Bat and the Holly: FUC Academy, #35

By A. Gregory

A flying bat won't turn a witch's head, but a ghost might!

 

For Holly Dickens, getting the Hale family's permission to film a live paranormal investigation in their cabin is a big win. She wants her new show to solve as many cold murder cases as possible­—including her mother's.

 

The first step? Gain a large audience. The Hale cabin is the perfect location for that. Or so Holly believed.

 

When Konnor Hale barges into the cabin, accusing her of trespassing, Holly knows her dreams are dashed. The soon-to-be FUC agent retracts his family's permission.

 

When Konnor changes his mind, Holly calls it magic. He calls it an agent's drive to uncover the culprit.

 

Together, they return to the cabin and set off a chain of events that casts light on old secrets, hidden evidence, and new love…

 

Bat and the Holly is a paranormal romantic comedy in Eve Langlais' Furry United Coalition (F.U.C) EveL World!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexa Gregory
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215260005

Book preview

1

HOLLY

Stop, My Mitch cries.

As far as reactions go, this isn’t that bad.

Honestly, I thought my legal guardian — because he refuses the title of father — would go berserk when I told him my plan.

This is but mild annoyance.

It’s fine, I assure him over his chorus of, "Stop, stop, stop. Someone make this infernal child stop."

Oops. We’re veering into more dramatic territory. "Don’t you think this is a tad much?"

My Mitch continues to glare at me and pretends the last thirty seconds haven’t happened. "You did what?"

I’m used to this. My Mitch typically panics while gearing up for a monologue or two.

The very first time My Mitch performed the role of parent, I was four. His imitation of moms and dads in teen dramedies and sitcoms was a tour de force. To be fair, he did find me with a box of matches and an athame, setting up an altar. Toddler Holly got the placement of the items wrong, but I knew what I was doing.

My Mitch stopped me from lighting the candle with a second to spare, putting the fear of the eyebrows into me. I never finished the spell, yet that same wish is tucked away in a far-off corner of my strange little witch heart.

Even My Mitch doesn’t know about it.

If he did, he wouldn’t be mildly annoyed right now. He would be I spent my prom dress money on an ectoplasm sensor kind of mad.

On my phone, My Mitch’s thick eyebrows try to hug his hairline. His short-cropped beard is a bit longer, but only because his mouth is agape. I would pay good money for my phone to freeze at this precise moment because My Mitch might actually hex me if he hears me taking a screenshot.

Staring at My Mitch’s worried moue at opportune times could save me from making my usual kinds of mistakes.

The look is quintessentially Mitch, ever surprised and shocked by my antics.

This latest is a doozy, even by my epically disastrous standards. Yup, we’re talking worse than the prom dress debacle, but at least we haven’t slid into flabbergasted yet.

You heard me. I tap my screen to switch the camera angle. See? There is it. Hale Murders’ Cabin.

The wooden log home in the middle of the woods does cut quite the scene. The dark timber gables rise out of the forest like strange trees rooted into the earth, their high peeks reaching for the steely winter sky. The watery midmorning sun does nothing to warm me, but I have bigger problems.

My Mitch gasps and drops the phone, probably because he tried to cover his mouth with his palms. Lady, he hollers, "you need help. There is no way you’re spending the night out there. Alone."

Shit. Alert, alert. Concerned My Mitch activated. We are seconds away from –

"I. Am. Flabbergasted, Holly Dickens. Fla-ber-gas-ted."

And there it is. Poor My Mitch.

He never intended to raise me all alone, and bless the man for sticking by me. I’m sure his shiny bald head is entirely my fault. Every hair follicle burned up by the salamander I snuck into his bed, the cigarettes he found in my backpack in tenth grade, and let’s be real.

My Mitch shaved off his surviving pelage when my boyfriend broke up with me on a live feed after purposefully tanking our show.

To be fair, I got a disastrous breakup tattoo and bought two hundred dollars’ worth of plants, none of which survive except one fern called Ando. Fern Ando. It’s the little things that keep me going. Probably because, when I was a kid, I told myself this really big lie I long to believe.

One day, it will make sense, and I will be in control.

Cue the terrible nineties laugh track.

Life has shown me it can – and will – always throw me for one hell of a loop-the-loop when I least expect it.

There’s comfort in my willfulness, and for better or worse, I am stubbornly alive.

Start preschool? My mother is murdered.

Find love? Haha! Nope. Just when my whole adult life was settled and going decent enough to keep all of my monsters away, Trevor was gone.

Here My Mitch and I are again, he flabbergasted and I on the precipice of a terrible mistake. One I can’t stop myself from making.

I simply must get through this one video. That’s it.

I’ll be fine. I inject all the bravado I can bullshit, but My Mitch has known me way too long to fall for that.

