Into the Woods: Tales from the Hollows and Beyond(20)
Author: Kim Harrison

"But-" he said, and I twined my fingers more surely into his as the cab pulled up.

"I’m involved. You’re not getting rid of me, so get used to it."

Pierce’s grip tightened on mine, and then he relaxed. "Thank you," he said, and in those two words, I saw how lost he was. He had until sunrise to save both the girl and his soul, and I was the only one who could get him through this nightmare that I lived in.

SIX

The cabbie drove away from my house slowly, the sound of his car muffled from the piled snow. In the Hollows there would be bonfire parties and neighborhood howls, but here, on my street, it was quiet. Pierce’s steps were almost silent next to mine as we left prints on the walk to the porch. It had stopped snowing, and I looked up at the red-bottomed clouds through the cold, black branches of the maple tree I had planted for my dad upon his death. My throat closed and I touched the tree in passing. I was glad he was at rest, but it would have been nice to have had him back again as solid as Pierce was-even if just for the night.

Pierce hung back as I went up the three cement steps and twisted the knob to no avail. "My mom must be out," I said, swinging my bag around to look for my keys. The porch light was on, and her prints showed where she had gone to the garage and not come back. Maybe some last-minute shopping? Maybe down to the I.S. tower to pick up Robbie? I had a bad feeling it was the latter.

"This is a very beautiful house," Pierce said, facing the neighborhood and the bright lights and snowmen keeping guard.

"Thanks," I said as I dug in my jeans pocket for my house key. "Most witches live in the Hollows across the river in Kentucky, but my mom wanted to live here." Finding my keys, I looked up to see a faint bewilderment in his gaze. "Both she and my dad were in high school during the Turn, and I think she likes passively making trouble when she can get away with it-like living in a predominantly human neighborhood."

"As is the mother, so the daughter?" he said dryly.

My key was warm, and I slipped it into the lock. "If you like."

Only now did Pierce come up the steps, giving the street a last look before he did.

"Mom?" I called when I opened the door, but I knew from the dull glow of light in the hall coming from the kitchen that the house was empty. Glancing at Pierce on the threshold, I smiled. "Come on in."

Pierce looked at the gray slush on his boots. "I’m not of a mind to soil your rugs."

"So stomp your feet," I said, taking his arm and pulling him in. "Shut the door before you let all the heat out."

The shadow of the closing door prompted me to flick on the hallway light, and Pierce squinted at it. I hated the green color my mom had painted the hallway and living room. Pictures covered the passage to the kitchen: pictures of me and Robbie, slices of our lives.

I glanced back at Pierce, who was still staring at the light but clearly making an effort to not say anything. I hid a smile and wondered how much longer his efforts to not look impressed would win out over his curiosity.

"You have so many rugs," he finally said, following suit as I stomped my feet.

"Thanks," I said, and I shuffled out of my coat.

His eyes finally hit the walls, and he reached out. "And photographs. In color."

"You’ve seen pictures?" I asked, surprised, and he nodded.

"I’ve had my picture taken," he said proudly, then reached out. "This is you? It’s beautiful," he said in awe. "The expression the artist captured is breathtaking. None of God’s landscapes has ever looked so beautiful."

I gazed at the picture he was touching in reverence and then away with mixed feelings. It was a close-up of my face among the fall leaves, my eyes as green and vivid as all creation, my hair bringing out all the shades of autumn clustered about. I had just come back from a stint at the hospital and you could see that I was ill by my pale complexion and thin face. But my smile made it truly beautiful, my smile I had given to my dad as the shutter snapped, thanking him for the joy we had found in the simple pleasure of the day.

"My dad took it," I said, looking away. "Come in the kitchen," I said, wiping my eye when I noticed it was damp. I was supposed to die before him, not the other way around.

"I don’t know how long my mom will be out," I said loudly, hearing his steps behind mine. "But if we can get what we need and leave, it will be all the better. Forgiveness being easier to get than permission . . ."

Pierce entered slowly, hesitating by the laminated table and taking in the ticking clock, the cold stove, and the double-pan sink as I dropped my coat and bag onto my chair. "You and your mother are alone?" he asked.

Surprised at the amount of wonder in his voice, I hesitated. "Yes. Robbie is visiting from the West Coast, but he goes back next week."

His deep blue eyes came back from the ceiling. "California?"

"Oregon."

Pierce looked again at the cold stove, undoubtedly guessing its use from the pot of solstice cranberry tea on it, now scrummed over and cold. "Your mother should be commended for raising you alone."

If he only knew how often it was the other way around. "She should, shouldn’t she," I said, going to the coffeemaker and peeking into the filter to find unused grounds. "You want some coffee?"

Taking off his coat, Pierce draped it carefully over a chair. He checked his nonexistent tie, then moved his arms experimentally as if taking in how warm it was. "I’m of a mind, yes, but does our limited time allow for it?"

I flipped a switch and the coffeemaker started. I kind of liked his extra words. It made him sound classy. "Yup. You want to help me with the attic?"

Without waiting for an answer, I went down the other hallway to the rest of the house, Pierce right behind me. "That’s the bathroom there," I said as we passed it. "My room is at the end of the hallway, and my mom’s is across from it. Robbie has the front room, though it’s more of a storage room, now."

"And the servants are in the attic?" he asked as I halted under the pull-down stairs.

"Servants?" I asked, gaping at him. "We don’t have any servants."

Pierce looked as surprised as I felt. "But the rugs, the photos, the warmth of your home and its furnishings . . ."

His words trailed off as his hands spread wide in question, and I flushed when I got it. "Pierce," I said, embarrassed. "I’m totally middle class. The closest I’ve ever come to having a servant is winning a bet and having Robbie clean my room for a month."