Fried Rice and Fangs (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 10)

  “Fried Rice and Fangs”

  Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery

  Harper "Foxxy" Beck Series Book 10

  Raven Snow

  © 2017

  Raven Snow

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received it directly from the author you are reading a pirated copy. If you have downloaded an illegal copy of this book & enjoyed it, please consider purchasing a legal copy. Your respect & support encourages me to continue writing & producing high quality books for you.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Cover images are licensed stock photos, images shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are models.

  Edition v1.00 (2017.03.03)

  raven@ravensnowauthor.com

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  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  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 One

  "This isn't a parking spot," my twelve-year-old stepson said from the passenger seat. Cooper radiated disapproval. With dark brown hair, icy blue eyes, and a stern jaw, he looked exactly like his father. He even had the air of superiority down.

  In all fairness, he was right about the parking spot. My beaten-up orange bug was parked half on a patch of grass and half in a tow-away zone. There were bright signs all over the place telling me not to park there.

  “Your father’s a cop,” I said, turning off the engine. “What’s the point in marrying a cop if you can’t get away with stuff like this?”

  I grabbed Cooper’s hand and yanked him towards his school which was crowded with parents and kids coming in and out. Most of the parents were dressed in nice business clothes, and I couldn’t help but compare their clothes to my disco shorts and sheer tank top. At least I’d had enough time to take the neon green Afro wig off before rushing here from my disco skate.

  I passed a large window, and my reflection glared back at me. My dark pixie cut was flat and all over the place thanks to the wig. With my skinny frame, I looked like a scarecrow, all angles and long limbs.

  Cooper didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be seen with the Queen of Groove, but he was a good kid. I eyed some of the other kids who were giving me looks identical to the looks from their parents. I’d be kicking myself if the kid got teased over this.

  Then, proving he really was a good boy, Cooper squeezed my hand and smiled at me. He was a little old to be holding hands in front of his classmates, but I figured since I wasn’t his real mom, it wasn’t as mortifying.

  We joined a line of parents and their kids sitting outside a classroom in tiny, uncomfortable chairs. The plastic creaked as we sat down, and I was transported back to my school days. I felt very much like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office, which I did often in those days.

  After each of the parents in line entered with their children, some coming out looking miffed and shooting daggers at the back of their kids’ heads, we were called in. I wiped my sweaty hands on the back of Cooper’s shirt, because I didn’t have enough fabric on my whole body to use.

  Still kicking myself about my outfit, I followed my kid into Mrs. Langstein’s classroom. The room was filled with tiny desks and motivational posters on the wall. Passing one that told me I could be anything I wanted to be, I almost tripped over a stray geometry text book, something I hadn’t laid eyes on in a decade or more.

  Cooper’s teacher was a kind-looking woman in her late 30s with prematurely greying hair. Her features were small but attractive, and she smiled widely as we came up to her desk. At least the chairs here were full sized and didn’t threaten to collapse when we sat.

  She reached over and shook my hand. “You must be Mrs. Bennett. Cooper has told me so much about you.”

  “It’s still Beck, actually,” I told her.

  Wyatt hadn’t even pushed me to take his last name, saying I was Harper Beck, and he couldn’t imagine me as anyone different. He liked to call me Mrs. Bennett, though, especially when we were alone.

  Shooting a look at Cooper, I continued, “And I really hope he hasn’t.”

  Mrs. Langstein laughed as if I’d said something funny when I’d been completely serious. Cooper’s father and I were both detectives, though he actually had an official badge. Because of our jobs and the supernatural nature of Waresville, Cooper had seen us in a lot of trouble. Paranormal or otherwise.

  I tried to keep my face interested while Mrs. Langstein started in on her report, but it was painfully dull and nothing I didn't know. She told me that Cooper was a very bright kid and gifted artist, but she wished he'd socialize a little more. During most recesses, you could find him inside reading a book. I didn't see how that was a problem, but I nodded along like I was sympathetic.

  "...And then there's the matter of the PTA."

  I blinked, coming awake. The acronym sent shivers down my spine, and my mind conjured up the image of a bunch of snooty, old ladies turning up their noses at me. Even to this day, I could remember their flashy jewelry and shiny shoes, something a younger Harper had looked on with envy.

  "What about the PTA?" I asked. I'd come a long way from that scruffy, unconfident girl. Besides, this meeting was about Cooper, and if those ladies were giving him trouble, I wanted to hear about it.

  "I think it'd be a great idea for you to join."

  My mind went blank. "What now?"

