The Hollow (3 page)

“That, and Gage shooting at it. Or Cal . . .” She stopped, faced Fox now. “I still get shaky when I remember how Cal stepped right up to that writhing mass of black and shoved a knife into it. And now nothing, in almost two weeks. Before, it was nearly every day we saw it, felt it, dreamed of it.”

“We hurt it,” Fox reminded her. “It's off wherever demons go to lick their wounds.”

“Cybil calls it a lull, and she thinks it's going to come back harder the next time. She's researching for hours every day, and Quinn, well, she's writing. That's what they do, and they've done this before—this kind of thing if not this precise thing. First-timer here, and what I'm noticing is they're not getting anywhere.” She pushed a hand through her dark hair, then shook her head so the sexy, jagged ends of it swung. “What I mean is . . . A couple of weeks ago, Cybil had what she thought were really strong leads toward where Ann Hawkins might have gone to have her babies.”

His ancestors, Fox thought. Giles Dent, Ann Hawkins, and the sons they'd made together. “And they haven't panned out, I know. We've all talked about this.”

“But I think—I feel—it's one of the keys. They're your ancestors, yours, Cal's, Gage's. Where they were born may matter, and more since we have some of Ann's journals, we're all agreed there must be others. And the others may explain more about her sons' father. About Giles Dent. What was he, Fox? A man, a witch, a good demon, if there are such things? How did he trap what called itself Lazarus Twisse from that night in sixteen fifty-two until the night the three of you—”

“Let it out,” Fox finished, and Layla shook her head again.

“You were meant to—that much we agree on, too. It was part of Dent's plan or his spell. But we don't seem to know any more than we did two weeks ago. We're stalled.”

“Maybe Twisse isn't the only one who needs to recharge. We hurt it,” he repeated. “We've never been able to do that before. We scared it. ” And the memory of that was enough to turn his gilded brown eyes cool with satisfaction. “Every seven years all we've been able to do is try to get people out of the way, to mop up the mess afterward. Now we know we can hurt it.”

“Hurting it isn't enough.”

“No, it's not.” If they were stalled, he admitted, part of the reason was his fault. He'd pulled back. He'd made excuses not to push Layla on honing the skill—the one that matched his own—that had been passed down to her.

“What am I thinking now?”

She blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“What am I thinking?” he repeated, and deliberately recited the alphabet in his head.

“I told you before I can't read minds, and I don't want—”

“And I told you it's not exactly like that, but close enough.” He eased a hip onto the corner of his sturdy old desk, and brought their gazes more level. His conservative oxford-cloth shirt was open at the throat, and his bark brown hair waved around his sharp-featured face and brushed the back of his collar. “You can and do get impressions, get a sense, even an image in your head. Try again.”

“Having good instincts isn't the same as—”

“That's bullshit. You're letting yourself be afraid of what's inside you because of where it came from, and because it makes you other than—”

“Human?”

“No. Makes you ‘other.' ” He understood the complexity of her feelings on this issue. There was something in him that was other as well. At times it was more difficult to wear than a suit and tie. But to Fox's mind, doing the difficult was just part of living. “It doesn't matter where it came from, Layla. You have what you have and are what you are for a reason.”

“Easy to say when you can put your ancestry back to some bright, shining light, and mine goes back to a demon who raped some poor sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Thinking that's only letting him score points off you. Try again,” Fox insisted, and this time grabbed her hand before she could evade him.

“I don't—stop pushing it at me,” she snapped. Her free hand pressed against her temple.

It was a jolt, he knew, to have something pop in there when you weren't prepared. But it couldn't be helped. “What am I thinking?”

“I don't know. I just see a bunch of letters in my head.”

“Exactly.” Approval spread in his smile, and reached his eyes. “Because I was thinking of a bunch of letters. You can't go back.” He spoke gently now. “And you wouldn't if you could. You wouldn't just pack up, go back to New York, and beg your boss at the boutique to give you your job back.”

