The Witch With No Name (The Hollows #13)(98)
Author: Kim Harrison

“Rachel?” I heard Trent call, and my eyes found Al.

He was down as well, eyes open and glazed as he fought the same thing. Synchronized to the beat of ancient drums, we both clenched as the curse dug into our souls and began to pull.

“Trent . . . ,” I tried to shout, but it came out in a whisper. My eyes opened, finding the clock in the kitchen. Sundown. This was the elves.

My teeth clenched. “No,” I gasped, pulling my knees forward and inching toward Al. I might be able to fight this off, but Al . . . Al had no escape. “Not. Al!” I groaned, trying to get up the two stairs between us. My hand shook as it stretched out. Grasping. Reaching. I could not . . . breathe!

“No!” I said again, dragging myself forward until I finally touched his hand.

My breath came in cleanly, and I dove into his mind, finding the toehold the elves’ curse had. Not him! I said once more, wedging the curse out of him with the clear, pure energy from the mystics.

With a resounding crack, Al’s presence snapped from the elven curse. The how of it flew on wings of thought to the rest of the demon collective, and I felt them all break from it.

For an instant I hung in the demon collective, seeing them all as individuals, their fears, their pain, the tiny slip of hope they allowed themselves. Smothering them like a fog was the elves’ plan of how they were going to imprison them and break the lines, committing the entire demon collective to a slow, terrifying death as the ever-after shrank to nothing and finally vanished.

And then they realized that they’d escaped once more.

Rage filled me, not mine but no less potent. With one thought, the demon collective bounced the curse back into the elves.

No! I demanded, overwhelmed as the elves spinning the curse were struck by the demonic anger, swamping them and turning their magic against them, snuffing it out to send their intent coiling up like a plume of smoke from an extinguished candle.

No! Stop! I demanded as the demons gleefully rolled the elves about, disorienting them so they could affix the curse to them and shove them into the lines and oblivion.

I reached for a frightened presence, trying to save just one . . . But the elf fought me, thinking I was trying to harm him. Claws raked through my aura, and I had to let go. Stop! Stop this now! I demanded, and it was as if someone backhanded me, sending me flying into nothing.

“Rachel!”

My eyes flashed open as Trent touched me. Mystics swarmed over us, blanketing the fire in my thoughts. I couldn’t hear them, but they could hear me. Stop this! I screamed into my thoughts, and with the clean stroke of a knife-sharp thought, the mystics severed the demon collective from the dewar.

Beside me on the floor, Al gasped.

“Oh God, that hurt,” I breathed, then groaned when Trent yanked me to him, almost crushing me as he sat on the highest step and held me in his arms.

“Are you okay?” he said, fingers splayed behind my head as he held me. “They burned you! Look at me! Rachel, are you okay?”

He let go just enough to see me, and groggy, I peered up at him, wondering why my skin wasn’t red. It felt like I’d been burned. “’S okay,” I lisped. “I’m here.” I started to shake, cold though my skin burned. The mystics were thick. Everything hurt. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Look. I can tap a line and everything.”

I didn’t tap a line, but my hair floated as if I was, and the burn ebbed to a familiar tingle. “Where are the girls?” I said as I ran a thumb under his eye. For crying out loud, he was worried about me.

“With Ellasbeth, I presume,” he said, and my gaze flicked over his shoulder to Quen staggering out from the nursery.

Al picked himself up, stiffly tugging at his lace cuffs and brushing cookie crumbs off his crushed velvet. He was avoiding me even as he stood there, listing slightly. He had to see the mystics on me, making my skin tingle. Had the collective seen them? But how could they not?

“Thank God you’re okay,” Trent said, crushing me to him again.

“The girls,” I protested.

His breath came fast, and he held me tighter, so close I couldn’t see Al. “Ellasbeth has them, not a terrorist. We’ll get them back.”

Quen coughed, and I pulled back to see him leaning heavily against Ceri’s old high-backed chair. He held his ribs, and his nose was bleeding. “You are a poor babysitter, Al.”

Al opened his mouth to say something, and Trent gave me a little shake.

“How am I supposed to let you go off and do things when you might be pulled out of my reality like that?” he said, and I winced as his aura seemed to tingle through mine.

“I don’t feel very good,” I said, the sensation of being overly full making me ill.

Trent tensed when Al leaned over to peer into my eyes, his hands on his knees as his back hunched. “I’m not surprised,” he said dryly, giving me a final grimace before he slowly, almost painfully, walked down into the living room. “May I use your phone?”

Surprised, Trent’s grip on me eased. “Sure,” he said cautiously, and I took the tissue that Quen handed me.

“What does a demon need with a phone?” I said as I eased myself out of Trent’s lap and just sat there on the stair, heart pounding and wishing the mystics would go check on something. Anything. Would just leave me alone.

Al gave me an askance look, hesitated as he peered over his glasses at the phone as if never having used one before, and then began punching buttons. My nose was bleeding, and I dabbed at it. “Al?”

“What,” he said flatly, turning to stand sideways to me.

I cautiously brought up my second sight, relieved that it didn’t hurt. His aura was patchy but enough of it was there that he could do magic. Trent’s glowed with agitation, and Quen’s was dark with regret and guilt. “I’m glad you weren’t pulled back.”

He frowned at me, then turned his back on us. “Good evening. This is Al.” He hesitated. “Then why did you give me this number? You’d rather I just pop in?” he drawled suggestively.

Trent sat on the step with me. Leaning over, he whispered, “Who?,” and I shrugged.

“E-e-e-exactly.” Al looked back at us with an uncomfortable expression. “I’m informing you that circumstances require that I will not be able to clock in this evening at the required time.” I froze as Al’s eyes met mine for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I am, so I would appreciate it if my restitution would reflect that fact.”