The Witch With No Name (The Hollows #13)(72)
Author: Kim Harrison

I edged past Trent, trying to get to Al before he jumped out. I knew him, and I knew the signs. He was leaving. Running away again.

“Fine,” I snapped, and someone from the back laughed. “Run off so they can kill me without you watching. But put a playroom in your new mansion, Al, because if Trent and I die, you get Lucy.”

Dali’s head jerked up, and I swear I heard Jenks’s dust sizzle, on fire. “He what?” Jenks shouted, but I was staring at Al, reading his shock. He wasn’t going to jump out now, and that’s all that mattered.

“Mother pus bucket . . . ,” the demon said, his blocky face pale as he looked from me to Trent and back again. His cheeks flashed red at a laugh. “I will not be responsible for elf brats!”

Trent’s presence edged in beside mine again, and it was all I could do to not take his hand, but big bad-ass runners facing down a coffee shop full of demons do not hold hands. “I had the papers drawn up six months ago,” Trent said, and Jenks hit the table, his wings unmoving. “If Rachel and I die, Lucy goes to you. You’ll hold the elven future, Al.”

“Oh my God,” Newt breathed, and Jenks made it back into the air, his bright silver dust falling from him like stardust.

“I will not!” Al bellowed as he spun and fussed, but I could tell he was flattered. The demon was dying inside that someone—anyone—trusted their children to him. I blinked fast, wanting to give him a hug, but bad-ass runners didn’t do that either.

“It’d be easier just to let both of us live,” I said, but only Al, Dali, and Newt heard me over the caterwauling of laughter. “And if you kill just one of us, you won’t survive the revenge of the other. I promise you that.”

Al was speechless, a hand on the table as he tried to understand.

Newt gave a long, meaningful stare to Dali, and when he shrugged, she slipped out from the booth. “Gentlemen?” she said softly, then shouted it, “Gentlemen!”

Slowly they quieted. Trent and I backed to the middle of the room. There had to be at least fifty demons in here, and I heard the cooling click on. It didn’t smell as bad as I thought it would.

“Gentlemen,” Newt said a third time as she smoothed her robes. “I propose we take the time until sunrise to weigh Rachel’s proposal.”

“I do not make deals with elves!” Mica protested. “They’re chattel! Slaves!”

No one moved, either away from him or toward him. They were balanced, and I forced myself to breathe.

“Perhaps,” Newt said, voice as silky as a slinking cat. “But they haven’t spent the last two thousand years trapped in a bubble of reality kept alive by tenuous threads of energy as we have been. Rachel is a demon. She’s also the elven Tal Sa’han, the one who sways the actions of the putrid, stinking chattel of an elf. You can strike a deal with her—can you not?”

My mouth went dry, and I edged back until I could feel Trent’s warmth. Tal Sa’han. Quen had called me that once in bitter sarcasm, and while Mal Sa’han held romantic overtones, Tal Sa’han did not. It wasn’t exactly an adviser, but rather the person the Sa’han thought of when he made decisions. I ask myself: Will this decision take me closer or farther from you? And then it’s so clear. Even if it doesn’t make sense at the time, resonated in me, and my pulse quickened. But he wasn’t the Sa’han. It was a title awarded by fealty, and no elf looked to him anymore. Because of me.

“I will not bind myself to human law!” Mica said, jerking me back to the present. “We’re free, and we take our rightful place!”

“You don’t know that!” another demon exclaimed. “What happens if we’re pulled back when the sun comes up?”

Mica’s hand glowed with black smut. “What if we aren’t?” he proposed.

Trent inched up to stand beside me, his eyes darting as he took in the demons with a professional eye. “They’re divided,” he said, breath tickling my neck. “Interesting.”

I suppose, but I’d be more excited if they were all for behaving themselves. Did it matter if Trent wasn’t the Sa’han if the demons thought he was? It wasn’t as if they’d ever come to an agreement with Landon.

Newt cleared her throat, putting me on edge as she came to stand beside me in a clear show of support or perhaps protection. “Where do you want to be next week, Mica?” she said, and I shivered at the certainty in her voice. “Alone in some godforsaken island cathedral playing god with people terrified of you? I’ve done that. It gets boring fast. I’ve looked at these human laws, and they’re more complex and devious with loopholes and clauses than Dali can structure in a thousand years. Their court system alone boggles the mind with the red tape that can be used to twist ends. If we can’t work our will within them, then we don’t deserve the name demon.”

They were listening, but only a fraction were happy, and none was convinced.

“We have a chance to be a part of something again,” she said, stock-still. “All in favor of playing by the rules and making Rachel our liaison with reality-based law?”

I jerked, and beside me, Trent grunted. “Hey, wait a moment,” I said, but Dali had stood with a resounding “Aye!”

He was the only one.

“Opposed?” Newt said cheerfully.

“Nay!” I said, panicking. “I never agreed to this!”

“Never!” most of the demons had shouted, but a few were silent, and I panicked some more as I shook Trent’s hand off my elbow.

“I suggest you leave, Mica,” Newt growled, and I swear the air sparkled around her. “Go away so we can get on with it.”

But only Dali had agreed, and I pulled on the line, my knees wobbling as I yanked what I could from the rest to try to prevent a bloodbath.

“Bravo, Rachel,” Newt praised, a small smile hovering over her face. Her eyes darted past me, and her hand flashed out in threat. I spun, doing the same. Mica. Our thrown energy smacked into the demon before he could loose his magic, bowling him over the table and into the far wall. Demons scattered to avoid him, and the black flickering in his fist went out as he groaned.

“Maybe you should leave,” I said, voice quavering. They wouldn’t make a decision until they knew if the sun would sling them back to the ever-after or not.

In pairs and groups they left, their expressions varying from worry to outright anger as they winked out. I didn’t care where they went, only that they were gone. Mica was the last, his murderous look chilling me as he vanished.