Layla snatched her hand away as color flooded her cheeks. “I don't want you prying into my thoughts and feelings.”

“No, you're right. And I don't make a habit of it. But, Layla, if you can't or won't trust me with what's barely under the surface, you and I are going to be next to useless. Cal and Quinn, they flash back to things that happened before, and Gage and Cybil get images, or even just possibilities of what's coming next. We're the now, you and me. And the now is pretty damn important. You said we're stalled. Okay then, let's get moving.”

“It's easier for you, easier for you to accept because you've had this thing . . .” She waved a finger beside her temple. “You've had this for twenty years.”

“Haven't you?” he countered. “It's more likely you've had it since you were born.”

“Because of the demon hanging on my family tree?”

“That's right. That's an established fact. What you do about it's up to you. You used what you have a couple of weeks ago when we were on our way to the Pagan Stone. You made that choice. I told you once before, Layla, you've got to commit.”

“I have. I lost my job over this. I've sublet my apartment because I'm not going back to New York until this is over. I'm working here to pay the rent, and spending most of the time I'm
not
working here working with Cybil and Quinn on background, research, theories, solutions.”

“And you're frustrated because you haven't found the solution. Commitment's more than putting the time in. And I don't have to be a mind reader to know hearing that pisses you off.”

“I was in that clearing, too, Fox. I faced that thing, too.”

“That's right. Why is that easier for you than facing what you've got inside you? It's a tool, Layla. If you let tools get dull or rusty, they don't work. If you don't pick them up and use them, you forget how.”

“And if that tool's sharp and shiny and you don't know what the hell to do with it, you can do a lot of damage.”

“I'll help you.” He held out his hand.

She hesitated. When the phone in the outer office began to ring, she stepped back.

“Let it go,” he told her. “They'll call back.”

But she shook her head and hurried out. “Don't forget to call Shelley.”

That went well, he thought in disgust. Opening his briefcase, he pulled out the file on the personal injury case he'd just won. Win some, lose some, Fox decided.

As he figured it was the way she wanted it, he stayed out of her way for the rest of the afternoon. It was simple enough to instruct her through interoffice e-mail to generate the standard power-of-attorney document with the specific names his client required. Or to ask her to prepare and send out a bill or pay one. He made what calls he needed to make himself rather than asking Layla to place them first. That kind of thing had always struck him as stupid in any case.

He knew how to use the damn phone.

He managed to calm Shelley down, catch up on paperwork, and win a game of online chess. But when he considered sending Layla another e-mail to tell her to go ahead and knock off for the day, he realized that came under the heading of avoidance, not just keeping the peace.

When he walked out to reception, Mrs. Hawbaker was manning the desk. “I didn't know you were back,” he began.

“I've been back awhile. I've just finished proofing the papers Layla took care of for you. Need your signature on these letters.”

“Okay.” He took the pen she handed him, signed. “Where is she? Layla?”

“Gone for the day. She did fine on her own.”

Understanding it was a question as much as an opinion, Fox nodded. “Yeah, she did fine.”

In her brisk way, Mrs. Hawbaker folded the letters Fox had signed. “You don't need both of us here full-time and can't afford to be paying double either.”

“Mrs. H—”

“I'm going to come in half days the rest of the week.” She spoke quickly now, tucking letters into envelopes, sealing them. “Just to make sure everything runs smoothly for you, and for her. Any problems, I can come in, help handle them. But I don't expect there to be. If there aren't problems, I won't be coming in after Friday next. We've got a lot of packing and sorting to do. Shipping things up to Minneapolis, showing the house.”

“Goddamn it.”

She merely pointed her finger at him, narrowed her eyes. “When I'm gone you can turn the air blue around here, but until I am, you'll watch your language.”

“Yes, ma'am. Mrs. H—”

“And don't give me those puppy dog eyes, Fox O'Dell. We've been through all this.”

