The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison
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.
My heart gave a quick pound. There was a shade fidgeting by the door, looking surly at having been left behind. But getting past one was better odds than getting past two.
Francis’s whiny voice came faint from the vault. “Here? Denon set them on her here? He must be pissed. Nah, I’ll be right back. I gotta see this. It ought to be worth a laugh.”
His voice was getting closer. Maybe Francis would like to go for a stroll with me, I thought, hope bringing my muscles tight. One thing you could count on with Francis was that he was curious and stupid, a dangerous combination in our profession. I waited, adrenaline singing through me, until he lifted the counter panel and came behind the desk.
“What a mess,” he said, more interested in the clutter on the floor than me rising behind him. He never saw me coming, too busy scratching. Like clockwork, I slipped an arm about his neck, wrenching one of his arms back behind him, nearly lifting him off his feet.
“Ow! Damn it, Rachel!” he shouted, too cowed to know how easy it would be to elbow me in the gut and get away. “Lemme go! This isn’t funny.”
Swallowing, I sent my frightened eyes to the shade by the door, his weapon pulled and aimed. “No it isn’t, cookie,” I breathed in Francis’s ear, painfully aware how close to death we were. Francis didn’t have a clue, and the thought he might do something stupid scared me more than the gun. My heart pounded and I felt my knees go loose. “Hold still,” I told him. “If he thinks he can get a shot off on me, he might take it.”
“Why should I care?” he snarled back.
“You see anyone else out here but you, me, and the gun?” I said softly. “Wouldn’t be hard to get rid of one witness, now would it?”
Francis stiffened. I heard a small gasp as Megan appeared in the doorway to the back offices. More people peered over and around her, whispering loudly. I sent my gaze darting over them, feeling the pinch of panic. There were too many people. Too many opportunities for something to go wrong.
I felt better when the shade eased from his crouch and tucked his pistol away. He put his arms to his side, palms out in an insincere gesture of acquiescence. Tagging me before so many witnesses would be too costly. Stalemate.
I kept Francis before me as an unwilling shield. There was a whisper of sound as the other two shades ghosted out of the office area. They held themselves against the back wall of Megan’s office. One had a drawn weapon. He took in the situation and holstered it.
“Okay, Francis,” I said. “It’s time for your afternoon constitutional. Nice and slow.”
“Shove it, Rachel,” he said, his voice shaking and sweat beading his forehead.
We edged out from behind the desk, me struggling to keep Francis upright as he slipped on the rolling pens. The Were by the door obligingly stepped aside. His attitude was clear enough. They were in no hurry. They had time. Under their watchful eyes, Francis and I backed out the door and into the sun.
“Lemme go,” Francis said, beginning to struggle. Pedestrians gave us a wide berth, and the passing cars slowed to watch. I hate rubberneckers, but maybe it would work for me. “Go on, run,” Francis said. “That’s what you do best, Rachel.”
I tightened my grip until he grunted. “You got that right. I’m a better runner than you’ll ever be.” The surrounding people were starting to scatter, realizing this was more than a lover’s quarrel. “You might want to start