Freya's Inferno (Winging It Book 1) Read online

  By four in the afternoon, I was slumped in chair, my feet propped up on the desk. My throat hurt from talking all day with my teacher voice. I closed my eyes and sighed, enjoying the silence. Then, somewhere deep in my desk, there came a buzzing noise. It took a second for my brain to process the sound and then a few more seconds for the brain to communicate to the body that it was my cell phone and I should probably try to locate and answer it. By the time I had the cell phone in my hands, the phone gave me its sad little chirp to say that I was too slow and had missed the call. I checked missed calls and saw that it was David. I smiled. He was probably checking in to see how my day went. I pressed the call back button, and he answered before it even rang on my side.

  “Send any kids to detention yet?”

  “Nope. I used my scary voice and then threatened to sic a werewolf on them if they didn’t behave.”

  “But Ms. Holm, there isn’t such a thing as a werewolf.”

  “Oh that’s what you think, Little Davey… No, actually, it went well. There were more creative clothing choices and piercings than in my former school, but when it comes down to it, kids are kids.”

  Amy ducked in my class and pointed outside. I nodded at her and she slipped back out the door. It looked like the teachers were ready to go. “One of my goals this year is to incorporate more art into science. Maybe I can get Elin and her friends involved somehow.” Ideas were already spinning around in my head.

  “I’m sure that you can. I had some fabulous science teachers growing up who inspired me to get into engineering. Of course, some of them were bat-shit crazy, too.”

  “That’s the great thing about being a science teacher. It’s okay to be the eccentric one. Everyone expects the scientist to have crazy hair and be absentminded, so you might as well enjoy it.” Caroline, another literature teacher, poked her head in the classroom and motioned me to hurry up. I guess they were as anxious to get out of school the first day as the kids were.

  “I was hoping to take you out to celebrate your first day. What do you think?” David asked.

  “Sounds good, but I am going to go out with Amy and some of the other teachers this afternoon. We don’t have a lot of grading to do yet, so now is a great time for teachers to hang out. How about a rain check?”

  “That’s fine. What’s going on over there? It sounds like you have a fly buzzing into the phone.”

  “No, that’s actually Amy, and I honest to God think she is blowing a kazoo out in the hallway to try to get us stragglers out the door.”

  “A kazoo? You work at an odd school.”

  We finished up the conversation, setting some tentative plans for dinner over the weekend, and then I left. Happy hour was a-wastin’.

  There was a group of eight of us teachers at an outdoor beer garden. We all had glass steins in front of us, but we were drinking slowly, conscious that tomorrow was a school day. Some of the older teachers had decided that it was their duty to tell me stories about the quirks of our school. I listened, but only half-believed any story, seeing as it felt more like rant time than an honest assessment.

  While hearing for the third time about how budget cuts were unfairly distributed to the History Department, I studied the corkboard posted on the side of the outdoor wall. There were the usual yoga classes and 5k fun runs posted, but what caught my eye was a poster advertising local gigs for a band called McCleary and the Clearlies. There were cartoon sketches of a fiddle, banjo, guitar, and some drums. The poster advertised the band was Bluegrass, Folk, Celtic and whatever else we feel like playing. Sounded like my kind of band; I decided to check them out sometime. I pulled my attention back to the conversation at the table, and luckily it had moved on to stories of past student-run talent shows, which were a combination of amazing and hilarious. My cell phone rang in the middle of a story about a fashion show featuring the football team in kilts. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was local, so I decided to answer.

  “Freya Holm?” The voice was deep and official. My stomach dropped to my knees. This was the voice and tone of bad news.

  “Yes, this is Freya.”

  “This is Officer Wagner of the San Luis Obispo Police Department. There has been an incident at a local church, and it appears that there is some connection to you. Could we meet with you?”

  “What? An incident at a church? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, an incident. We would like to talk to you.” Officer Wagner didn’t seem to be willing to give up any details.

  “Umm, sure, yes. I’ve been teaching all day and now I’m out with some friends. I really don’t know anything about it.”

  “We are aware that you have been teaching today, but we would still like to meet with you,” Officer Wagner said in a huff, and then gave what sounded like, in his view, a big concession. “We could come to your house if that would be easier.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I was still confused, but I preferred to meet at my house than at the station.

  “We will meet you there.” And Officer Wagner hung up on me.

  I turned to the teachers, who were all staring at me by this point, based on my bizarre phone call. I briefly explained it to them as much as I could, but honestly, I had no clue as to what the whole situation was about. I decided to walk home even though I had driven. I didn’t feel like driving up to a meeting with cops with even a hint of alcohol on my breath.

  By the time that I arrived home ten minutes later, I had worked out several different scenarios, but none of them made sense. How could I be involved with an incident at a church?

  A cop car was already in my driveway when I turned the corner to home. I concluded that Officer Wagner must be the middle-aged man with the sun-wrinkled face and salt and pepper hair since the other officer was Officer McCleary. I remembered back to the poster and wondered if she was involved with the band. I’d have to ask her later because it was obvious that they were not here for personal chitchat. I invited them in, and we sat down at my small kitchen table. Officer Wagner jumped right into the story.

