Bat and the Bone Read online

  Bat and the Bone

  A FUC Academy Story

  Alexa Gregory

  Copyright © 2020, Alexa Gregory

  Cover Art © 2020, Dreams2Media

  Produced in Canada

  An EveL Worlds Production : www.worlds.EveLanglais.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This story is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Acknowledgments

  1. Mila

  2. Mila

  3. T-Bone

  4. T-Bone

  5. Mila

  6. Mila

  7. Mila

  8. T-Bone

  9. T-Bone

  10. T-Bone

  11. Mila

  12. Mila

  13. T-Bone

  14. T-Bone

  15. Mila

  16. Mila

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Foreword

  A note from Eve Langlais…

  Hello reader,

  * * *

  And welcome to the newest addition to the FUC family. Bat and the Bone is the third book in the Furry United Coalition Newbie Academy world, and written by one of my local friends, Alexa Gregory. She’s new to the writing world, but off like a rocket. I’m thrilled that she made some time to bring one of her trademark bat shifters over to FUCN’A. I’m even more thrilled that she made Mila a bone expert who is dealing with a serial killer mother! EEK.

  * * *

  I hope you enjoy this story from our self-proclaimed “blond Morticia Adams,” Alexa Gregory!

  * * *

  - Eve

  Introduction

  This bat likes a good bone…

  * * *

  Mila Starling is a forensic anthropologist who studies bones. And as a vampire bat, she loves her steak raw but her Highland cattle shifter detectives hot.

  * * *

  The last thing that Mila ever expected was for The Bloody Doctor to escape prison after nearly two decades of incarceration. But Detective T-Bone, a tall wall of muscular man cake, drops the bomb that the notorious serial killer is on the loose. He’s come to enlist Mila’s help due to her encyclopedic knowledge of the notorious serial killer’s crimes.

  * * *

  Too bad he didn’t realize that Mila’s obsession with the atrocities was the daughter trying to make up for the sins of the mother. That’s right. T-Bone’s new partner is the murderer’s daughter. But Mila is adamant that her link to the Bloody Doctor won’t stop her from bringing her mother to justice. They head out on the road, hoping to catch their mark before more bodies pile up. Their mission brings them to the Bloody Doctor’s jail cell where the proof is in the blood.

  Does this premise and world seem familiar? That’s because it is based off the Eve Langlais Furry United Coalition. Eve Langlais has invited her author friends to come and play in her world. To find out more, visit Worlds.EveLanglais.com.

  Acknowledgments

  Mr. Fire, my wonderful husband has to be the first person I thank because there is no way I could do this without him. I walk around the house talking about all of my imaginary friends and start dinner conversations with, “hey, do you think *location* would be a good place to hide a dead body?” Yup, even in crowded restaurants. Also, thanks for letting me steal your love of cargo pants. I still say they should be burned. ;) Love you forever and always.

  * * *

  A huge thanks to Eve for letting me play in her awesome world. I had a lot of fun with the FUC agents. You’re a total badass and an inspiration.

  * * *

  Another huge thanks goes to Jessica Ripley. Witchy Yoda extraordinaire, thanks for answering all of my million questions and for not murdering me every time I have a very predictable meltdown about a book.

  * * *

  And last, but certainly not least - a profound thank you to you, dear reader. I hope you enjoyed Mila and T-Bone’s story.

  1

  Mila

  "I'm really sorry for everything you've been through. I swear I will get you the justice you deserve. That's a Mila Starling guarantee."

  I look down at the pile of bones on my glittering metal worktable and give the remains a comforting smile.

  It appeases me to talk to my work like this.

  Not that I ever expect a response from a cadaver. Not in the conventional way. Whatever I hear from the osseous matter comes strictly from the things I can decipher. Age, sex, any signs of trauma. That kind of thing.

  It would probably make my life a hell of a lot easier if the bones did start talking to me. Alas, I have to rely on science.

  That's better, anyway. People lie. Science doesn't.

  The remains currently on my table have seen better days. Judging by the fractured disks, the neck was snapped. I search my brain for the obvious joke there, but nothing comes to mind. There are gouges and grooves along the humerus. It must have been anything but humorous to have those wounds inflicted.

  That's the thing about working with dead bodies all day long. I love my work, but things tend to get a little dark in my brain. Making jokes, no matter how inappropriate they are, helps to lighten my mood. Not that I would ever share these quips out loud. I'm not a monster.

  I'm a forensic anthropologist.

  Some might say that’s kind of the same thing, but they would be wrong.

  I make all the necessary annotations about the state of the bones, documenting every unnatural indent in them. This is meticulous work, and it's easy to get completely engrossed in what I'm doing. I let the thundering booms of the music soothe me, and I bring the volume up a couple of notches. I'm not even concerned about disturbing anybody. The entire wing of this sub-basement floor is mine.

