights stops just above his shoulders, tendrils curling under his ears. His flawless high cheekbones go all the way to his cat-like gray eyes and I’d call him feminine if not for that strong, square jaw with a cleft chin. He’s pale, almost lily-white, which really brings out the red in his lush lips. Lips made for kissing, April would call them. Cupid’s bow and all. I can’t tell his age except late twenties, early thirties. His frame is perfect on him too. Not too thin, but not as meaty as Will. Adonis is dressed in tight black slacks that leave little to the imagination, a billowy white shirt cut so the V of the neck reaches a few inches above his naval showing abundant chest hair, and finally a velvet blood red robe. Standing before me—devouring me with his eyes—is a man who belongs on the cover of a romance novel.

  “I was just … ” I hold up the book.

  The intruder says nothing, he just keeps grinning like a beautiful mental patient. I turn back to the bookcase and replace the book. I’ll come back for it later. When I turn around the man is gone.

  “I am over here,” he says with a light English accent.

  I completely turn around and see the man on the exact opposite side of the room holding a book in his long fingers. Okay, how did … ? I only turned for a second. There’s no way he could have crossed the room that fast. “How did you—” I swivel my head between the door and where he now stands, all in about half a second, but he’s disappeared again.

  “Magic.”

  Out of thin air, he appears not two feet from me. I literally jump a foot, gasping along the way. The grin returns on the man’s face just as mischievously as the time before. My heart almost escapes out of my mouth.

  “I am sorry,” he says, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “Well, you did,” I say, my voice a few octaves higher than normal. “You shouldn’t do that to people.”

  “You are of course right,” he says graciously. “I promise never to do it again.”

  I don’t know if it’s his laughing eyes or just my intuition, but I know he’s lying. He’s too close. I take a step back. “Let me guess, you’re Oliver?”

  “What drew you to that conclusion?”

  “They said you had a flair for the dramatic.”

  He smiles again. It’s a knockout smile. “Did they now? And what else, pray tell, did they say about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “In that case, I suppose we should formally introduce ourselves like civilized creatures.” He stretches out his arm. “Oliver Montrose.”

  I glance at those long fingers before shaking his freezing hand. “Beatrice Alexander.”

  He lifts my hand up, laying a small kiss on it. “Enchanted.”

  I pull my hand back. “Right back at ya.” We’re silent for a moment. His eyes meet mine, but I look away toward the shelves. Oliver’s eyes move side to side across my face as if he’s trying to figure something out. I decide to break the silence. “So, what do you do?”

  He continues to study my face as if the root of his dilemma can somehow be found here. After five seconds, the
smile comes back. “My, my, you are just full of surprises, are you not, Trixie?” I flinch at that last word. That’s what Leonard called me: Miss Trixie. He’d whisper it into my ear as he stroked my hair.

  “Don’t call me Trixie.”

  “Why not? You look like a Trixie.”

  “Just don’t.”

  He takes a step toward me. “It is only a name.”

  “Just don’t call me that, okay? It’s not that much to ask, is it?”

  I step away from Oliver and toward the door. He simply stands there with that same grin on his face, his eyes roving up and down. I don’t need to be a mind reader to know I’m being mentally undressed. The leer tells all. He’s not even hiding the fact. My students sometimes did this; not the mental undressing—even in this day and age, ten year olds are a bit young for that—but staring just to make me uncomfortable. I look away, doing my best to ignore him. I don’t want a fight.

  “So, what can you do? Can you run really fast or teleport or something?”

  “Close,” he says, moving toward me. He stops a foot away. Apparently, he’s not into personal space. “I can move faster than humans can see.” He leans in, almost so his face touches my ear. “But there is more,” he whispers. “Guess right and I will give you a prize.”

  I can just guess what this so-called prize is. He stays stone still as I take a few more steps away. “Why don’t you just tell me?” I suggest in an exasperated tone.

  Oliver shakes his head. “Do not tell me they have recruited another human without a sense of humor.”

  “I have a sense of humor.”

  “Then play with me, Trixie.”

  “Don’t call me that!” I say through clenched teeth. Out of nowhere, my stomach growls loud enough to be heard through the room. Oh heck. My cheeks grow hot.

  That stupid grin returns. “Hungry?”

  “I missed dinner.” I seriously wish I hadn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t be so annoying, or scary, with other people around. “Was everyone angry?”