The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison
her closely as she went back to drying. Keeping calm and compromising made all the difference. Now that I thought about it, compromising had been how we got through our year working together. It was harder, though, to keep my cool when I was surrounded by all her stuff and none of mine. I had felt vulnerable and on edge.
“You should have seen her, Rachel,” Jenks said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Sitting day and night at her maps to find a way to get you free from Trent. I told her all we had to do was keep watch and help if we could.”
“Shut up, Jenks.” Ivy’s voice was suddenly thick with warning. I shoved the last cookie in my mouth and rose to throw the bag away.
“She had this grandiose plan,” Jenks said. “She swept it up from the floor when you were showering. She was going to call in all her favors. She even talked to her mother.”
“I’m going to get a cat,” Ivy said tightly. “A big, black cat.”
I pulled the bag of bread from the counter and dug the honey out from the back of the pantry, where I had hidden it from Jenks. Taking it all to the table, I sat and arranged everything.
“Good thing you escaped when you did,” Jenks said, swinging the ladle to send gleams of light about the kitchen. “Ivy was about to throw what little she has left after you—again.”
“I will call my cat Pixy Dust,” Ivy said. “I will keep it in the garden and not feed it.”
My gaze shifted from Jenks’s suddenly closed mouth to Ivy. We had just had a warm and fuzzy discussion without getting bit, vampy, or scared. Why did Jenks have to ruin it? “Jenks,” I said with a sigh. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“No.” He dropped down, extending a hand into the stream of honey I was drizzling on a piece of bread. He sank an inch from the weight, then rose. “So, you gonna keep him?”
I looked blankly at Jenks, and he laughed.
“Your new bo-o-o-oyfriend,” he drawled.
My lips pursed at the amusement in Ivy’s eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Jenks hovered over the open jar of honey, pulling glistening strands up and into his mouth. “I saw you with him on that bike,” he said. “Um, this is good.” He took another handful, his wings starting to hum audibly. “Your tails were touching,” he mocked.
Annoyed, I flicked my hand at him. He darted out of reach, then back. “You should have seen them, Ivy. Rolling around on the floor, biting each other.” He laughed, and it turned into a high-pitched giggle. I slowly tilted my head as he listed to the left. “It was love at first bite.”
Ivy turned. “He bit you on the neck?” she said, deadpan serious but for her eyes. “Oh, then it’s got to be love. She won’t let me bite her neck.”
What was this? Pick on Rachel night? Not entirely comfortable, I pulled another piece of bread out to finish my sandwich and waved Jenks off the honey. He bobbed and weaved erratically, struggling to maintain an even flight as the sugar rush made him drunk.
“Hey, Ivy,” Jenks said as he drifted sideways and licked his fingers. “You know what they say about the size of a rat’s tail, don’t you? Da longer da tail, da longer his—”
“Shut up!” I cried. The shower went off, and my breath caught. A surge of anticipation brought me up straight in my chair. I flicked a glance at Jenks, giggling-drunk on the honey. “Jenks,” I said, not wanting to subject Baron to an intoxicated pixy. “Leave.”
“Nuh-uh,” he said, scooping up a handful. Peeved, I recapped the jar. Jenks made a small noise of distress, and I waved him up into the hanging utensils. With any luck, he would stay there until he threw off his drunk. That would be about four minutes, tops.
Ivy walked out, muttering about glasses in the living room. The collar of my robe was damp from my hair, and I tugged at it. I wiped the honey from my fingers, fidgeting in what felt like blind date jitters. This was stupid. I’d already met him. We had even had a rodent’s version of a first date: a resounding stint at the gym, a brisk run from people and dogs, even a bike ride through the park. But what do you say to a guy you don’t know who saved your life?
I heard the bathroom door creak open. Ivy jerked to a stop in the hall, her face blank as she stood with two mugs dangling from her fingers. I pulled my robe over my shins, wondering if I should stand up. Baron’s voice eased past her and into the kitchen. “You’re Ivy, right?”
“Um …” Ivy hesitated. “You’re—uh—in my robe,” she finished, and I winced. Great. He had her smell all over him. Nice start.
“Oh. Sorry.” His voice was nice. Kind of resonate and rumbly. I could hardly wait to see him. Ivy seemed positively at a loss for words. Baron took a noisy breath. “I found it on the dryer. There wasn’t anything else to wear. Maybe I should go put on a towel. …”
Ivy hesitated. “Um, no,” she said, the unusual sound of amusement in her voice. “You’re all right. You helped Rachel escape?”
“Yeah. Is she in the kitchen?” he questioned.
“Come on in.” Her eyes were rolling as she preceded him into the room. “He’s a geek,” she mouthed, and my face froze. A geek had saved my life?
“Uh, hi,” he said, standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.
“Hi,” I said, too disconcerted to say more as I ran my gaze over him. Calling him a geek wasn’t fair, but compared to what Ivy was used to dating, he might be.
Baron was as tall as Ivy, but his build was so sparse he seemed taller. The pale arms showing past Ivy’s black robe had the occasional faint scar, presumably from prior rat fights. His cheeks were clean-shaven—I’d have to get a new razor; the one I’d borrowed from Ivy was probably ruined. The rims of his ears were notched. Two puncture marks on either side of his neck stood out red and sore looking. They matched mine, and I felt a flush of embarrassment.
Despite, or maybe because of, his narrow frame he looked nice, kind of bookish. His dark hair was long, and the way he kept brushing it from his eyes led me to think he usually kept it shorter. The robe made him look soft and comfortable, but the way the black silk stretched across his lean muscles kept my eyes roving. Ivy was being overly critical. He had too many muscles to be a geek.
“You have red hair,” he said, shifting into motion. “I thought it would be brown.”
“I thought you were—ah—shorter.” I stood up as he approached, and after an awkward moment, he extended his hand across the corner of the table. Okay, so he wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger. But he had saved my life. Maybe somewhere between a short, young Jeff Goldblum and untidy Buckaroo Banzai.
“My name is Nick,” he said as he took my hand. “Well, it’s Nicholas, actually. Thanks for helping me get out of that rat pit.”
“I’m Rachel.” He had a nice grip. Just the right amount of firmness without trying to prove how strong he was. I motioned to one of the kitchen chairs, and we both sat. “And don’t mention it. We kind of helped each other out. You can tell me it’s none of my business, but how on earth did you end up as a rat in the city fights?”
Nick rubbed a thin hand behind an ear and looked at the ceiling. “I—uh—was cataloging a vamp’s private book collection. I found something interesting and made the mistake of taking it home.” He met my eyes with a sheepish expression. “I wasn’t going to keep it.”
Ivy and I exchanged looks. Just borrowing it. Ri-i-i-i-ight. But if he had worked with vampires before, that might explain his ease around Ivy.
“He changed me into a rat when he found out,” Nick continued, “then gave me to one of his business associates as a gift. He was the one who put me in the fights, knowing as a human, I’d have the smarts advantage. I made him a lot of money, if nothing else. How about you?” he asked. “How did you get