  From my lab to my archives to the classroom across the hall and the airlock tombs where we keep the bones of unsolved murders, this kingdom is mine. At least, it is while I teach at the Furry United Coalition Newbie Academy.

  I flip up the lens of my magnifying glasses to look at the clock. It's not even midnight. Good.

  That means I have plenty of time to finish my work for FUC and the Academy. If I get it all settled in the next sixty minutes, then I'll have a few hours to work on Project Broken Mama before my students start streaming in for their forensic anthropology class at five.

  The cadets absolutely hate the fact that the class is so early, but I appreciate the hell out of the Academy's director, Alyce Cooper, for scheduling it then. It works out perfectly for nocturnals like me, and the cadets who are non-nocturnals get the benefit of having their brains jostled early in the morning. It’s a good experience for life as a FUC agent.

  "I'm going to put you away for now," I tell the bones, "but that doesn't mean I'll forget you. I'll find your identity and give it back to you." With gentle hands, I start putting the remains away.

  "Agent Starling." My name spoken in a loud, deep baritone voice makes me squeak in surprise.

  Echoing bloodbag!

  I whip around to see who has invaded my lab. It's too late in the evening to be one of my students stopping by. My office hours ended a while ago. I flip up my magnifying glasses, settling them on the top of my head. They slide into my hair, pining the long red streaks back.

  Oh, sweet mother of Thor. Who is that?

&
nbsp; "Do you think you could put a stop to that racket?" The stranger gestures to the air, no doubt meaning the song currently blaring from the lab's speakers. But that's only because I'm completely distracted by the huge blond god standing in my lab. My skin feels hot and flushed as I dig around through the pile of cases. Do they have to make remotes so small? Sure, I can find a hairline fracture in a bone, but remotes? Forget it.

  “Ha!” I shout in victory, finding the damn thing and pressing pause on one of my favorite songs.

  My instant attraction to the stranger takes me by surprise because Tall, Gold, and Muscular is nothing like my usual type. Even though he's wearing a black thermal long-sleeved shirt and a pair of beige cargo pants, his muscles seem to be rippling like some kind of insane optical illusion. I even start to wonder what it would be like to run my fingers through his short, cropped beard. It looks soft, and my fingers itch to confirm my very scientific hypothesis.

  "Thanks." His voice is a sexy rumble that reminds me of rumpled up sheets and long, steamy showers.

  "Not a fan of Cradle of Rot?" I bat my eyelashes, playing innocent. He sure doesn't look like someone who would even know that Cradle of Rot is only one of the best death metal bands in the world. This man might be a walking sex dream, but he is as straight-edged as a scalpel blade. It’s written on every molecule of his insane body.

  "No, I can’t say I am," he answers, eying me in what can only be described as pure shock. It's okay. I'm used to that look. I come by it honestly. "How can you think when that is on?" he asks, furrowing his brow in complete consternation.

  "It helps me clear my head for one," I reply. "And secondly, this is my lab, so no one dares to question my tastes in music. Especially not random dudes."

  I'm taunting him again for his dig at my favorite band. And because he is making my heart pitter-patter.

  Unacceptable.

  Truth is, if he has found himself in my lab, he was given clearance by Director Cooper to be in here. A special pass is needed to get through the three different security doors that lead down to the sub-basement.

  "Right." He pulls out a badge from his back pocket, making his biceps bulge.

  I can't help the way my eyes track the veins running along the corded muscles. There's a lot of healthy, delicious blood running through him, and I can't stop myself from noticing.

  "I'm Agent Thrussell with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I'm the point agent between FUC and the RCMP. But that's not really why I'm here right now. We require your expertise on Sveta Markov. She's escaped from prison."

  The tray of instruments I'm holding clatters to the floor in the loudest, most unpleasant clang. The sound rattles in my head as I blink at him, trying to make sense of his words.

  Impossible. She couldn't have escaped.

  Judging by the frown on his handsome face and the tension in his beautifully wide shoulders, Agent Thrussell is telling the truth.

  My mother, the most prolific serial killer of the century, has flown the roost.

  2

  Mila

  My mother escaped.

  I repeat the words over and over again, willing sense into them.

  "Agent Starling, are you all right?" Agent Thrussell asks, his brows drawn together in concern.

  "Yeah." It comes out in a squeak. "Yup." I try again and fail to sound unfazed. I flip my hair forward, twirling the edges around my fingers. "Yes, I'm fine."

  There.

  I sounded extremely convincing.

  I step around the fallen tools and reach for my phone, which was lying on a pile of files a few moments ago. "Have you warned Edward?" I ask the attractive harbinger of doom.

  "Who?" Agent Thrussell questions, his worry turning to surprise. How could he not know who Edward is? Agent Delicious’s ignorance can mean only one thing.

  My dad has no idea she's escaped.

  Earthquakes of dread go off along my spine as I search for my phone.

