The Hollows Series Books 1-4

The beep as the circuit broke was loud. Edden leaned back in his chair and crossed his good arm over the one in the sling. His smile was one of satisfaction. “You’re a free witch, Ms. Morgan. How’s it feel to come back from the dead?”

My hair swung forward as I looked down at myself, every scratch and bruise complaining for attention. My arm throbbed in its sling, and my face was one solid ache. “Great,” I said, managing a smile. “It feels just great.” It was over. I could go home and hide under my covers.

Nick stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Rachel,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.” His dark eyes rose to Edden’s briefly. “She can do the paperwork tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Edden rose, taking the vial cautiously between two fingers and dropping it into a shirt pocket. “I’d like you to be at Mr. Percy’s interrogation, if you could manage it. You have a lie-detecting amulet, don’t you? I’m curious to see how they compare to our electronic devices.”

My head bobbed, and I tried to find the strength to rise. I didn’t want to tell Edden how much trouble it was to make those things, but I wasn’t going to go spell shopping for at least a month, to give the charms aimed at me a chance to filter out of the marketplace. Maybe two months. I looked at the black amulet on the table and stifled a shudder. Maybe never.

A soft boom of sound shifted the air and the floor trembled. There was a heartbeat of absolute silence, then the faint noise of people shouting filtered through the thick walls. I looked at Edden. “That was an explosion,” he breathed, a hundred thoughts racing behind his eyes. But only one struck me. Trent.

The door to the break room flung open, smashing into the wall. Briston fell into the room, catching herself at the chair Francis had recently occupied. “Captain Edden,” she gasped. “Clayton! My God, Clayton!”

“Stay with the evidence,” he said, then darted out the door almost as fast as a vamp. The sound of people shouting drifted in before the door majestically closed. Briston stood in her red dress, her knuckles white as she clenched the back of the chair. Her head was bowed, but I could see her eyes welling up in what looked like grief and frustration.

“Rachel.” Jenks prodded at my ear. “Get up. I want to see what happened.”

“Trent happened,” I whispered, my gut clenching. Francis.

“Get up!” Jenks shouted, tugging as if he could yank me up by my ear. “Rachel, get up!”

Feeling like a mule at the plow, I rose. My stomach lurched, and with Nick’s help, I hobbled out into the noise and confusion. I hunched under my blanket and held my injured arm tight to me. I knew what I’d find. I’d seen Trent kill a man for less. Expecting him to sit idle as a legal noose slipped around his neck was ludicrous. But how had he moved so quickly?

The lobby was a confusing mess of broken glass and milling people. Cool night air came in through the gaping hole in the wall where glass once hung. Blue and yellow FIB uniforms were everywhere, not that they were helping matters. The stench of burning plastic caught at my throat, and the flickering black and orange of a fire beckoned from the parking lot where the FIB van burned. Red and blue lights flashed against the walls.

“Jenks,” I breathed as he tugged on my ear to urge me on. “You keep doing that and I’ll squish you myself.”

“Then get your sorry little white witch behind out there!” he exclaimed in frustration. “I can’t see squat from here.”

Nick fended off the well-meaning efforts of good Samaritans who thought I’d been hurt in the explosion, but it wasn’t until he scooped up an abandoned FIB hat and set it on my head that everyone left us alone. His arm curved around my waist, supporting me, we haltingly crunched over the broken glass, stepping from the yellow lights of the bus station into the harsher, uncertain come-and-go lights of the FIB’s vehicles.

Outside, the local news was having a field day, sequestered in their little corner with bright lights and excited gestures. My stomach twisted as I realized that their presence had likely been responsible for Francis’s death.

Squinting at the heat coming from the fire, I made my slow way to where Captain Edden stood quietly watching, thirty feet back from the flaming van. Saying nothing, I came to a standstill beside him. He didn’t look at me. The wind gusted, and I coughed at the black taste of burnt rubber. There was nothing to say. Francis had been in there. Francis was dead.

“Clayton had a thirteen-year-old,” Edden said, his eyes on the billowing smoke.

I felt as if I had been punched in the gut, and I willed myself to remain upright. Thirteen was not a good age to lose your father. I knew.

Edden took a deep breath and turned to me. The dead expression on his face chilled me. Flickering shadows from the fire pulled the few lines in his face into sharp relief. “Don’t worry, Morgan,” he said. “The deal was you give me Kalamack, the FIB pays off your contract.” Emotion crossed his face, but I couldn’t tell if it was rage or pain. “You gave him to me. I lost him. Without Percy’s confession, all we have is a dead witch’s word over his. And by the time I get a warrant, Kalamack’s tomato fields will be plowed under. I’m sorry. He’s going to walk. This …” He gestured to the fire. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“Edden—” I started, but he held up his hand.

Pulling away from me, he walked away. “No mistakes,” he said to himself, looking more beaten than I felt. An FIB officer in a yellow ACG coverall rushed up to him, hesitating when Edden didn’t acknowledge him. The crowd swallowed them up.

