The Hollows Series Books 1-4

“Good.” Feeling more confident than I had any right to, I strode to the front desk. I was in luck. Megan was working. I gave her a smile and her eyes widened. She quickly reached to adjust her glasses. The wood-framed spectacles were spelled to see through almost everything. Standard issue for I.S. receptionists. There was a blur of motion before me, and I jerked to a halt.

“Heads up, woman!” Jenks shouted, but it was too late. Someone brushed against me. Instinct alone kept me standing as a foot slipped between my feet to trip me up. Panicked, I spun around into a crouch. My face went cold as I landed, ready for anything.

It was Francis. What the Turn was he doing here? I thought, rising to a stand as he held a hand to his stomach and laughed at me. I should have ditched my bag. But I hadn’t expected to see anyone who knew me under my disguise charm.

“Nice hat, Rachel,” Francis all but whined as he flicked the collar of his loud shirt back up. His tone was a disgusting mix of bravado and fading fright at me having nearly attacked him. “Hey, I bought six squares in the office pool yesterday. Is there any way you could die tomorrow between seven and midnight?”

“Why don’t you tag me yourself?” I said with a sneer. Either the man had no pride or he didn’t realize how ridiculous he looked, standing with one of his boat shoes untied and his stringy hair falling out of the spell-enhanced wave. And how could he have a stubble that thick this early in the day? He must have spray-painted it on.

“If I tagged you myself, I’d lose.” Francis adopted his more usual air of superiority, a look entirely wasted on me. “I don’t have time to talk with a dead witch,” he said. “I have an appointment with Councilman Trenton Kalamack and need to do some research. You know, research? Ever done any of that?” He sniffed through his thin nose. “Not that I’ve heard.”

“Go stuff a tomato, Francis,” I said softly.

He glanced down the hall that led to the vault. “Ooooh,” he drawled. “I’m scared. You’d better leave now if you want any chance of getting back to your church alive. If Meg didn’t trip the alarm that you’re here, I will.”

“Quit screaming into my jazz,” I said. “You’re really starting to tick me off.”

“See you later, Rachel-me-gal. Like in the obituaries.” His laugh was too high-pitched.

I gave him a withering look, and he signed the log-in book before Megan with a flourish. He turned and mouthed, “Run, witch. Run.” Pulling out his cell phone, he punched a few buttons and strutted past the VIP’s dark offices to the vault. Megan winced apologetically as she buzzed him through the gate.

My eyes closed in a long blink. When I opened them, I gave Megan a wave to say, “Just a minute,” and sat in one of the lobby’s chairs to dig in my bag as if looking for something. Jenks landed on my earring. “Let’s go,” he said, sounding worried. “We’ll come back tonight.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. Denon spelling my apartment had been simple harassment. Sending an assassin team would be too expensive. I wasn’t worth it. But why take chances?

“Jenks,” I whispered. “Can you get in the vault without the cameras seeing you?”

“’Course I can, woman. Sneaking around is what pixies do best. ‘Can I get past the cameras?’ she asks. Who do you think does the maintenance on them? I’ll tell you. Pixies. And do we ever get an ounce of credit? No-o-o-o-o. It’s the lunker of a repairman who sits on his lard-butt at the bottom of the ladder, who drives the truck, who opens the toolbox, who scarfs down the doughnuts. But does he ever do anything? No-o-o-o-o—”

“That’s great, Jenks. Shut up and listen.” I glanced at Megan. “Go see what records Francis looks at. I’ll wait for you as long as I can, but if there’s any sign of a threat, I’m leaving. You can get home from here all right, can’t you?”

Jenks’s wings made a breeze, shifting a strand of hair to tickle my neck. “Yeah, I can do that. You want I should pix him for you while I’m in there?”

My eyebrows rose. “Pix him? You can do that? I thought it was a—uh—fairy tale.”

He hovered before me, his small features smug. “I’ll give him the itch. It’s what pixies do second best.” He hesitated, grinning roguishly. “No, make that third.”

“Why not?” I said with a sigh, and he silently rose on his dragonfly wings, studying the cameras. He hung for a moment to time their sweep. Shooting straight up to the ceiling, he arched down the long hallway, past the offices and to the vault’s door. If I hadn’t been watching, I’d never have seen him go.

I pulled a pen out of my bag, tugged the tie closed, and strode to Megan. The massive mahogany desk completely separated the lobby from the unseen grunt offices behind it. It was the final bastion between the public and the nitty-gritty workforce that kept the records straight. The sound of a female voice raised in laughter filtered out through the open archway behind Megan. No one did much work on Saturday. “Hi, Meg,” I said as I drew closer.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Morgan,” she said overly loudly as she adjusted her glasses.

Her attention was fixed over my shoulder, and I fought the urge to turn around. Ms. Morgan? I thought. Since when was I Ms. Morgan? “What gives, Meg?” I said, glancing behind me to the empty lobby.

She held herself stiffly. “Thank God you’re still alive,” she whispered from between her teeth, her lips still curled in a smile. “What are you doing here? You should be hiding in a basement.” Before I could answer, she cocked her head like a spaniel, smiling like the blonde she wished she was. “What can I do for you today—Ms. Morgan?”

I made a quizzical face, and Megan sent her eyes meaningfully over my shoulder. A strained look came over her. “The camera, idiot,” she muttered. “The camera.”

My breath slipped from me in understanding. I was more worried about Francis’s phone call than the camera. No one looked at the tapes unless something happened. By then it would be too late.

“We’re all pulling for you,” Megan whispered. “The odds are running two hundred to one you make it through the week. Personally, I give you a hundred to one.”