  Smiling, Mrs. Langstein explained that the PTA fundraises for the school and extra-curricular activities. They're also the voice of the parents so that families can have a say in what kind of education their kids are getting. I stole glances at Cooper, who was nodding as if this all made sense to him.

  "They sound great," I said, picking at the hem on my shirt. "They also sound like they've got it all under control
without me, so—"

  "The PTA is always looking for new members," she said, handing me a little flyer about their upcoming meetings. "Check it out. It's a great way for parents to get involved."

  She let us leave then, and Cooper gushed about me joining the PTA the whole way home. His blathering was so disconcerting that I almost rear-ended a spooky tour bus about a mile from home. The driver flipped me off and honked. The horn was customized to sound like a creepy organ, and I rolled my eyes.

  "You really think this PTA thing is a good idea?" I asked Cooper as we pulled into our driveway.

  Prior to moving into the two story Victorian style home that Wyatt owned, I lived above my disco skate, the Funky Wheel, in a bereft loft. My new home was a lot homier, but I sometimes missed having a place to escape to during uncomfortable moments like these.

  "Sure." Cooper beamed. "If you join, I'll see you at school all the time."

  "Great."

  I stepped into the house and saw Wyatt sitting at the table, reading the local newspaper and sipping from a mug I'd gotten him. It had a well-endowed anime woman on it, barely dressed. The thing was so far from Wyatt's style that I had to let lose a little chuckle every time I saw him with it.

  If Cooper was a carbon copy, then Wyatt was the original. He was tall and lean from basketball, his hair as dark as his icy eyes were light. Even years after being discharged, he still kept his hair military short.

  "Did you get milk?" A new figure made his way into the kitchen from the office/current spare bedroom. He was a little shorter than Wyatt, though they shared the same facial features, and he had outrageously purple hair.

  "I texted you about it," Liam continued.

  "I got the text." Sliding into the seat next to Wyatt, I glared at his little brother. "I don't even run errands for Wyatt. Why would I go out of my way for your dairy needs?"

  "You shouldn't," Wyatt said, continuing to sip his coffee. "Liam can get it himself."

  "I'm a guest."

  "A guest leaves," I pointed out. "You've been squatting since our wedding."

  Liam gave me the same excuse—his band was on break right now after just finishing their European tour. I wasn't fooled in the least. There was only one reason Liam was staying in town, and I wasn't sure how to feel about it.

  That reason chose that moment to call me, setting my cell phone buzzing.

  "Oliver," I said, watching a glint appear in my brother-in-law's eyes. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm in panic mode," he said, breathing heavily into the phone. His New Orleans’s accent was heavy and pleasant like warm honey. "I need you here now."

  Oliver Belafonte was a warlock and my best male friend. He ran my grandmother's magic shop just across the street from my disco skate. While he was usually a pain, he'd been unbearable as of late. And I had my brother-in-law to thank for that.

  "Ask if he's getting ready for our date," Liam said, leaning closer to me to hear what was happening on the other line.

  As my best friend was freaking out—a private moment—I flicked Liam on the nose and fled the room. Wyatt smacked his brother upside the back of the head, and I smiled on my way into the living room. We made a good team.

  "I'm not going to help you pick out a cape for tonight," I told him with resolution. "I don't have four hours to spare."

  After a few more seconds of Oliver's stream of consciousness, I began to feel sympathetic and guilty. The man had listened to me whine about Wyatt for over a year; my commitment issues were just as bad as Oliver's. Pinching my nose in frustration, I told Oliver to meet me at the Wheel in twenty. At least there I could kick him out if he got too long winded.

  I kissed Wyatt and Cooper good-bye, flipping Liam the bird when he wasn't looking. He gave as good as he got. The funny thing was that Liam was actually my favorite of Wyatt’s brothers. The other two were older and more uptight than you could imagine. Liam, a musician, was the black sheep of the family—something I could relate to.

  But lately, I'd come to realize there could only be one black sheep under the Victorian's roof. And that sheep was me.

  The Funky Wheel used to be a church before my late father bought it and turned the place into a groovy hang out. The outside still looked holy, except the stain glass windows had been painted black and an office window had been installed for ticket selling. Nowadays, though, the only preaching going on inside was of the disco variety.

  Jeb, my large and scary bouncer, was at the door. He never smiled on the job, though I’ve asked him to numerous times. Instead, he nods and calls me by my stage name “Foxxy.” That was a battle of its own, and he still only does it half right, calling me “Miss Foxxy.” Jeb was a very polite Southern gentleman, just like Wyatt, and both of them are my crosses to bear.

