The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison
“You already apologized for that,” she said, going back to the floor.
“For you cleaning up my footprints?” I tried again.
“I offered to.”
I bobbed my head. She had. I wasn’t going to delve into the possible motives behind that, but just accept her offer as her being nice. But she was mad about something. I hadn’t a clue what. “Um, help me out here, Ivy,” I finally said.
She rose and went to the sink, methodically rinsing the rag out. The yellow cloth was carefully set over the faucet to dry. She turned, leaning back against the counter. “How about a little trust? I said I wasn’t going to bite you, and I’m not.”
My mouth dropped open. Trust? Ivy was upset about trust? “You want trust?” I exclaimed, finding I needed to be angry to talk to Ivy about this. “Then how about more control from you. I can’t even contradict you without you going vampy on me!”
“I do not,” she said, her eyes widening.
“You do, too,” I said, gesturing. “It’s just like that first week we worked together and we would argue over the best way to bring in a shoplifter at the mall. Just because I don’t agree with you doesn’t mean I’m wrong. At least listen to me before you decide that I am.”
She took a breath, then slowly let it out. “Yes. You’re right.”
I jerked back at her words. She thought I was right? “And another thing,” I added, slightly mollified. “Stop with the running away during an argument. You stormed out of here tonight like you were going to rip someone’s head off, then I wake up with you bending over me? I’m sorry for punching you, but you have to admit, you kind of deserved it.”
A faint smile crossed her, then disappeared. “Yeah. I suppose.” She rearranged the rag over the spigot. Turning, she clasped her arms around herself, gripping her elbows. “Okay, I won’t leave in the middle of an argument, but you’re going to have to not get so excited during them. You’re jerking me around until I don’t know which floor to stand on.”
I blinked. Did she mean excited as in scared, angry, or both? “Beg pardon?”
“And maybe get a stronger perfume?” she added apologetically.
“I—I just bought some,” I said in surprise. “Jenks said it covered everything.”
A sudden distress pinched Ivy’s face as she met my gaze. “Rachel … I can still smell me thick on you. You’re like a big chocolate-chip cookie sitting all alone on an empty table. And when you get all agitated, it’s as if you just came out of the oven, all warm and gooey. I haven’t had a cookie in three years. Could you just calm down so you don’t smell so damn good?”
“Oh.” Suddenly cold, I sank down in my chair at the table. I didn’t like being compared to food. And I’d never be able to eat another chocolate-chip cookie again. “I rewashed my clothes,” I said in a small voice. “I’m not using your sheets or soap anymore.”
Ivy’s eyes were on the floor when I turned around. “I know,” she said. “I appreciate it. It helps. This isn’t your fault. A vampire’s scent lingers on anyone they live with. It’s a survival trait that tends to lengthen the life of a vampire’s companion by telling other vamps to back off. I didn’t think I would notice it, seeing as we were sharing floor space, not blood.”
A shudder went through me as I recalled from my basic Latin class that the word companion stemmed from the word for food. “I don’t belong to you,” I said.
“I know.” She took a careful breath, not looking at me. “The lavender is helping. Maybe if you hung satchels of it in your closet it would be enough. And tried not to get so emotional, especially when we’re—discussing alternative actions?”
“Okay,” I said softly, realizing how complex this arrangement was going to be.
“Are you still going out to Kalamack’s tomorrow?” Ivy asked.
I nodded, relieved at the change of topics. “I don’t want to go without Jenks, but I don’t think I can wait for him to be flightworthy.”
Ivy was silent for a long moment. “I’ll drive you out. As close as you want to risk it.”
My mouth dropped open for a second time. “Why? I mean, really?” I quickly amended, and she shrugged.
“You’re right. If you don’t get this done quickly, you won’t last another week.”
“You aren’t going, dear,” Mrs. Jenks said tightly.
I dumped my last swallow of coffee down the sink, gazing uncomfortably into the garden, bright with the early afternoon sun. I would rather be anywhere else right now.
“The devil I’m not,” Jenks muttered.
I turned around, too tired from a morning with not enough sleep to enjoy watching Jenks get henpecked. He was standing on the stainless steel island with his hands aggressively on his hips. Beyond him, Ivy was hunched at her wooden table as she planned three routes to the Kalamack estate. Mrs. Jenks was beside her. Her stiff stance said it all. She didn’t want him to go. And looking the way she did, I wasn’t about to contradict her.
“I say you aren’t going,” she said, a cord of iron laced through her voice.
“Mind your place, woman,” he said. A hint of pleading ruined his tough-guy stance.
“I am.” Her tone was severe. “You’re still broken. What I say goes. That’s our law.”
Jenks gestured plaintively. “I’m fine. I can fly. I can fight. I’m going.”
“You aren’t. You can’t. You’re not. And until I say, you’re a gardener, not a runner.”
“I can fly!” he exclaimed, his wings blurring into motion. He lifted a mere fingerbreadth off the counter and back down. “You just don’t want me to go.”
She stiffened. “I’ll not have it said you were killed because of my failings. Keeping you alive is my responsibility, and I say you’re broken!”
I fed Mr. Fish a crushed flake. This was embarrassing. If it had been up to me, I’d let Jenks go, flightless or not. He was recovering faster than I would have believed possible. Still, it had been less than ten hours since he was spouting poetry. I looked at Mrs. Jenks with an inquiring arch to my eyebrows. The pretty pixy woman shook her head. That was it, then.
“Jenks,” I said. “I’m sorry, but until you have the green, you’re garden-bound.”
He took three steps, stopping at the edge of the counter. His fists clenched.
Uncomfortable, I joined Ivy at the table. “So,” I said awkwardly. “You said you have an idea of how I can get in?”
Ivy took the end of the pen out from between her teeth. “I did some research this morning on the net—”
“You mean after I went back to bed?” I interrupted.
She looked up at me with her unreadable brown eyes. “Yes.” Turning away, she rifled through her maps, pulling out a colored brochure. “Here, I printed this out.”
I sat down as I took it. She had not only printed it out, but had folded it into the usual brochure folds. The colorful pamphlet was an advertisement for guided tours of the Kalamack botanical gardens. “‘Come stroll among the spectacular private gardens of Councilman Trenton Kalamack,’” I read aloud. “‘Call ahead for ticket prices and availability. Closed on the full moon for maintenance.’” There was more, but I had my way in.
“I’ve got another one for the stables,” Ivy said. “They