I felt ill. Her gaze jumped behind me, and she stiffened. “Someone’s behind me, aren’t they?” I said, and she winced. I sighed, swinging my bag to rest against my back and out of the way before I turned on a slow heel.

He was in a tidy black suit, starched white shirt, and thin black tie. His arms were confidently laced behind his back. He didn’t take his sunglasses off. I caught the faint scent of musk, and by the soft reddish beard, I guessed he was a werefox.

Another man joined him, standing between me and the front door. He didn’t take his shades off, either. I eyed them, sizing them up. There would be a third somewhere, probably behind me. Assassins always worked in threes. No more. No less. Always three, I thought dryly, feeling my stomach tighten. Three against one wasn’t fair. I looked down at the hall to the vault. “See you at home, Jenks,” I whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear me.

The two shades stood straighter. One unbuttoned his jacket coat to show a holster. My brow rose. They wouldn’t gun me down in cold blood in front of a witness. Denon might be ticked, but he wasn’t stupid. They were waiting for me to run.

I stood with my hands on my hips and my feet spread for balance. Attitude is everything. “Don’t suppose we could talk about this boys?” I said tartly, my heart hammering.

The one who had unbuttoned his coat grinned. His teeth were small and sharp. A mat of fine red hair covered the back of his hand. Yup. A werefox. Great. I had my knife, but the point was to stay far enough away that I wouldn’t have to use it.

From behind me came Megan’s irate shout, “Not in my lobby. Take it outside.”

My pulse leapt. Meg would help? Maybe, I thought as I vaulted over her counter in a smooth move, she just didn’t want a stain on her carpet.

“That way.” Megan pointed behind her to the archway to the back offices.

There was no time for thanks. I darted through the doorway, finding myself in an open office area. Behind me were muffled thumps and shouted curses. The warehouse-sized room was divided with corporate’s favorite four-foot walls, a maze of biblical proportions.

I smiled and waved at the startled faces of the few people working, my bag whacking into the partitions as I ran. I shoved the water cooler over in passing, shouting an insincere “Sorry” as it tipped. It didn’t shatter but did come apart. The heavy glugging of water was soon overpowered by the cries of dismay and calls for a mop.

I glanced behind me. One of the shades was entangled with three office workers struggling to gain control of the heavy bottle. His weapon was hidden. So far, so good. The back door beckoned. I ran to the far wall, flinging open the fire door, relishing the colder air.

Someone was waiting. She was pointing a wide-mouth weapon at me.

“Crap!” I exclaimed, backpedaling to slam the door shut. Before it closed, a wet splat hit the partition behind me, leaving a gelatinous stain. The back of my neck burned. I reached up, crying out when I found a blister the size of silver dollar. My fingers touching it burned.

“Swell,” I whispered as I wiped the clear goo off on the hem of my jacket. “I don’t have time for this.” Kicking the emergency lock into place, I darted back into the maze. They weren’t using delayed spells anymore. These were primed and loaded into splat balls. Just freaking great. My guess was it had been a spontaneous combustion spell. Had I gotten more than a back splash, I’d be dead. Nice little pile of ash on the Berber carpet. There was no way Jenks could have smelled this coming, even if he had been with me.

Personally, I’d rather be killed by a bullet. That, at least, was romantic. But it was harder to track down the maker of a lethal spell than it was to identify the manufacturer of a bullet or conventional gun. Not to mention that a good charm left no evidence. Or in the case of spontaneous combustion spells, not much of a body. No body. No crime. No need to do time.

“There!” someone shouted. I dove under a desk. Pain jolted my elbow as I landed on it. My neck felt like it was on fire. I had to get some salt on it, neutralize the spell before it spread.

My heart pounded as I shimmied out of my jacket. Splatters of goo decorated it. If I hadn’t been wearing it, I’d probably be dead. I jammed it into someone’s trashcan.

The calls for a mop were loud as I dug a vial of saltwater out of my bag. My fingers were burning and my neck was in agony. Hands shaking, I bit off the tube’s plastic top. Breath held, I dumped the vial across my fingers and then my bowed neck. My breath hissed out at the sudden sting and whiff of sulfur as the black spell broke. Saltwater dripped from me to the floor. I spent one glorious moment relishing the cessation of pain.

Shaking, I dabbed at my neck with the hem of my sleeve. The blister under my careful fingers hurt, but the throb from the saltwater was soothing compared to the burn. I stayed where I was, feeling like an idiot as I tried to figure out how I was going to get out of there. I was a good witch. All my charms were defensive, not offensive. Slap ’em up and keep them off their feet until you subdue them was the name of the game. I’d always been the hunter, never the hunted. My brow furrowed as I realized I had nothing for this.

Megan’s overloud fussing told me exactly where everyone was. I felt my blister again. It wasn’t spreading. I was lucky. My breath caught at the soft pacing a few cubicles over. I wished I wasn’t sweating so much. Weres have excellent noses, but one-track minds. It was probably only the lingering scent of sulfur that had kept him from finding me already. I couldn’t stay here. A faint pounding on the back door told me it was time to go.

Tension throbbed in my head as I cautiously peeked over the walls to see shade number one padding through the cubicles to let shade number three in. Taking a soft breath, I moved the opposite way in a crouched run. I was betting my life that the assassins had kept one of their number at the front door and that I wouldn’t bump into him halfway there.

Thanks to Megan’s nonstop harangue about the water on the floor, I made it to the archway to the lobby with no one the wiser. Face cold, I looked around the doorframe to find the reception desk deserted. Papers littered the floor. Pens rolled under my feet. Megan’s keyboard hung from its cord, still swaying. Hardly breathing, I skulked my way to the opening in the counter where it flipped up. Still at ground level, I shot a quick glance past the front desk.