I turned back to the sudden bursts of gold and black, feeling ill. Francis was in there. Along with my charms. Guess they weren’t so lucky after all.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Nick said, putting his arm around me again as my knees threatened to buckle. “You warned them. You did everything you could.”

I leaned into his support before I fell over. “I know,” I said flatly, believing it.

A fire engine wound between the parked cars, clearing the street and drawing an even larger crowd with its sporadic whoops of siren. “Rachel.” Jenks tugged on my ear again.

“Jenks,” I said in a bitter frustration. “Leave me alone.”

“Blow it off your broomstick,” the pixy snarled. “Jonathan is across the street.”

“Jonathan!” Adrenaline rushed painfully through me, and I pulled from Nick. “Where?”

“Don’t look!” Nick and Jenks said simultaneously. Nick put his arm back around me and started to turn me away.

“Stop!” I shouted, ignoring the pain as I tried to see behind me. “Where is he?”

“Keep walking, Rachel,” Nick said tightly. “Kalamack might want you dead, too.”

“Damn you all back to the Turn!” I shouted. “I want to see!” I went limp in an effort to make Nick stop. It sort of worked as I slipped from him and hit the pavement in an untidy pile.

Twisting, I scanned the opposite street. A familiar, hurried gait drew my attention. Darting between emergency personnel and rubberneckers was Jonathan. The tall, refined man was easy to spot, standing head and shoulders above most of the crowd. He was in a heap of hurry, headed for a car parked before the fire engine. Stomach clenching in worry, I stared at the long black car, knowing who was inside.

I swatted Nick out of the way as he tried to get me upright, cursing the cars and people who kept getting in my line of sight. The back window rolled down. Trent met my eyes and my breath caught. By the light of the emergency vehicles, I could see his face was a mass of bruises and his head was bandaged. The anger in his eyes clenched my heart. “Trent,” I hissed as Nick crouched to grip me under my arms and help me up.

Nick froze, and we both watched from the ground as Jonathan came to a halt beside the window. He bent to listen to Trent. My pulse raced as the tall man abruptly straightened, following Trent’s gaze across the street to mine. I shivered at the hatred pouring from Jonathan.

Trent’s lips moved, and Jonathan jumped. Giving me a final glare, Jonathan walked stiffly to the driver’s door. I heard the door slam over the surrounding noise.

I couldn’t take my eyes from Trent. His expression remained angry, but he smiled, and my worry tightened at the promise in it. The window went up and the car slowly drove away.

For a moment I could do nothing. The pavement was warm, and if I got up, I would only have to move. Denon hadn’t sent the demon after me. Trent had.

Thirty-Three (#ulink_7c0aa0a0-f4a8-59cb-a619-ad099a9f00e5)

I bent to get the paper from the top step of the church’s stoop. The smell of cut grass and damp pavement was almost a balm, filling my senses. There was a sudden rush on the sidewalk. Pulse pounding, I fell to a defensive crouch. The small-girl giggle following the pink bike and tinkly bell down the sidewalk was embarrassing. Her heels flashed as she peddled like the devil was after her. Grimacing, I slapped the paper against the palm of my hand as she disappeared around the corner. I swore, she waited for me every afternoon.

It had been a week since my I.S. death threat was officially nulled, and I was still seeing assassins. But then, more than the I.S. might want me dead.

Exhaling loudly, I willed the adrenaline from me as I yanked the door to the church closed behind me. The comforting crackle of newsprint echoed off the thick support beams and stark walls of the sanctuary as I found the classifieds. I tucked the rest of the paper under an arm and made my way to the kitchen, scanning the personals as I went.

“’Bout time you got up, Rache,” Jenks said, his wings clattering as he flew annoying circles around me in the tight confines of the hall. I could smell the garden on him. He was dressed in his “dirt clothes,” looking like a miniature Peter Pan with wings. “Are we going to go get that disc or what?”

“Hi, Jenks,” I said, a stab of anxiety and anticipation running through me. “Yeah. They called for an exterminator yesterday.” I laid the newsprint out on the kitchen table, pushing Ivy’s colored pens and maps away to make room. “Look,” I said, pointing. “I’ve got another one.”

“Lemme see,” the pixy demanded. He landed squarely on the paper, his hands on his hips.

Running my finger across the print, I read aloud, “‘TK seeking to reopen communication with RM concerning possible business venture.’” There was no phone number, but it was obvious who had written it. Trent Kalamack.

A weary unease pulled me to sit at the table, my gaze going past Mr. Fish in his new brandy snifter and out into the garden. Though I had paid off my contract and was reasonably safe from the I.S., I still had to contend with Trent. I knew he was manufacturing biodrugs; I was a threat. Right now he was being patient, but if I didn’t agree to be on his payroll, he was going to put me in the ground.

At this point I didn’t want Trent’s head; I wanted him to leave me alone. Blackmail was entirely acceptable, and undoubtedly safer than trying to get rid of Trent through the courts. He was a businessman, if nothing else, and the hassle of disentangling himself from a trial was probably greater than his desire to have me work for him or see me safely dead. But I needed more than a page out of his daily planner. Today I would get it.