The Hollows Series Books 1-4

I stared at the door in disbelief. She had found out about the I.S.’s threat? And the old lady act was a sham. She shouted clear enough through my wall when she thought I played my music too loud. “You can’t evict me!” I said desperately. “I’ve got rights.”

“Dead witches have no rights,” Jenks said from the light fixture.

“Damn it, Mrs. Talbu!” I shouted at the door. “I’m not dead yet!”

There was no answer. I stood there, thinking. I didn’t have much recourse, and she knew it. I supposed I could stay at my new office until I found something. Moving back in with my mother was not an option, and I hadn’t talked to my brother since I joined the I.S.

“What about my security deposit?” I asked, and the door remained silent. My temper shifted to a slow, steady burn, one that could last for days. “Mrs. Talbu,” I said quietly. “If you don’t give me the balance of this month’s rent and my security deposit, I’m going to sit right in front of your door.” I paused, listening. “I’m going to sit here until they spell me. I’ll probably explode right here. Make a big bloody stain on your carpet that won’t come out. And you’re going to have to look at that big bloody stain everyday. Hear me, Mrs. Talbu?” I quietly threatened. “Pieces of me will be on your hall ceiling.”

There was a gasp. “Oh my, Dinky,” Mrs. Talbu quavered. “Where’s my checkbook?”

I looked at Jenks and smiled bitterly. He gave me a thumbs-up.

There was a rustle, followed by a moment of silence and the distinctive sound of paper tearing. I wondered why she bothered with the old lady act. Everyone knew she was tougher than petrified dinosaur dung and would probably outlive us all. Even Death didn’t want her.

“I’m putting the word out on you, hussy,” Mrs. Talbu shouted through the door. “You won’t find a place to rent in the entire city.”

Jenks darted down as a slip of white was shoved under the door. After hovering over it for a moment, he nodded it was okay. I picked it up and read the amount. “What about my security deposit?” I asked. “You want to come with me to my apartment and look it over? Make sure there’re no nail holes in the walls or runes under the carpet?”

There was a muffled curse, shortly followed by more scratching, and another white slip appeared. “Get out of my building,” Mrs. Talbu yelled, “before I set Mr. Dinky on you!”

“I love you, too, old bat.” I took my key from my key ring and dropped it. Angry but satisfied, I snatched up the second check.

I went back to my things, slowing at the telltale scent of sulfur emanating from them. My shoulders tightened in worry as I stared at my life heaped against the walls. Everything was spelled. I could touch nothing. God help me. I was under an I.S. death threat.

“I can’t douse everything in salt,” I said as there was a click of a closing door.

“I know this guy who has storage.” Jenks sounded unusually sympathetic, and I looked up as I gripped my elbows. “If I ask him, he’ll come get it, put everything away for you. You can dissolution the spells later.” He hesitated, looking over my music discs carelessly dumped into my largest copper spell bowl.

I nodded, slumping against the wall and sliding down until my rear hit the floor. My clothes, my shoes, my music, my books … my life?

“Oh no,” Jenks said softly. “They spelled your disc of The Best of Takata.”

“It’s autographed,” I whispered, and the hum from his wings dropped in pitch. The plastic would survive a dip in saltwater, but the paper folder would be ruined. I wondered if I wrote to Takata if he would send me another. He might remember me. We did spend a wild night chasing shadows over the ruins of Cincinnati’s old biolabs. I think he made a song about it. “New moon rising, sight unseen, / Shadows of faith make a risky vaccine.” It hit the top twenty for sixteen weeks straight. My brow furrowed. “Is there anything they didn’t spell?” I asked.

Jenks landed on the phone book and shrugged. It had been left open to coroners.

“Swell.” Stomach knotting, I got to my feet. My thoughts swung to what Ivy had said last night about Leon Bairn. Little bits of witch splattered all over his porch. I swallowed hard. I couldn’t go home. How the hell was I going to pay Denon off?

My head started hurting again. Jenks alighted on my earring, keeping his big mouth shut as I picked up my cardboard box and went downstairs. First things first. “What’s the name of that guy you know?” I asked when I reached the foyer. “The one with storage? If I give him something extra, will he dissolution my things?”

“If you tell him how. He’s not a witch.”

I thought, struggling to regroup. My cell phone was in my bag, but the battery was dead. The charger was somewhere in my spelled stuff. “I can call him from the office,” I said.

“He doesn’t have a phone.” Jenks slipped off my earring, flying backward at eye level. His wing tape had frayed, and I wondered if I should offer to fix it. “He lives in the Hollows,” Jenks added. “I’ll ask him for you. He’s shy.”

I reached for the doorknob, then hesitated. Putting my back to the wall, I pushed aside the sun-faded, yellow curtain to peek out the window. The tatty yard lay quiet in the afternoon sun, empty and still. The drone of a lawn mower and the whoosh from passing cars was muffled through the glass. Lips pressed tight, I decided I’d wait there until I heard the bus coming.

“He likes cash,” Jenks said, dropping down to stand on the sill. “I’ll bring him by the office after he’s locked up your stuff.”

“You mean everything that hasn’t walked off by itself in the meantime,” I said, but knew everything was reasonably safe. Spells, especially black ones, were supposed to be target specific, but you never know. No one would risk extinction for my cheap stuff. “Thanks, Jenks.” That was twice now he had saved my butt. It made me uneasy. And a little bit guilty.