  Where is the damn thing? The device might be smart, but it sure makes me feel dumb when I can't find it. I flip the documents over, moving around my work area, searching for the fucking piece of plastic that holds all of my precious information. It needs a pager or something so I can spot it easier in times of crisis.

  "What are you doing?" Agent Thrussell asks. "Did you hear me? I'm here to get your expertise on Markov. No one knows her better than you do."

  "Bah," I snort, shaking my head. "If only that were true," I grumble, still digging through all of my paperwork.

  "I don't know what you're looking for, but perhaps if you were better organized, you could easily find your belongings."

  Before I could threaten to pass equal judgment over him in his most personal space with a clever, snarky response, I spot my phone's skull case on a box of teeth I've been meaning to document.

  "Ha! No need." I shrug, my hands still shaking. "It's exactly where I left it."

  One of his eyebrows does the curvy thing again, his hazel eyes caught between annoyance and amusement. He opens his mouth to say something, but I silence him with a raised finger, full teacher mode activated.

  I scroll through my contacts until I find my dad's number and click on it.

  "What did I do to deserve such an unexpected call from my favorite daughter?" my dad asks by way of greeting. He might not be a nocturnal creature like me, but he adjusted his entire life to the nighttime when I was a kid. He's good like that.

  And now I have to break insanely disturbing news to him.

  "Dad, are you sitting down?"

  "I don't like the sound of that, Spooky. What's happened?" His voice, usually sweet and gentle, takes on an edge.

  "Mom escaped prison." I ignore Agent Thrussell's sharp inhale. I can deal with him as soon as my dad is safe. "I don't have any more details than that, but you need to follow the protocol I set up in case this happened. Do you remember what we talked about?"

  "Oh." My dad's voice shakes. "She escaped?" he asks as if he isn't sure he heard me right the first time around.

  Yup, I get it, Dad. This is about as fucked up as using a rusty blade to start an autopsy.

  "Apparently." My eyes go to the agent who is now standing with his arms crossed, suspicion and fire in his eyes. What's his damage? "You need to pack a bag and go."

  I wave my hand over to Agent Thrussell, who is now openly glaring at me. "When did she escape?" I ask the Norse-god lookalike. He shakes his head and nods toward my phone.

  "Right," I snap at him. "Look, I know you guys dropped the ball by not calling Edward, but he needs to go someplace safe."

  "If you could please hang up the phone and explain to me what is happening, that would be great."

  "I have to make sure my dad is safe. She could go after him."

  "Am I understanding this properly? You're Sveta Markov's daughter? You are the child of this generation's Elizabeth Bathory?"

  I bristle at the description the media created for my mother based on the notorious woman of the sixteenth century, but with a deep inhale, I calm myself enough to glare at Agent Thrussell.

  "I'd prefer it if you addressed me as Mila or Agent Starling." Agent Thrussell gives me a curt headshake, apparently as an apology. "When did she escape?" I make sure to enunciate every word clearly, hoping to sound as badass and annoyed as I feel. It's my instructor voice. Equal part bitch and boss. I like to think that I’m channeling Professor McGonagall.

  "She vanished about thirty minutes ago. We have uniforms going to your father's house as we speak. I didn’t realize his name was Edward. I apologize for the confusion."

  "That's nice, but I've got this under control." I turn my attention back to my father. "Dad, the protocol. Follow it. Contact me when you're safe."

  "What are you going to do to protect yourself?" my father asks. "Like I've told you a million times before, you'd be her target. Not me. I'm too old."

  I ignore his words. They hurt too much. For all we know, Dad is right.

  "I'm a FUC agent, Dad. I'm fine."
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  "Okay, Spooky." He breathes unsteadily. "I love you."

  "Love you, Dad. Be safe."

  I don't even have time to push down on the End button before Agent Thrussell is on me like a vampire bat on a juicy calf. He closes the distance between us, his eyes digging into me as if I were a suspect, not a colleague.

  "Is there a problem?" I bite, crossing my arms.

  Holy bloodbag. I get why he is mad. It's not every day that you learn that an agent is the direct descendant of the century’s most infamous slaughterer. But still, he doesn't have to look at me like I committed the murders.

  Also, if he could stand a bit farther away from me, I'd appreciate it. He smells too good, like sandalwood and freshly cut grass. I don't know whether to shove him away or maul his handsome face.

  From this close, I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, making me a bit loopy. Did I use chloroform today? That has to be it. There's no way I'm all woozy because of a dude.

  Definitely not a man who makes the Hemsworth brothers look like silly little boys. The Viking look is so not my type.

  Especially not one who invaded my lab with only the worst news ever.

  "You're Markov's daughter?" Agent Thrussell's eyes take me in, no doubt looking for any outward sign that I am like my mother. That's a look I get a lot when people figure out whom I'm related to. "How is that even possible?" He sounds about as incredulous as if I’d just announced to him that the moon is made of Styrofoam.