  At three-fifty this afternoon, a pastor walked outside the church building and noticed that the oversized altar Bible was lying in the grass outside the church. Upon closer inspection, the pastor noticed it was staked to the ground using two crucifixes sharpened to a point at the bottom. The Bible had also been spray-painted red throughout.

  Officer Wagner paused at this point and looked at me. I still didn’t know what to say. I had been to Blue Sky Church once for a service, but hadn’t returned since.

  After a pause, Officer McCleary continued the story. The front page had been ripped out and stuck to a stone wall surrounding the church. Scrawled in red ink were the words, “This is for you, Freya. Welcome to Hell.”

  Officer McCleary stopped abruptly, cleared her throat, and continued. “Although it is possible that this is referring to another person, you are the only Freya currently living in town that we know of. Do you know what this means?”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “No, I don’t. I’ve only been to that church once. Someone from my school recommended it, but it wasn’t my type of church, so I didn’t go back. Oh crap, that sounded bad. I didn’t dislike the church, it just wasn’t my style. It was big and techy; I go for smaller and less synthesized instruments. But it had a nice view. I’m rambling. Should I get a lawyer? Am I a suspect? I was at school all day. I have about eighty-five witnesses. And then I went out for a drink with the other teachers afterward. But I didn’t drink and drive to get back here. I walked.”

  Officer Wagner held up a hand in a stop motion and grimaced. “No, you are not a suspect. Being in front of a classroom full of students is a pretty good alibi. Plus the note isn’t signed by you, it’s referring to you. By the way, we are keeping the presence of the note out of the media for now.”

  It was Officer McCleary’s turn to jump in. “Does this have something to do with Ms. Chen?”

  “Maybe. I saw her yesterda
y.” I filled them in on what had happened yesterday at the ranch.

  “She said, ‘You know nothing of evil, but I will take you there?’” Officer Wagner jotted the phrase down in a small notebook. “Defacing a Bible sounds like evil to me.”

  “Yeah, I agree. But what connection does that have to Jia? What connection does that have for me? If that note is referring to me and was from Jia, why did she attack Blue Sky Church? As I said, it’s not my church. I was planning on looking for another church.”

  “Have you been to another church?”

  “No. I’ve had a lame excuse every Sunday and haven’t been to church in a few weeks.”

  “So Blue Sky is the only church you have been to in town?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  Officer Wagner wrote all this information down in his little notebook.

  “Can you think of anyone else in your life who would break into a church, vandalize the property, and then refer to you?”

  I stopped and thought. There was the episode in Florida, which left some people very angry at me. But they had been taken care of in their own way. It would be bizarre for them to show up now.

  “No, I really can’t think of anyone.”

  “Do you have a writing sample from Jia? We hope to compare writing styles and look for fingerprints.”

  “Not here. Maybe at the guest house out at my sister’s house.”

  Officer Wagner pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “We will check out that lead. In the meantime, we request that you not discuss the note. As I said, we are keeping that evidence out of public knowledge.”

  “Sure. I’m so sorry about the incident. I’m heartbroken that I may somehow be connected.”

  Officer McCleary pushed her chair back. “Then whoever did this has succeeded in what they wanted to do. If the note refers to you, Freya, they meant to hurt you and make you feel guilty. Remember that.”

  “Thank you. I will.” I appreciated the reframing of the situation. Someone, probably Jia, was doing this to hurt me. I wasn’t responsible.

  After they left, I continued to sit at the table, trying to think through the mess. My brain was going in useless circles. So I gave up and called David. I fully realized that the police had asked me to keep the note a secret, but we supernaturals had an even bigger secret that the police didn’t know. I could trust David could keep one additional small piece of information a secret.

  “Can I take you up on the dinner offer? Something weird is going on and I’d like to talk it over with you. But it has to be at one of our houses.”

  “Sure, I can throw together something to eat. I don’t trust the contents of your fridge. I’m still at the office, but I’ll be home soon. See you there?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I hung up and tapped my fingers against the table. Waiting alone really wasn’t working for me; I needed to do something, anything, so I decided to start making dinner at David’s house. I called him back, got the location of a key he had hidden in the backyard, and was on my way.

  I unlocked David’s door and headed into the kitchen. And then stopped abruptly. I’m proud to say that instead of freaking out, my brain actually made a tidy little list of information and conclusions working from the current situation.