“Hey, that’s what partners do,” he said, not helping at all.

Smiling thinly at his enthusiasm, I set my box down to wait.

Five (#u1e4cd244-3c3d-5afa-9b66-582f24b5f037)

The bus was quiet, as most traffic was coming out of the Hollows this time of day. Jenks had left via the window shortly after we crossed the river into Kentucky. It was his opinion the I.S. wouldn’t tag me on a bus with witnesses. I wasn’t ready to believe it, but I wasn’t going to ask him to stay with me, either.

I had told the driver the address, and he agreed to tell me when we were there. The human was skinny, his faded blue uniform hanging loose on him despite the vanilla wafers he was cramming into his mouth like jelly beans.

Most of Cincinnati’s mass-transit drivers were comfortable with Inderlanders, but not all. Humanity’s reactions to us varied widely. Some were afraid, some weren’t. Some wanted to be us, some wanted to kill us. A few took advantage of the lower tax rate and lived in the Hollows, but most didn’t.

Shortly after the Turn, an unexpected migration occurred when almost every human who could afford it moved deep into the cities. The psychologists of the day had called it a “nesting syndrome,” and in hindsight the countrywide phenomenon was understandable. Inderlanders were more than eager to snap up the properties on the outskirts, lured by the prospect of a little more earth to call their own, not to mention the drastically falling home prices.

The population demographics have only recently started to even out, as well-to-do Inderlanders move back into the city and the less fortunate, more informed humans decide they would rather live in a nice Inderland neighborhood than a trashy human one. Generally, though, apart from a small section around the university, humans lived in Cincinnati and Inderlanders lived across the river in the Hollows. We don’t care that most humans shun our neighborhoods like pre-Turn ghettoes.

The Hollows have become a bastion of Inderland life, comfortable and casual on the surface, with its potential problems carefully hidden. Most humans are surprised at how normal the Hollows appear, which, when you stop to think about it, makes sense. Our history is that of humanity’s. We didn’t just drop out of the sky in ’66; we emigrated in through Ellis Island. We fought in the Civil War, World War One, and World War Two—some of us in all three. We suffered in the Depression, and we waited like everyone else to find out who shot JR.

But dangerous differences exist, and any Inderlander over the age of fifty spent the earliest part of his or her life disguising them, a tradition that holds true even to this day.

The homes are modest, painted white, yellow, and occasionally pink. There are no haunted houses except for Loveland Castle in October, when they turn it into the baddest haunted house on either side of the river. There are swing sets, aboveground pools, bikes on the lawns, and cars parked on the curb. It takes a sharp eye to notice that the flowers are arranged in antiblack magic hexes and the basement windows are often cemented over. The savage, dangerous reality blooms only in the depths of the city, where people gather and emotions run rampant: amusement parks, dance clubs, bars, churches. Never our homes.

And it’s quiet—even at night when all its denizens are up. It was always the stillness that a human noticed first, setting them on edge and sending their instincts into full swing.

I found my tension easing as I stared out the window and counted the black, light-proof blinds. The quiet of the neighborhood seemed to soak into the bus. Even the few people riding had grown still. There was just something about the Hollows that said “Home.”

My hair swung forward as the bus stopped. On edge, I jerked when the guy behind me bumped my shoulder as he got up. Boots clattering, he hastened down the steps and into the sun. The driver told me my stop was next, and I stood as the nice man trundled down a side street to give me curb service. I stepped down into the patchy shade, standing with my arms wrapped around the box and trying not to breathe the fumes as the bus drove away. It disappeared around a corner, taking its noise and the last vestiges of humanity with it.

Slowly it grew quiet. The sound of birds drifted into existence. Somewhere close there were kids calling—no, kids screaming—and the barking of a dog. Multicolored chalk runes decorated the cracked sidewalk, and a forgotten doll with fangs painted on it smiled blankly at me. There was a small stone church across the street, its steeple rising far above the trees.

I turned on a heel, eyeing what Ivy had rented for us: a one-story house that could easily be converted to an office. The roof looked new, but the chimney mortar was crumbling. There was grass out front, looking like it should have been cut last week. It even had a garage, the door gaping open to show a rusting mower.

It will do, I thought as I opened the gate to the chain-link fence enclosing the yard. An old black man sat on the porch, rocking the afternoon away. Landlord? I mused, smiling. I wondered if he was a vamp, since he wore dark glasses against the late afternoon sun. He was scruffy looking despite being clean-shaven, his tightly curled hair going gray around the temples. There was mud on his shoes and a hint of it on the knees of his blue jeans. He looked worn-out and tired—put away like an unwanted plow horse who was still eager for one more season.

He set a tall glass on the porch railing as I came up the walk. “Don’t want it,” he said as he took off his glasses and tucked them in a shirt pocket. His voice was raspy.

Hesitating, I peered up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Beg pardon?”

He coughed, clearing his throat. “Whatever you’re selling out of that box. Don’t want it. I’ve got enough curse candles, candy, and magazines. And I don’t have the money for new siding, water purifier, or a sunroom.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I said. “I’m your new tenant.”

He sat up straighter, somehow making himself look even more unkempt. “Tenant? Oh, you mean across the street.”

Confused, I shifted my box to my other hip. “This isn’t 1597 Oakstaff, is it?”