They had, and he could feel her sorrow, and her fear. Dumping his own on her wouldn't help. “I'll keep the F-word jar in my office, in memory of you.”

That made her smile. “The way you toss it around, you'll be able to retire a rich man on the proceeds of that jar. Even so, you're a good boy. You're a good lawyer, Fox. Now, you go on. You're clear for the rest of the day— what's left of it. I'm just going to finish up a couple things, then I'll lock up.”

“Okay.” But he stopped at the door, looked back at her. Her snowy hair was perfectly groomed; her blue suit dignified. “Mrs. H? I miss you already.”

He closed the door behind him, and stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked down to the brick sidewalk. At the toot of a horn, he glanced over and waved as Denny Moser drove by. Denny Moser, whose family owned the local hardware store. Denny, who'd been a balletic third base-man for the Hawkins Hollow Bucks in high school.

Denny Moser, who during the last Seven had come after Fox with a pipe wrench and murder on his mind.

It would happen again, Fox thought. It would happen again in a matter of months if they didn't stop it. Denny had a wife and a kid now—and maybe this time during that week in July, he'd go after his wife or his little girl with a pipe wrench. Or his wife, former cheerleader and current licensed day-care provider, might slit her husband's throat in his sleep.

It had happened before, the mass insanity of ordinary and decent people. And it would happen again. Unless.

He walked along the wide brick sidewalk on a windy March evening, and knew he couldn't let it happen again.

Cal was probably still at the bowling alley, Fox thought. He'd go there, have a beer, maybe an early dinner. And maybe the two of them could figure out which direction to try next.

As he approached the Square, he saw Layla come out of Ma's Pantry across the street, carrying a plastic bag. She hesitated when she spotted him, and that planted a sharp seed of irritation in his gut. After she sent him a casual wave, they walked to the light at the Square on opposite sides of the street.

It might have been that irritation, or the frustration of trying to decide to do what would be natural for him—to wait on his side of the corner for her to cross and speak to her. Or to do what he felt, even with the distance, she'd prefer. For him to simply keep going up Main so they didn't intersect. Either way, he was nearly at the corner when he felt the fear—sudden and bright. It stopped him in his tracks, had his head jerking up.

There, on the wires crossing above Main and Locust, were the crows.

Dozens of them crowded together in absolute stillness along the thin wire. Hulking there, wings tucked and—he knew—watching. When he glanced across the street, he saw that Layla had seen them, too, either sensing them herself or following the direction of his stare.

He didn't run, though there was an urgent need to do just that. Instead he walked in long, brisk strides across the street to where she stood gripping her white plastic bag.

“They're real.” She only whispered it. “I thought, at first, they were just another . . . but they're real.”

“Yeah.” He took her arm. “We're going inside. We're going to turn around, and get inside. Then—”

He broke off as he heard the first stir behind him, just a flutter on the air. And in her eyes, wide now, huge now, he saw it was too late.

The rush of wings was a tornado of sound and speed. Fox shoved her back against the building, and down. Pushing her face against his chest, he wrapped his arms around her and used his body to shield hers.

Glass shattered beside him, behind him. Brakes squealed through the crash and thuds of metal. He heard screams, rushing feet, felt the jarring force as birds thumped into his back, the quick sting as beaks stabbed and tore. He knew the rough, wet sounds were those flying bodies smashing into walls and windows, falling lifeless to street and sidewalk.

It was over quickly, in no more than a minute. A child shrieked, over and over—one long, sharp note after another. “Stay here.” A little out of breath, he leaned back so that Layla could see his face. “Stay right here.”

“You're bleeding. Fox—”

“Just stay here.”

He shoved to his feet. In the intersection three cars were slammed together. Spiderwebs cracked the safety glass of windshields where the birds had flown into them. Crunched bumpers, he noted as he rushed toward the accident, shaken nerves, dented fenders.