"You’ve had the stress sweats for hours. Be honest, Holly. You don’t want to do this, but you think you have to. Trying to prove some kind of point by staying in a murder cabin…" He tsks his tongue at me, wagging the proverbial parental finger.

I roll my eyes because I can’t help it.

If My Mitch tsks, I roll my eyes like I’m eleven again. Sure, it’s Pavlovian, but at least it’s comforting.

Get that butt of yours in the car and go back home. My heart can’t take it, Holly. You out there. All alone? No. This is a nightmare.

My Mitch, I warn. I’m not scared, and I promise there have been no stress sweats.

He snorts, a mannerism I’ve adopted from the man who raised me. I had to buy you that industrial-strength deodorant for every big event in your life. You can’t lie to me.

No doubt, if Mitch were here, he would lift my arms to check for himself. I’m bone dry, but only because it’s minus a thousand degrees out here. The underwire in my bra is about to snap right in two it’s so bleeding freezing. Even my plush black cat onesie pyjama wants to turn tail and run.

I’m here, I’m staying, but it’ll be great, I rush out in a cheap imitation of Woman Knows Her Own Mind. I want to set up and get a fire ready before lunch. It’s pretty cold out here.

Another snort, this one accompanied by a tsk-turned-sigh. Mitch can always come up with new ways of reacting. It’s pretty creative if you think about it.

"Light a fire. You are an itty-bitty kitty out there in the Canadian Rockies in the middle of winter."

It’s barely December ninth, Mitch, I sing, sliding my phone into my jacket pocket.

Hey, what’s going on?

Unsupportive My Mitches get timeout in my pocket.

You’re impossible. Who raised you? He cackles at his joke like he hasn’t said it at least twice daily my whole life. Don’t you dare bring me into that cabin, Holly Dickens. I refuse to see the inside of a murder cabin.

Stop calling it that.

Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it? A murder cabin? People were gruesomely murdered there. Need I remind you, child? The killer was never caught. He’s out there.

How do you know it’s a he? Maybe that will stop his nurturing panic.

Don’t you start on me with the statistics, itty-bitty kitty. It won’t work. Now, please promise you’ll get into your car and go right back home.

You know I can’t do that. I drop one of the huge duffel bags onto the cabin’s wood-plank floor to take my phone out. I stare right into My Mitch’s electronic eyes. I need to do this, Mitch. You know why.

His face softens. Oh, catnip bunches. I am so sorry. He means business. He only calls me that when I’m an obvious mess. Getting over disappointments is always rough.

You call it disappointment, but it was a betrayal.

His great big brows fill the screen, nearly reaching out to hug me, but maybe I just need a hug. Playing brave is hard, but My Mitch always told me if you don’t feel it, act like you do and, one day, you’ll be brave. Simple as that.

I didn’t understand until my business partner and boyfriend crashed our dreams. I played the role of Woman Doing Okay long enough to get out of bed and into the shower more than a few hundred times.

Now, feigning bravery means hosting my first live paranormal investigation.

All alone.

I need to believe that pretending leads to being.

I’m here.

There is no turning back now.

2

KONNOR

This is why we can’t bring women home to meet you, Pops. Kiernan chuckles.

I don’t know what shocks me more, my quiet twin brother laughing or my grandfather’s workshop. Although calling it that is a bit of a misnomer. It’s fewer tools and gadgets and more casefiles and murder boards.

All pretty standard for Kiernan and me. Our agent and cold-case-obsessed grandfather raised us on this stuff.

But for a girlfriend? This doesn’t scream good grandfather. Instead, it puts up about a thousand red flags that spell out get the hell away from here in perfect synchronization.

Which case is this? Kiernan asks Pops while I flip through a stack of papers on what used to be a desk. Now, it’s a mound of notes and lists Pops swears are organized.

That’s the Holy Bushel disappearances, Pops answers. Handful of young kids disappeared from an orchard unfortunately called Holy Bushel. Never had any decent suspect.

I was talking about this. Kiernan points to a stack of gory crime scene pictures tacked to one of the corkboards.

Ah, yes. Mila was here for lunch today. We went over some cases that might be linked to her mother.

I whistle low. You stared at those over lunch? Mila Starling isn’t just any forensic pathologist. Not only does she work for FUC, but she is also the expert on the serial killer, the Bloody Doctor, who happens to be her mother. I don’t know how you can do that.

Get used to it, Kon, Pops shoots like any old-timer. You’re gonna be an agent soon. Before long, you’ll be looking at stuff like this, and not just in pictures.

My jaw ticks. Crime scenes aren’t why I joined the Furry United Coalition Newbie Academy. I don’t want to be a FUC agent to comb through violent crimes.

I did it because I had to.

For Kiernan’s sake. I couldn’t let him become an agent alone, but that doesn’t mean I need to see pictures of awful things. I’ve lived them. Every single time I see a crime scene photo, my brain pulls a