  1. Going off my sense of smell, there were two werewolves close by

  2. David didn’t have any werewolf friends right now

  3. The house was dark

  4. The werewolves didn’t want to be seen

  5. Hidden, non-friend werewolves probably meant trouble

  6. They undoubtedly heard me enter.

  7. Most heroines on TV or movies would grab a knife from the butcher’s block, handspring into the dining room, and kick said werewolves’ asses, all while wearing high heels

  8. Based solely on the laws of conservation of mass and energy, there is no way that in real life a five-foot-one-inch female could ever beat two werewolves in a fight. Sorry, Charlie’s Angels. Physics doesn’t work like that

  9. Besides, I wasn’t wearing high heels

  10. I should very slowly and quietly back out of the kitchen and then run as fast as I can to the car

  11. Better grab a knife from the butcher’s block just in case

  Although it was a good plan, it didn’t work quite as I had hoped. Halfway into my stealthy trip back across the kitchen—but before I could get to the butcher’s block—I heard the back door crash open. At the same time, around the door to the dining room, a werewolf in human form appeared. I spun around, hoping that the back door had opened because of the wind. Nope, no such luck. There was the second man, and it didn’t look like he was going to discuss the weather. Even though I knew that the laws of physics were against me, I sprang into action. After Florida, I had taken some self-defense classes and knew the first step was to not see yourself as the victim.

  The man coming from the dining room was only a few inches taller than me and had a few extra pounds on him, whereas the guy coming through the back door looked like he was made of solid muscle.

  In a split second, I decided on dining room guy. The knives were too far away, so I grabbed the first thing I could from a jar full of kitchen utensils. It was a wire whisk. A very unintimidating wire whisk. I threw it at Chubby anyway. He blinked and instinctively moved to avoid it, leaving a space to his left in the doorway. I made a dash for the gap. I almost made it, ducking low to make myself less of a target. But Chubster managed to grab my shirt sleeve as I ran past. The momentum from my sprint and the sudden stop made me torque around. I used my motion and added an elbow to slam into Chubby’s back. I heard a grunt, but his grip didn’t loosen. He still only had me by my shirt, so I ducked around his stationary hand, twisting his hand into what had to be an uncomfortable position. He let go, but I felt another hand grab me, this time firmly around my arm.

  I looked up to see The Muscle had me now and boy, did he look pissed. I swung widely toward him and my fist hit his lip. Man, that hurt my hand. I hoped it hurt him, too. But The Muscle just grimaced and didn’t let go. I heard Chubby shout something at me, but whatever it was, I didn’t hear it. The Muscle tried to grab my other arm, so I tried my twist again, hoping to break out of his hold. No luck this time—but I did wrench my arm into a painful position. The Muscle used my awkward position to his advantage and pulled my arm so it was pinned behind my back. I stomped on his foot, right over his arch, as hard as I could. He grunted again but didn’t let go. This guy was tough. I stomped on his foot again. Chubster was still yelling in a hushed tone, but the words were flowing beyond me. It appeared The Muscle was tired of my foot abuse because he gave me a swift kick behind my knee.

  My knee buckled, then I was flat on my stomach with my arm wrenched behind me and cussing like a sailor. The Muscle made a motion to Chubby, and Chubby was suddenly the one holding me down.

  After a second, I realized that I wasn’t the only one swearing. Chubby didn’t seem happy about the situation either. The Muscle stood up, grabbed a paper towel, and started to blot his lip. So I had done some damage with my punch. Good. I hope it hurt; my fist still stung. He was the first of us to say something more coherent than a string of four-letter words.

  “Listen, lady, we didn’t mean to hurt you. We came to see David, but we were surprised when a supernatural appeared. What are you anyway? I don’t recognize the scent.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Fine, I actually don’t care. As I said, we are here because we need to talk to David.”

  “Talk or kill?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

  The werewolf who had pinned me snorted. “We may be the only werewolves out there who aren’t trying to kill him.”

  The Muscle sank down to the floor and motioned to the other werewolf. It must have been the signal to let my arm go because the pressure on my arm released. Chubster continued to sit on my back, though, so I knew it was a fairly meaningless gesture. At least I could get blood back to my numb arm. />
  “So who are you then?” I asked. David was going to be home soon, and I didn’t like the thought of him walking in to this sight. I had a feeling he was a better fighter than me and there would be more bloodshed than from a split lip.

  Bloody Lip, who seemed to be in charge, answered, “I’m Pedro and this is Philip. Both of us are formerly of the Santa Fe Pack.”

  “You were the ones that saved David!” The world seemed instantly a whole lot brighter.

  “He was the one that managed to survive that blood bath. We just dragged him out of there,” replied Philip with a shrug.

  “David thought that you were dead,” I said.

  “We are as good as dead if any werewolf finds us,” Philip said quietly.

  “But why are you here? And for goodness sake, let me up.” The weight didn’t move. “I’m seeing little birdies here. I need some oxygen.” Philip moved and I took a deep breath. Werewolves are heavy creatures. All of us stood up since it felt awkward having such a tension-filled conversation while sitting on the floor. I took a closer look these werewolves. Pedro was older than me, perhaps late thirties. He was probably a bit shy of six feet and his physique suggested both a natural athleticism and time at the gym. His skin was a few shades darker than David’s, but it looked like he spent some time in the sun. Everything about him brokered a no-nonsense attitude.

  The silence was getting long, but eventually Pedro answered, “We’ve come to warn David that the pack is after him.” He paused and shrugged. “And we had nowhere else to go.”