  Putting on my skates, I counted the scuffmarks on the flat, purple carpeting, most patched up with duct tape. The color matched the half walls surrounding the dance floor perfectly, but clashed with the red booths in the dining area and the peach cement flooring the dance floor was made up of.

  I waved to Stoner Stan, who was manning the concession stand for once instead of lighting up in the men’s bathroom. He was a relic from my dad’s administration from the 90s, and he stayed even though he stunk the place up and never did any work. He was family and made me feel close to a father I’d never met.

  “You’re burning the wieners, Stan,” I told him as I skated by.

  “They shimmer, man,” he said, watching them go around and around. “Shimmer shimmer shimmer.”

  I’d have to admire the hot dogs with him later, because I’d just spotted Oliver amongst the crowd of funky customers. He was hard to miss with his dark skin, flashy suit, and usual, colorful cape. Pacing by one of the booths, he didn’t even notice when he knocked over someone’s margarita.

  I pulled him into an unoccupied booth and tried to look sympathetic. It would’ve been more genuine if I hadn’t been putting out fires with Oliver for weeks now.

  “I think we’re going to sleep together tonight.”

  Though I’d been a stripper in my youth, and it was almost impossible to make me blush, I winced at the thought of Liam and Oliver going at it. The latter was my best friend, and the former I was quickly coming to consider my little brother. I could do without the mental picture.

  “Do I need to have the birds and the bees talk with you?”

  Oliver, becoming his normal, flirty self for a moment, wiggled his eyebrows. He was once again the man who had shamelessly slept with half the town. Then, from one moment to the next, he became a nervous virgin, asking for his best friend’s reassurance.

  “I’ve never gone this long without sex,” he told me, shaking visibly.

  “Or with just one partner.”

  Oliver shot me a look and then got back to the point. “What if I mess it up?”

  “Somehow, I think the mechanics of the act will come back to you in the heat of the moment.” After all, if I hadn’t messed it up with Wyatt the first time, Oliver would be fine.

  He banged his head against the table in frustration, and I took pity on him. The next hour was spent talking Oliver off the ledge. With each passing minute, I grew more tired, and Oliver, like a succubus, seemed to grow stronger. By the time Liam showed up for Oliver, I was a puddle of exhaustion.

  “Have him home by ten,” I told my brother-in-law.

  “It’s already eleven.”

  “You’re late.”

  Showing his Bennett charm, Liam then proceeded to convince me to go to the grocery store for him, flashing his big eyes and dimples. I was as helpless against his persuasions as I was against his brother’s. Blood runs true.

  That’s how I found myself at the local Mini-Mart at an ungodly hour for a woman who had been woken up at the crack of dawn by her good-for-nothing husband. Did he have to breathe so loud when he was awake?

  I grabbed a cart and pushed it around the aisles with my nose buried in the list Liam gave me. I was so wrapped up in it, in f
act, that I crashed right into the cart of a man in his late thirties who was talking to a pleased-looking housewife.

  The man had grey dusting in his brown hair. His clothes were as colorful as Oliver’s or mine, but they were a little old and out of place. When I glanced down at our carts, I noticed that he was wearing two completely different shoes.

  The well-groomed woman didn’t seem to notice any of this, though, her face completely enraptured. She kept leaning in closer to him, like she couldn’t stop herself. The longer I stood there, the more I felt the pull myself.

  All those little details were blatant clues, but it wasn’t until he turned and smiled at me, fangs glinting in the harsh light, that I realized what he was.

  I whistled, instantly interested. Waresville was a witch town, pure and simple, but that didn’t mean we didn’t have other occupants. Still, in all my years spent within the town limits, I’d never met a vampire.

  “Isn’t that a little easy?” I asked, nodding to the housewife.

  The vampire didn’t do anything. He just grinned at me, but I felt a change in the air. Seeming to just now notice me, the woman stiffened at my words and moved away, walking down the aisle with an angry little trot. Cocking my head to the side, I wondered if she knew I just saved her from being a meal.

  Although, she would’ve been more like a snack. According to my grandmother, vampires in Waresville rarely killed their prey, only taking a little. It had everything to do with the fact that the police knew about them and knew which doors to knock on when a body showed up sans blood.

  “I assure you, Miss Beck, blood tastes the same no matter how you came across it.” He did a little old timey bow that didn’t feel authentic. I had no doubts that he was old, but I got the distinct impression that the man in front of me outdated the courtly manners he exhibited.

  “You know my name,” I said, without thinking, and then I corrected myself. “You know my grandmother.”