The Witch With No Name (The Hollows #13)(111)
Author: Kim Harrison

Trent was nodding, and Ivy exhaled as she slumped back. “At least we have some time to plan this one,” she said sarcastically. “Tomorrow?”

Hell, I didn’t need a plan, just a direction.

“The thing about a collective curse is that it can be broken if the person orchestrating it is, ah . . .” Trent’s voice trailed off as he searched for a word.

“Killed?” Jenks suggested, striking a pose and stabbing the sugar packets.

“I was going to say distracted,” Trent said, and Jenks held his cup under the tiny stream of sugar spilling out.

“Killed works for me,” David said. “I’m all for live and let live, but this guy is knowingly hurting too many people.”

“Take Landon out and they’ll just find someone else to do it,” Ivy said glumly.

“Perhaps, but they will have to wait an entire six months. And if we can’t convince Landon to cease, we might be able to work a clause into the curse that will shift it to our liking, but we have to find him first.”

My eyebrows rose. “You can do that?”

Trent shifted uncomfortably. “With some planning. It’s how the elves originally turned the curse around and trapped the demons in the ever-after instead of us. Landon won’t be looking for such subterfuge, but we have to physically be involved in the casting of the curse to break the lines, and for that, we need to find him.”

“Ivy, I can use your help with that,” David said, and the despairing look Ivy had been wearing since I walked in finally eased.

“Jenks can keep us clean,” Trent said, and the pixy’s sparkles turned a bright silver. “Which will leave you and me, Rachel, to twist the curse to our liking.”

“And maybe Mark to make us a couple more coffees while we figure out how to do all that,” Jenks said.

I couldn’t help my smile. That totally worked for me.

Chapter 24

This tastes like moldy mulch,” I whispered as I set the tiny potion vial down and stifled a shudder at the gritty feel of it as I swallowed. The recipe made seven portions, and as I reached for another, I decided that I’d leave the last four for Trent. Elves had an affinity for blending into shadows, but the spelled ability to become virtually invisible seemed prudent. I didn’t know if elves could store potions like demons could, but we figured it was worth a try. I was finding out they were more alike than different, which was about par for the course. The more I knew, the more I realized everything I’d been told was probably wrong.

Trent’s breathing was slow and even as he napped on the cot, the light blanket pulled up almost over his head. He’d once told me that he envied the way most people could stay awake through the entire day, but I’d always thought it more effective to never need to sleep more than four hours at a go instead of an interminably long eight hours at a time. The world could end in eight hours and you’d never know until it was too late.

I hadn’t been surprised when Trent had suggested coming out here to spell. The hut was hard to find notwithstanding its being mere steps from his back office, even with the fire going and giving off a telltale thread of smoke. There was no running water or electricity, which made it a very secure place to spell, if a little small. The table I was working at was actually a fold-up job, slipped out from under the cot.

And I liked it here, away from the polished simplicity of most of Trent’s rooms. It was only here that I felt comfortable among the softer, earthy parts of Trent’s nature carefully hidden away from casual bruising. Here he kept his favorite books—the ones that had helped shaped his ideas of right and wrong. A small shrine to his mother glowed with candlelight next to the summoning circle set within the ley line that nicked the inside corner of the building. Mementos from camp and college were cheek by jowl with scientific awards, the layer of dust an accurate determination of when he’d won them. Thank-you letters and pictures from people he and his father had saved with illegal genetic medicines were shoved in drawers along with brochures of places he’d never have time to go. The hut held everything that was dear to him, everything too precious to have where people could see it. That the mantel now held Mr. Fish and that black chrysalis from Al made me feel more than good; it made me feel like I belonged.

My coffee, instant prepared from water warmed up over the open fire, was cold. I’d make more but I was afraid the scent might wake Trent, and I’d just as soon have him asleep while I finished up the prep for crashing Landon’s spelling party tomorrow. Not everything was legal, but nothing was immoral, and that was my guide these days.

I was tired of trying to overcome the bad guys with a few simple spells and throwing raw energy at them—as effective as it was. Earlier today Trent and I had made and imbibed potions to make ourselves almost invisible, to temporarily hold our breath for five minutes without stress, to make our hands sticky enough to climb walls, and to coat an attacker in a spiderweblike net. But after a morning of prepping spells and curses, I was beginning to have second thoughts. They all tasted like crap. I didn’t know how Al stood being his own spelling cupboard. I felt ill, as if I’d eaten bad yogurt. And what if I forgot the word of invocation?

But if Trent would stay asleep for ten more minutes, I had one more spell to craft, one I’d rather finish before he woke.

The soft hum of pixy wings pulled my attention to the tiny window over the bowl currently being used as a sink. Dust glittered in the sun as Jenks landed on the narrow sill. I slammed down a third potion as Jenks leaned over his knees, a stick of yew as tall as he was in his grip.

“Is this long enough?” he asked, panting as he glanced at the sleeping Trent in envy.

I nodded, carefully setting the four remaining potions aside and clearing the table. My pulse quickened. It wasn’t as if Trent would be mad, but he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to count on the demons to help. I disagreed. I was sure I could get them to help us stave off the elven trickery. I mean, they knew Landon was lying. Why wouldn’t they help expose him? But to talk to the collective meant I needed another scrying mirror—something smaller this time, say small enough to fit in my shoulder bag.

“Thanks, Jenks,” I said as I took the plates with their crumbs of cheese and crackers to the makeshift sink. The pixy propped the stick against the side of the open window frame. It still sported bits of green and peeling bark, and I smiled, seeing where he’d wedged it off the plant.